“Please do it. I love tacky.”
I have to hold on to being able to see these things. Because time is passing us by now. And nobody is coming.
I haven’t peed since the middle of the night.
My mouth is sticky.
My stomach is empty.
My body can’t move.
My skin doesn’t feel like skin. It sags. Like a swimsuit drip-drying on the balcony railing. I don’t feel like me.
I’m done.
My thoughts are slipping.
How long before I’m gone?
DONE
I pulled Mila’s car up to the curb in front of her house and rolled down the windows because the front seat smelled vaguely of beer and barf. Creeper Robert was long gone, and Mila sat stoically, not wanting to look at me, so I looked at the oak tree in the front yard instead. It still had the tree house her dad built tucked up in its branches. We spent hours there in elementary school, inventing secret codes and playing with our Polly Pocket dolls. By middle school, it turned into a place of refuge when her parents were fighting. It was a relief once her dad moved into his own condo across town because Mila could trade the tree house for her bedroom. She lived with her mom Monday through Friday but stayed with her dad on the weekends and certain holidays.
“Wait. Aren’t you supposed to go to your dad’s tonight?”
“I am. But I’m not. Obviously.”
Her house was dark. Not even the porch light was on. “Is your mom even home? I can take you to your sister’s.”
“No, thank you. Her loser boyfriend’s staying over and—” She shuddered. “Just no.”
“Well, won’t your dad freak out if you don’t come home?”
“Sure. If he comes home.”
“So you’re trying to piss him off? Is that what’s wrong tonight? Is it about the divorce?”
She rolled her eyes. “That would solve everything in your head, wouldn’t it? Poor Mila, all messed up because her mommy and daddy don’t love each other anymore.” Her neck lolled to the side as she focused on me. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t seem fine. I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Worry?”
She blew her bangs off her forehead. “Don’t anything right now. Please.”
“Did you really want to hang out with that Robert guy tonight?”
“So what if I did?”
“I just want to understand. Is it so important to get drunk that you’ll go off with anyone who’ll buy you beer?”
“You went too.” She looked out the window instead of at me. At a streetlight flickering on and off one house down. “You could’ve gone to Cody’s with everyone else. You could’ve left me with Robert.”
“I wouldn’t have done that. I needed to go with you.”
“Why? I didn’t exactly handcuff you and take you with me.”
This was typical Mila. The Queen of Twist.
“I wouldn’t have left you because I’m not that kind of friend. And I think you know that. It’s why you make sure I’m always there. Because you know I’ll bail you out of whatever mess you get yourself into.”
She looked at me, eyes glazed over. Hair stuck to the side of her head. Mascara streaks dripping. “Whatever.”
I pounded the steering wheel. “Not whatever. It’s a big deal. What if we hadn’t gotten away tonight? What if I’d hurt that guy and ended up in trouble? Or what if he’d hurt me? That’s not what a real friend would want for another friend. I don’t want you to get hurt. That’s why I always go with you. And now I want to help you, but I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know why you want to numb yourself every weekend. You can talk to me, you know. Or I’ll go with you somewhere. To talk to someone else. Or to go to an AA meeting or something. Just say you’ll go.” She wouldn’t look at me, but she also didn’t open the car door, so I spilled all the words I’d been holding inside. “I don’t know what to do anymore. You want me to look out for you, but you don’t even want to look out for yourself.”
“Ugh. You’re so dramatic. Are you breaking up with me?” She snort-laughed.
I realized how true that was. How done I was. “Basically, yeah.”
“So let me get this straight. You’re up in my face about me being a shitty friend but you’re the one deciding not to hang out anymore.”
Queen. Of. Twist.
“Mila, at some point, I can’t do it anymore. For me. But also for you. I can’t be your safety net over and over again. If you want to talk about getting help, I’ll go. I’ll be there for that. But I can’t be there anymore for the kind of shit that happened tonight.”
“Stop. I can quit anytime. I’m just having fun. You’re making way too much out of this.” She opened her door and stumbled out onto the sidewalk. “We’re done here. But go ahead and take my car home. Because a real friend wouldn’t want you walking alone this late at night.”
She was being sarcastic, and that was the whole problem.
She’d never get it. Or take responsibility. Not until something really bad happened. And all I could do was hope it wouldn’t be too late when it did.
It wasn’t midnight by that point. But an old year was about to creep into a new one. I made the choice then. I wouldn’t spend the next year the way I’d spent the last one.
I was done with Mila.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
1:01 P.M.
The earth is a total jerk right now. It bucks beneath me, like a bull in a rodeo, as another aftershock hits. Not that I’ve ever actually ridden a bull. I’ve never even been to a rodeo. I’ve only seen them in movies or read about them in books. There are a million things I haven’t seen. Haven’t done.
Charlie whimpers.
“Hold on,” I say.
“To what?”
Charlie is speaking literally. I’m speaking figuratively. But what’s the point? What’s even left to hold on to?
“Just hold on!” I say, because it’s easier to repeat myself than explain myself.
I cover my head with my hands.
The table legs creak around me. I can’t look. I pull my hoodie in tighter over my face. Bits of crumbling cement hit my hands, pounding my knuckles to a bloody pulp.
I hear something crash.
“Argh!” Charlie. He’s getting pummeled.
The earth bucks again. Bigger. Stronger.
Thumps.
Grinds.
Charlie is grunts and moans.
And still it goes. Rocking relentlessly. Shaking sharply.
Crumbling. Cracking. Creaking.
I shut my eyes, thinking it can’t go on for much longer.
Until, finally, it stops.
“Charlie?” I call through the crack of air above my face. The dust dances around in its light.
“It fell—on me—again—”
“What?”
“The table—and whatever—was on top of it. The dryer, I think. It’s—on me again. It pushed the table down. On my chest. There’s glass. Cement. I can’t”—a grunt—“move it.”
I close my eyes. I want to be one of those people who suddenly develops superhuman strength, busts through the walls, and gets us out of here. How can it be that my safe space is almost completely intact but Charlie is pinned again?
Why him and not me?
“Listen to me, Charlie. You did it once. You have to do it again.”
“I could still feel my arms before. I still had some strength. My energy is gone.”
“You have to move it. Do you hear me?”
He mumbles something to himself, and then the sound of scraping metal echoes. Inch by inch by inch it goes.
Charlie pants.
“You’ve got this.” I try to sound calm, like Coach does when we’re down by a point in the last minutes of the fourth quarter and we draw an ejection on the other team to give us a miraculous six-on-five advantage. Yelling doesn’t help in that situation. Only confidence does.
Charl
ie pauses. Breathes in. Breathes out. Grunts. Pushes again. The metal hisses along with him.
“Fuuuuuuuuuuck!” he shouts. The noise of scraping metal stops, and all that’s left is the sound of Charlie’s labored breathing.
I can only hear air going out. Not in.
And then the earth shakes again. Harder and stronger than it did a few minutes ago, but only for a moment.
“Charlie!”
He doesn’t answer with real words. It’s only the sound of something guttural. “Muargh.” Like there is a rumble inside of him. Fluids bubbling up.
I reach for him. Spread out my fingers, trying to make them longer. Trying to make contact so he knows he’s not alone. So I know I’m not alone.
Then another crash.
“The wall—” Charlie’s words get cut.
There is only sound.
It’s one thing, then another. Toppling over. Caving in. I imagine that whole side of the laundromat coming down on him. Washers. Dryers. What’s left of the ceiling and the walls. All of it collapsing and burying Charlie underneath.
I brace for it to bury me.
“Help!” I shout, even though nobody can. And then I’m whimpering Charlie’s name over and over again.
Charlie is blergs and bubbles when the cave-in stops. Gurgles sputtering out of him. A mumbled prayer.
“Jesus.” And “God.” And “Amen.”
I pull my hands back. Hold them to my stomach, trying to keep myself from being sick. Because when I call his name again, there is only silence.
QUIET
A whisper.
An afghan blanket.
The breeze on my face.
The sun on my closed eyelids.
My mom’s hands.
Leo’s hair.
My bedroom at dawn.
Empty Christmas stockings.
SAT testing.
Sunday morning.
Twinkle lights on our back patio.
Birthday candles going dim.
Marshmallows melting into hot chocolate.
Steam rising over the swimming pool at night.
The shuffle of papers.
The scratch of pencils writing in-class essays.
The front seat of the car without the radio on.
Rose petals in my neighbor’s garden.
The first drizzle of rain.
The last tears falling.
Charlie.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
2:38 P.M.
I can’t stop myself from calling Charlie’s name through the cold, dusty air. I am a whisper. A plea.
He doesn’t answer.
I convince myself he’s only sleeping. Happily dreaming of things he loves.
I should be quiet. I should let him dream.
I want to sleep, too, but I need to stay awake. And aware. In case someone comes. I listen for a shout. A whistle. A siren. Hope.
California has to have been declared a national disaster by now. The Big One could have cut off the water supply and gutted entire towns. It could leave a death toll in the thousands. It could have crushed buildings and split freeways in half. Rescue crews would be everywhere. Help would have come in from other states. People and emergency medical supplies and blood-bank donations would arrive.
I know what I’ve seen on TV of disasters in other places. Of hurricanes in the South. Of tornadoes in the Midwest. Of earthquakes in other countries. My brain is a swirl of images of what those towns looked like and what those people had to do. If here and now is anything like that, then people are helping somewhere. There might be rescue stations set up with donations of water and diapers and tampons and oversize sweatshirts. There might even be one right down the street from here. I picture myself arriving there. Shuffling in on dragging feet. I’d come in slow motion, my own version of the zombie apocalypse. There will be first aid tents and doctors with gentle hands and soothing voices to help me. And they’ll find my mom. And Leo.
“Charlie,” I whisper again. Only wishing. I am breath and hope.
I am things I cannot say.
I am words not spoken out loud.
LOUD
The stands at a final water polo game.
My neighbor’s dog when the mailman arrives.
Mila’s car radio as we drive to the beach with the windows down.
The whistle of the train as it rolls through the industrial park.
A locker room full of pumped-up girls after a playoff win.
The low-battery warning of the smoke alarm at three a.m.
Fireworks.
Local news helicopters hovering overhead.
New Year’s Eve countdowns.
Three. Two. One.
Marching bands in parades.
My favorite band onstage for an encore.
A protest.
A pep rally.
That moment at graduation when everyone throws their caps into the air.
My neighbor’s motorcycle.
My other neighbor’s drum kit.
Lawn mowers and leaf blowers too early on Sunday mornings.
Downtown.
Freeway traffic.
Me.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
11:58 P.M.
I let out a scream that doesn’t sound human. I slap my hands at this muddled mess. I would toss and turn and kick and punch if I could move. Instead every inch of me clenches in anger. Fists folded. Eyes scrunched. Teeth mashing. Head popping. I scream like a person in the middle of nowhere. And then I scream for my friend. I just met Charlie, but trust grows faster in crisis. We told each other things we’d never told another person. Now he’s someone I know almost as well as I know myself.
Someone I knew.
“Charlie!” I shout.
There isn’t an answer. There’s nothing.
But still I shout. Because it’s all I have.
Now that I don’t have Charlie.
He stays quiet. He doesn’t hear me.
He can’t.
I suck in air. I can’t get it into my lungs. Quick. Quicker. I inhale. Exhale faster.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
Why him and not me?
Fate isn’t fateful. Fate is fickle.
The world brings people together in the strangest ways, making us know things we might’ve missed on ordinary days. Letting us see kindness. Letting us be kind. Too much of life is getting from one thing to the next without stopping to make new connections. We don’t slow down enough to get out of our own heads and realize the person next to us might be struggling with big things, too. Bigger things.
I’ve devoted too much effort to worrying about the smaller things. Like my mom and Coach Sanchez. Or what Leo said about my hands. Or acne! For crying out loud, the amount of time I have spent worrying about a zit . . . And for what? It’s the big things that matter. Because the world can change in an instant. People die. My mom knows this. Charlie knew it, too. And now I know it as well.
I think of the way I saw Charlie before. The tiny surface things I glimpsed in the minutes before I knew him. His paint-stained knuckles. His perfectly folded T-shirts. The confident way he walked, all artistic in khaki pants. The way he nodded his head of faded blond hair to say hey. The way he wrote in his journal. And then I think of the way I knew him after. The jokes he made. The way he talked to me and kept me from losing hope. I think of the guilt he carried. The guilt. Charlie died before he could forgive himself.
It’s not supposed to be this way. Charlie is supposed to get out of here. Make amends. He’s supposed to live his life.
How long until death comes for me, too? Will it be another aftershock, or will it be something far worse? Starvation? Dehydration? Flesh-eating bacteria? My organs shutting down? A slow, painful progression of things? Will I be too delirious to even understand what’s happening, or will I be in excruciating pain?
Was Charlie lucky to go quickly? Is waiting for death the hard part? How long will it
take? How long do I have to wait?
And what if Charlie is the only reason I’ve stayed alive this long?
Without him, who will shout my name when I sleep too deep and too long? Now that he’s gone, nobody is here to wake me up to remind me to breathe.
To remind me to live.
My hand is a fist above my face. I move it to stretch my fingers.
And when I do, I notice something.
Wait.
The rubble above me gives. I slide it aside. Push my whole hand through a hole that’s a little bigger than my fist. Something shifted. Something changed.
There is space.
I reach through the darkness. Push again. Out and through. I wave my hand around in the empty air. Swat at the open space around it.
“Help!” I shout into the emptiness. My hand swings this way and that even though I know I’m alone in the dark.
But now there is this space. This opening.
This hope.
I pat around it. Gently at first. Quiet. Soft.
Careful.
When I realize it seems to have some give, I begin to claw.
CHAPTER TWENTY
12:33 A.M.
I punch two fists through the hole I’ve created, but it’s still not big enough to get my body through. I open and close my hands. Grasp at empty air. I’m still afraid I might hit glass shards or sharp metal protrusions that are ready and waiting to slice me wide open. Leave me bleeding. Slowly dying.
I shift in my space. Feel the ache in my legs that have been still for too long. I imagine myself unfurling. I reach farther. Catch the lick of a cold breeze on my fingers. I cup my hand against it. The air feels endless. The space infinite. Cleaner. Crisper. Even though it’s still pitch-dark in the middle of the night, I want to be in it. I wave my arm around until my hand catches on the table that was once on top of me. Can I move it? I grip the edge with both hands and shove with all my strength, grunting through gritted teeth. My head throbs and my face heats with the effort. My muscles scream like when I push myself doing reps in the weight room. Every inch pulsating.
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