Accidental

by Alex Richards

  “I can’t,” I growl. “I really can’t.”

  “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  Milo grabs his boxers off the floor and disappears. Dusk closes in on me. I try to focus on the hand-painted Las Vegas skyline on his bedroom walls. Such peaceful, beautiful details, yet all I can think about is that mass shooting at the country music festival—a thousand people screaming, bleeding, begging for their lives while some crazed gunman picked them off, one by one. I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe. My lungs won’t let me. Invisible gnats flicker in my vision.

  “Milo?” I scream into his empty bedroom. Shivering, holding myself. What if I really could scratch off all my skin? I drag my fingernails along my forearms, and then again, harder. Harder and harder and—

  “What are you doing?” Milo gasps as he runs back in.

  “Trying to make it go away. I’m scared I’m going to feel like this forever.”

  “You won’t. Here, take one of these—” He hands me a little pink pill and some water. “It’s a Xanax. It’ll help calm you down. Can I touch your wrists?”

  The pill tastes bitter against my tongue. I look down, like I forgot I even have wrists. And then I notice my forearms. All red and raw, little specks of blood hovering beneath the surface. I can’t bring myself to look at Milo, but I give him my wrists and watch as he presses hard against my pulse with three fingers. One minute goes by. Two … three …

  “I hate this,” I whimper. “It’s like I’m trapped inside my own body.”

  “I know,” he says softly. “It’ll pass.”

  “No, it won’t. I don’t think this feeling is ever going to go away.”

  “It will. I promise.”

  Another minute goes by. Two … three …

  “That’s better,” Milo says. He takes a deep breath, in through his nose, out through his mouth. “Try breathing like this.”

  “I can’t breathe,” I say, but my voice feels thick.

  “There you go. That’s better.”

  I blink up at him, watching his blue-gray eyes stare straight into mine. His lips tremble as he smiles. I smile back. Blink. Eyelids slow. I can feel my heartbeat idling; no longer aflutter outside of my body, but nestled back down inside my chest. Milo releases my wrists and takes my hands to steady me.

  “Lie down,” I hear him say. Far away. Soft.

  Then I’m on the bed, safe, tucked under black flannel sheets.

  “Don’t leave,” I murmur. Far away. Heavy.

  “I won’t.”

  • • •

  The room is dark when I wake up from a sluggish, dreamless sleep. I sit up too quickly and my head throbs. Skin stiff on my face, dry and crusty from the salt of my tears. Music’s playing somewhere, and I roll cautiously off the bed, quickly slipping into my jeans and Sex Pistols sweatshirt before walking toward the door. I open it and begin to hear Elvis Presley. I can’t see Milo or his mom, but I can hear their voices. Gentle murmurs, running water. I comb my fingers through my hair and tiptoe toward the kitchen.

  Anna’s standing beside the sink, still wearing her chef’s jacket and Crocs. When she sees me, she smiles, nodding for Milo to look behind him.

  He rushes over, pulling my paper-thin body into him. “Are you okay?”

  “Headache,” I murmur, then smile awkwardly at Anna. “Sorry. I should probably go.”

  “Don’t apologize.” She pours herself a glass of wine and smiles a sad sort of grin. “Milo told me what happened. I can’t imagine what you must be going through. I’m so incredibly sorry, sweetheart.”

  “Oh. Um, thanks,” I say, blushing.

  “If you need anything …” She smiles again, then retreats toward her bedroom with her merlot.

  I whimper toward the ceiling. “Does your mom think I’m a total train wreck?”

  “Of course not,” Milo says. “I hope you’re not mad that I told her. She can’t believe what you’ve had to go through the past few weeks.”

  “I can’t believe it’s already been that long.” I shudder, counting back the days. “Up until two weeks ago, I had absolutely no idea I was a murderer.”

  “You are not a murderer.”

  “Brandon O’Connor thinks so.”

  “Brandon O’Connor is a piece of shit.”

  Milo kisses my forehead and hands me a cup of tea containing something called kava that’s supposed to help with anxiety, then leads me into the living room. I curl into him on the couch, and this time, his heartbeat doesn’t trigger me.

  “God, I feel weird,” I murmur. “Like, hungover, almost.”

  “Panic attacks will do that.”

  “I guess I’ve never really had one before.”

  “My dad gets them,” he says. “Like full-blown postal. The way you never want to see your own parent. Hence the Xanax. I stole a bottle before we moved. He’s got a lifetime supply from his psychiatrist, but seeing the way he gets? When he’s in the middle of an episode? It used to scare the living shit out of me. The pills always helped him, and I guess I kind of wanted some for insurance. In case it ever happened to me.”

  “Or your girlfriend.”

  “Or my girlfriend.”

  I pause to sigh. “I’m sorry.”

  “What are you sorry for?”

  “For scaring you.”

  “You didn’t.” His biceps flex around me. “Okay, you did. But I get it. I just want you to feel better. I’m glad I knew what was happening.”

  “I’m glad,” I say. “Can you imagine if I’d been at home? Grandpa walking in on me hyperventilating? He’d probably make me a sandwich and turn on a football game.”

  “Mmmm. Sandwiches.”

  “Shut up!” I snort. “I’m trying to say thank you.”

  I nestle in closer and tuck my hand up inside his T-shirt. I’ll have to make up a lie about having dinner at Leah’s, but not now. Not yet. Elvis is singing “Love Me Tender” from the kitchen, and I let the lyrics pour over me, thinking about this thing with Milo, how it’s gentle and tender and a dream fulfilled, just like Elvis says.

  The fact that one person can be so lucky. And yet so unfathomably unlucky, all at the same time.

  22

  “Do you think I’m going to be the last virgin on Earth?”

  “Leah, of course not,” I say, but then raise an eyebrow. “How do you classify losing it, if you’re bi?”

  A frenzied blush sweeps across her cheeks. “I guess I meant in the traditional, hetero sense.”

  “Wait, what? Are you not a lesbian-virgin?” I gasp. “Did you do it and not tell me? Shut up!”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  Not that we really need to worry about eavesdroppers. French class ended ten minutes early, so we’ve got the hallway to ourselves.

  “I told you about Robyn from Santa Fe High,” she says with a grin.

  My jaw hits the floor. “You said you did some ‘stuff,’ but I didn’t know it was, like, all-the-way stuff. Holy shit, Leah!”

  She can’t respond; she’s too busy bumping into walls, laughing, covering her burning cheeks with both hands while I cheer for her.

  I get distracted as we pass the door to Gabby’s AP Econ classroom. She’s in the front row, face scrunched as she takes notes more copiously than any other student. I feel this little pang of guilt flicker inside me. Mostly because of Gabby, but also because I am probably the only junior at Chavez who isn’t in ultra high gear right now, obsessing over college prep. I’m sorry, but how can I, when—

  “Any word from Robert?” Leah asks a minute later.

  She’s way too good at sensing angst.

  “He’s really busy,” I say quickly. “We text, but he’s got all this work stuff going on.”

  She runs her fingers along the wall as we walk. “Hey, so, my parents want to have you over for dinner. Mom’s desperate to smother you in hugs. She even lit a candle for you in her shrine.”

  “Wow.” I whistle. “I made the famous Gilda Fromowitz shri
ne. I’m an even bigger lost cause than I thought.”

  “Stop it!” she says. “You know that shrine means a lot to her. Remember when my aunt Karen got breast cancer? A candle burned in that shrine every single day until she went into remission. It’s an honor, I’m serious.”

  “I know you are.” I nod solemnly and put an arm around her shoulder. “So, how long does your mom have to light candles before I can un-kill my mother?”

  My bad joke drains all the blood from Leah’s face.

  “Sorry. I was trying—”

  But I stop. It isn’t the joke that has her face the color of vanilla yogurt. We’re out of the language lab, stepping onto the quad, and immediately we spot Annette Martinez hovering around my locker, taping something up.

  A picture.

  The picture.

  “What the hell are you doing?!” I shout, shoving her aside to rip the photoshopped monstrosity down. My heart hammers as I glance at it, one thumb covering the fake blood exiting my mother’s head. “You’re the one who posted this bullshit online?”

  Annette flinches. “Of course not.”

  She snatches the paper from me, using it to gesture toward the hundred or so lockers surrounding us. “They were plastered on practically every single one. I’ve been tearing them down since my study hall ended.”

  “Really?”

  She raises one hand like there’s a Bible underneath the other. “I. Swear.”

  Leah grimaces. “Why should we believe you?”

  “Because!” Annette shouts, stomping her loafer against the concrete. “This is vandalism. And bullying!”

  The way she’s stomping around catches the attention of a few seniors leaving the bathroom. They pause, wide-eyed and snickering, craning their necks to see what Annette’s holding.

  “Okay, chill,” I mumble, my cheeks blistering as I press her arms back down by her sides.

  She glares at the seniors till they scatter, then looks back at me, her voice blessedly quieter. “How can you tell me to ‘chill’? This picture was plastered everywhere.”

  To prove it, she gestures toward a nearby garbage can. Leah gasps. A hundred crumpled pages—a hundred copies of my mother’s brains splattering out of her beautiful blond head—jammed into a dirty plastic bin full of banana peels and snot-soaked tissues. She didn’t even take the time to recycle.

  My eyes begin to sting. I can’t stop myself glancing around the quad. Classes are out now, dozens of kids moving in slow motion, not even pretending not to stare. Did any of them see the printouts? Were they greeted by them, taped to their lockers after sixth period?

  “I don’t think too many people saw,” Annette says psychically. She takes the last photocopy, sandwiching it between the pages of her day planner. “Come on, let’s show Dr. Sanders.”

  “What—now?!”

  “Yeah, now.” She squints at me. “It’s harassment. Don’t you want to report it?”

  Harassment. Vandalism. Bullying.

  Her words become bricks in my stomach.

  “She’s right, Jo.”

  I look at Leah, unable to speak.

  “Chavez Academy has to set an example about crap like this,” Annette pushes. “Zero tolerance.”

  Her words swat the air around us, but all I can think about are the looks. The ones I’m getting right now, the ones I got yesterday, and the day before that. The fear in Brandon’s eyes when he accused me of having a gun. The way Elise from church has started peering into my locker when I have it open between classes. Nearly everyone inching away from me in the hallways.

  Should there be a penalty? Or will that only make me look guiltier?

  Annette starts to walk toward the admin building, and I grab her arm. “Don’t.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I already talked to Sanders. Last week. Something happened with Tim Ellison, and when I told my side of the story, he made it pretty clear that he has Tim’s Harvard-bound back.”

  “Harvard?” Annette goes pale. “He told me his top choice was Brown. There’s no way they’ll accept two students from Chavez into Harvard in one year. Will they?”

  “Dude.” Leah snaps her fingers in Annette’s distraught face. “Focus.”

  “Sorry.” She squints back at me. “Don’t you at least want to know who posted it?”

  My eyes dart around the quad. “Well, Tim’s an obvious choice. Or Brandon, who also thinks I’ve got a gun emporium in my backpack. There’s also the stranger who drew a gun next to the words wash me in the dust on my bumper. Maybe Elise Maxon, maybe Carrie Schlegel. Literally, in the past week, it’s harder to think of who didn’t post it.”

  “Hey.” We all turn to see Selene Kenworth, a blond braid cascading down her shoulder as she sidles up to us. Folded in her hand is another copy of the picture. “Thought you might want this.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  Leah grabs it instead, crumpling it up small. “Thanks, Selene. Is this the only one you saw?”

  She nods. “I think so.”

  “You think so?” I growl. Even though Selene has always seemed nice. Even though I should be thanking her. I sigh. “Thank you.”

  “Sure.” She opens her mouth, then clamps it. Opens it again. “Hey, can I tell you something?”

  “Will it piss me off?”

  “It’s my dad.” She squints. “He keeps guns in the house.”

  “What?” I say. “Why are you telling me?”

  “Y’know, because.” She rolls her hand in a circle, filling in the blanks.

  “And, what? You think I’m going to steal one?”

  “No!” Her cheeks go hot pink. “It got me thinking, that’s all. Y’know, like, how easy it is to find guns laying around the house.” She chews her lip ring with her teeth, spinning it around. “Do you think I should ask my dad if they’re locked? Or if any of the guns have bullets in them?”

  “Jesus, Selene. I don’t know. Probably?”

  “Um, you definitely should,” Annette chimes in.

  “You’re right.” Selene smiles apologetically. “Thanks. Anyway, I should go. Cute bracelet,” she adds—not to me, but to Annette, who blinks as if an alien has just offered to impregnate her. To be fair, no one as popular as Selene has probably ever uttered two words to Annette. Now someone has, and they were cute bracelet. She holds up her wrist in response, silver links dangling toward Selene’s back as she skips over to a group of future Vogue models.

  Annette looks back at me, taking a moment to regain her composure. “Are we going to Dr. Sanders’s office or not?” she finally asks.

  I hesitate. “Not.”

  Her nostrils flair with disapproval. “That’s your decision?”

  I nod, head ducking a bit.

  She turns to leave, but I call after her. “Annette, wait. Thanks—thank you.”

  We both look at the trash can, my dumpster of shame. Annette looks back at me and exhales in a way I can’t quite read, then stomps off toward the library.

  “Oh my God,” Leah mutters when it’s the two of us again. “Are you okay?”

  I stare hard at my locker, teeth gnashing together. There’s a tiny sliver of tape that Annette didn’t manage to remove. I don’t pick it off either. “I’m fine.”

  “Come on,” Leah pleads. “Those printouts were awful. You must be feeling—”

  “Don’t you have calculus?”

  Leah pauses, eyes widening. “Are you getting rid of me?” she asks, voice inching up.

  I squint back. Because, her tone. There’s something arched and almost hopeful in it. “Do you want me to get rid of you?”

  “What?”

  “This picture, all the extra attention,” I say. “I know it can’t be easy, having to stick up for me all the time.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m giving you a way out.” Some inner voice tells me to shut up, but my jaw is too tight, heart thumping too heavily. “If you want an excuse to go be normal with Gabby, go ahead. Now�
�s your chance.”

  Her sweet freckled face sags. It claws at my heartstrings, but I cross my arms. “I don’t need you sticking around out of pity.”

  “I don’t, I mean, I’m not. That’s not—” She looks up at me, head shaking wildly. “I—I’m doing the best I can. I thought you wanted me on your side. Why are you acting like this?”

  Her eyes moisten. God, could I be a bigger asshole? Trying to push her away when she’s practically all I’ve got left? Before it’s too late, I put an arm around her and squeeze. “Hey, don’t cry,” I say, barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” she sniffles. “I’m sorry too.”

  “It’s not you. I’m a dickhole. Seeing that picture, though? Plastered all over school? It riled me. I don’t know how much more I can take. You know?”

  “I know,” she says softly. “So, we’re okay? Because I really have to get to calculus. But I’ll skip it if you’re mad at me.”

  “I’m not,” I say, and a smile forms a little easier on my lips. “You’re a good friend. Thanks.”

  “So are you,” she says. “Talk later? Text me if anything else happens?”

  “What else do you think is going to happen?”

  “Nothing!” she says, shaking her head. “Just be careful!”

  I try not to think about how ominous that sounds.

  I try not to think about what a weirdo I was to her too. It takes me a full minute to remember which textbook I need before I grab the chunky, purple psychology one from my locker. My head isn’t in the game. The looks, the whispers, this disgusting printout. Visions of homeschooling dance in my head, but that would mean more time with Gran and Grandpa, and we’re already at a charades-level silence as it is.

  The bell rings, but I don’t rush off like everybody else. I’m still petrified in front of my locker, unable to take my eyes off the door and the tiny sliver of tape glaring back at me.

  • • •

  After school, I’m jumpy as fuck, to the point where I literally jump when Mr. Donnelly taps on my shoulder as I’m piling books into my bag.

  “Johanna!” he booms in his usual keyed-up voice. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Got a sec?”

  I catch my breath and turn to face my impeccably dressed and caring counselor—always urging me to try harder and get more involved, living vicariously through my dreams of Parsons School of Design. Yet, I get the feeling this isn’t going to be one of our motivational college prep moments.