This is Not the End

by Chandler Baker

  The boy, whose eyes are black and hard, the features of his face sharp like a skeleton’s, turns toward us. He presses the fingertips of both hands together. A smirk cuts through one cheek. “On the eve of my eighteenth birthday, I commit my girlfriend, Matilda Thorne, to death”—he reaches back and touches Matilda’s shoulder—“so that she can return to this life anew.” Murmurs rise like the wind whispering through branches.

  The floorboards creak. A lanky boy with greasy hair hanging down to his ears and rope tied around his wrist for bracelets steps to greet Matilda’s boyfriend. He holds a book with its spine cracked open and presses the tip of a long fingernail to the page. He reads, “In front of these witnesses, do you go willingly into the darkness?” I hold my breath and wonder who will take her body to the resurrection site tomorrow. Will the boy’s face give away his guilt? Will the accident they stage be convincing enough to save Matilda?

  She stills. Her chin is pointed down and, with milky eyes, she stares up at the boy. “I do.” There are small gasps from around the room. Her boyfriend’s fingers twitch at his sides like spider legs.

  The boy with the book turns to him. “Do you commit to rebuild her from blood and bone and to fill her with the lifeblood so that she can be resurrected from the dead?”

  Shadows hatchet his face into mean lines. “I do.”

  The boy closes his book, nods once, and fades into the onlookers like a spirit.

  I can’t speak. I can’t look away. The eventualities stretch out in front of me. This boy could be hit by a bus tomorrow and then where would Matilda be? He could be caught, in which case he’ll lose his resurrection choice altogether. Poor, lost, bird-boned Matilda would be dead forever. Gone. Snuffed out. And she wouldn’t even get to say good-bye.

  My thoughts instantly flip to Matt. Then off to the side, someone hands the boyfriend of the soon-to-be-late Matilda Thorne a plastic bag. I’m holding my breath. The back of my hand rubs against Will’s. Our fingers move, then I loop my thumb around his and suddenly we’re holding hands. Opposing emotions swirl inside of me, but the one that has most of my attention is a swelling happiness at the feel of our skin touching.

  I glance up at him. He tightens his lips into a straight-lined smile and moves closer. He rubs the side of my hand with his thumb. Matilda sways and I know she must have more than that last drink of vodka swimming through her system. The boy places the bag over her head.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. This will be my brother someday, I think. We will have to do this to my brother and we’ll stage an accident and it will be up to me to bring him back. Anger surges in my veins at the thought. That I should have to keep that terrible secret for someone who hates me for no reason—it turns my head feverish. And when I open my eyes again, the weight of it feels all wrong. Matilda is puffing into plastic now. Puffing and puffing and then suddenly her eyes go wide. I startle as her hands shoot to the bag digging into her neck and try to tear at the material. Her legs kick straight out and then she smacks her feet hard against the floor. Her back arches. I see the ridges in her throat like the spine of a reptile. Her boyfriend tightens his grip, twists the plastic tight in his fist, holds it fast against the base of her skull. She writhes. Her face swells. Arms and legs move less, less, less. Breaths get slower and slower. The boy’s eyes are shining with interest. I feel like I’m going to be sick.

  Without thinking, I push my nose into the rough fabric of Will’s shirt. He doesn’t let go of my hand, but instead rests his chin on my hair. I don’t know if his eyes are open or closed and I know I won’t ever ask. I wait until the bell chimes three more times. That’s when I know that, until tomorrow, Matilda is gone.

  It’s only one day. But it’s still one whole day.

  The mood is somber as we file back down the stairs. White lights dance in my vision. My palm stays pressed firmly to Will’s and a surging pride and warmth mixes with the leftover horror from upstairs.

  At the bottom of the stairs, we find Penny waiting for us. Her complexion has turned translucent and she appears shaken. “I couldn’t find you—” And then she notices Will’s and my hands curled together. “Oh,” she says, blinking. Her cheeks light up a fluorescent pink. “Oh,” she repeats. Her hand brushes across her forehead like she’s checking for fever. “Um, yeah.” She tucks a quivering lip behind her front teeth and tries on a smile. “Great, then. Here…you are.” And, at once, it feels as if Matilda Thorne isn’t the only thing to have died up there.

  Matt and I are home before sunrise, so early that our parents don’t even know we’ve been gone. I lie on my bed, head fuzzy from lack of sleep. I’ve been reading a couple of pages from Penny’s notebook every day. It’s the closest thing I have to talking to her and sometimes, when I’m especially tired or worn out from crying or can’t shut off my brain, I can convince myself that she’s written certain passages specifically for me. Like:

  Better than a thousand hollow words

  is one word that brings peace.

  Better than a thousand hollow verses

  is one verse that brings peace.

  —Gautama Buddha

  I read the words softly under my breath, finding a crumb of peace in them, if for no other reason than that the quote is in her handwriting.

  Suffering, if it does not diminish love, will transport us to the farthest shore.

  —Gautama Buddha

  I trace the loopy letters one by one, wondering why Penny chose it to write down.

  A man should choose a friend better than himself.

  —Chinese proverb

  I did. For the past nearly four years, I have known that if I have a superpower, it is the ability to choose the very best of friends.

  On other pages, Penny wrote her own thoughts, transcribing them onto the page with lovely, colorful turns of phrase, often testing out a few lines only to cross them out and decide on others:

  I’m afraid of being left behind like an old doll that Will and Lake have become too old to play with. Every time they leap from the cliff, I’m left frozen in place, too scared to ask them to stay, too scared to follow.

  I slip the Clue 2 envelope between the pages and close Penny’s journal. With each passing day, I feel more like I’m living in a snow globe that’s been tossed upside down and shaken left and right. There are sides to my friends that I never knew existed, angles that I’ve never been in the position to see, maybe because I was looking from too close up. I want to be close again, even if it means only seeing the parts of them that are familiar. Now I worry that the farther I get from the car crash, the more they’ll feel like strangers to me.

  I’m mostly too tired to move. Grief has this way of making me exhausted even when I’ve barely moved a muscle. Soon, I find myself navigating to a streaming music service application on my phone. I punch in the Beatles. Dozens of songs pop up. I scroll down and find “In My Life,” a new song that Ringo texted to me just last night. I hit play and the melody begins. I listen to the song twice straight through, enjoying the tune more on the second go-round. It’s the first verse that I like the most. I play that a third time. John Lennon sings about the memory of his friends and lovers, some of whom are dead and others living, but nevertheless he loves them all.

  Eventually, though, my stomach growls and I’m forced to venture into the kitchen to forage for cereal and half a Pop-Tart. Matt is watching television—morning news anchors interviewing a best-selling author—which he almost never does. He looks up and gives me a covert grin, like we’re sharing an inside joke. I purse my lips, and realize that I’m holding in my own smile.

  Last night we were spontaneous. We ventured out in the middle of the night and no one knew but us. It’s the sort of thing I imagined doing with my older brother when I was a kid. Secret adventures for milk shakes or the perfect tater tots. Camping. Memories that never became memories because they never happened.

  Mom brings in the mail at ten o’clock and there’s a letter for me in a government-issued envelope. I stare at
my typed name peeking out from the envelope’s plastic window.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” she asks, breaking the silence that has been metastasizing between us. We both know what’s inside the envelope and I don’t want to open it.

  But since ignoring it won’t make it disappear, I slowly turn it over and rip open the perforation. I find three neatly folded pages inside:

  Dear Miss Devereaux,

  With your eighteenth birthday approaching, we would like to confirm your time slot on Monday, August 24 at 11:00 a.m. to complete your resurrection choice. Please fill out the Application for Resurrection form provided herein or arrive at the Trifeca Resurrections Division, Trifeca County Courthouse, Third Floor, Suite 3300, twenty minutes before your designated appointment time.

  Two government-issued forms of identification will be required at check-in, such as a driver’s license, birth certificate, and/or valid passport. A complete list of acceptable documentation is available on the Bureau of Healthcare Research & Quality website, www.hrq.gov/resurrectiondocs.

  Instructions for resurrection candidate drop-offs may be found on the back of this letter. All drop-offs must be made within twenty-four hours of your appointment. If you are forfeiting your resurrection choice, please check and initial the box below.

  Sincerely,

  Luis A. Valdez Director of Resurrections Division

  Trifeca County

  I finish reading. My mom doesn’t need to ask what the letter says. She doesn’t look at me either, and I don’t care if I caused the rift between us or if she did, but it hurts to have her disappointed in me.

  How did everything get so screwed up? Penny and I were going to be best friends until we were eighty and we were going to sit on our rocking chairs together and knit wacky-colored oven mitts. Will and I had a plan.

  I was going to keep my promise to my family so I could wash my hands of my brother forever. But now nothing feels right.

  The secret smile Matt and I shared moments earlier has been forgotten. He too knows what has arrived in the mail, and he stares out at the jetty with his mouth sealed. I wish for a crazy second that I could talk to him about this, explain to him what I’m going through, but then I remember who he is and what we are and instead I just want to punch a hole in something hard. I want to curse and drive too fast and listen to music so loud that it shakes my organs.

  Back in my room I text the only person I can talk to, Ringo.

  The paperwork came, my message reads.

  I’m relieved when the response is quick: Neville’s in twenty?

  I’m there in ten, arriving before Ringo. The smell of coffee beans and soaked tea leaves acts as an instant stress reliever. Kai and Vance are tucked into the corner, Kai’s legs thrown over Vance’s on one of the small love seats, and they are both plugged into their headphones. Vance nods at me and it’s not dismissive, more like he expects me to be there the same as any of his other friends.

  There are remnants of the rest of the group—strewn magazines, Simone wearing a black apron and clearing tables—but the main vibe seems to be: intermission. I like the more relaxed connection of the group…or at least I find it intriguing. Penny, Will, and I, we were usually attached to one another like we shared vital organs. For instance, we had this running joke that if one of us had to be absent from a group hangout we’d call, “No secrets!” Because no one wanted to be left out.

  The thought makes me sad. At the end of this, there will be only two out of the three of us left and the secrets will stack up first by the tens, then dozens, then hundreds, until we don’t even think about it anymore.

  This time, I order coffee willingly, but not from Simone, who intimidates me. I still add an extra dose of cream and sugar to the cup. “What’s up, Lake?” Duke looks up from a glowing tablet screen at a table.

  I clutch the warm mug between my hands, the steam rising up to my nose. I glance around. “Mind if I take a seat while I wait for Ringo?” I ask, feeling a little bit proud of myself for being brave enough to ask so easily.

  Duke has on a short-sleeved black-and-gray bowling shirt that might have been in style sometime last century. Emphasis on might. “Please, allow me.” For such a large boy, Duke’s surprisingly both graceful and agile as he jumps out of his seat and sweeps a chair back for me. Slightly self-conscious at the gesture, I take a seat beside him. “I’m watching Margaret’s computer and bag,” he explains. “While she runs an errand. If anything happens to her laptop she’ll gouge my eyeballs out with ice cream scoopers.” I laugh. “I’m not joking,” he says. His jowls are floppy and serious. “Nah, I’m joking.” His face volcano erupts into a brilliant grin. “But wait, am I?” Serious again. “No.” I cock my head, totally perplexed. No, he’s joking? Or no, he’s serious? But then he shudders as though he really is contemplating how it would feel to have his eyeballs served in a sugar cone before at last grinning wickedly at me again. I realize at once that I should probably immediately give up making any sense of Duke Ellington at all.

  “Lake, may I be blunt?” he asks.

  I set my mug down on the table, nearly choking on a hot sip of coffee. “Sure, yeah, please.”

  “Good.” He trains his large brown eyes on me. “What are your intentions?”

  “My what?”

  “Your intentions. With Ringo.” He straightens the collar of his shirt, then rests his meaty elbows on the table.

  My hand knocks my coffee cup and liquid sloshes into the table between us. “Oh! No!” Duke isn’t fazed. “Ringo and I are just friends.”

  Duke rubs his lips with two fingers. “Relax!” He swishes his hand through the air. “Oh man, you should see the look on—did you think I was serious?” He leans forward and presses his hands to his knees.

  “Yeah.” I wipe the back of my mouth. “Kind of.”

  “Good, because I am.” I look at him sidelong, unable to tell whether Duke is messing with me again or if he even considers any of this messing around at all. “What I mean to say is: Are you going to hurt him?”

  I take another sip of my coffee. “I told you. It’s not like that. We’re not romantically involved.”

  Duke grins. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  I frown. Does the loss of Penny hurt me any less than the loss of Will? Romantic love is just one kind of emotion on equal footing with others. I think about being hurt by my brother too. One kind of emotion and one kind of pain surrounded by a dozen variations. “Nothing, I guess,” I say, remembering what Kai said about Ringo being fragile.

  Duke lays both of his hands out in front of me on the table. “So the way I see it is, if you have to choose between hurting Ringo on the one hand and not on the other, I would go ahead and choose not.”

  I roll my eyes. “Obviously.” He shrugs in response.

  “Maybe obvious and maybe not.”

  “And what about if he hurts me?” I challenge.

  He leans forward and cups his hand around his mouth as if he’s about to tell me a secret. “That’s when I borrow Margaret’s ice cream scooper.”

  “Deal,” I say. And I like Duke because I don’t think he’s actually antagonizing. He cares about his friend, fiercely, and I can relate to that. Only Duke’s clearly not as insular about it as Penny, Will, and I were. He’s the big guy checking IDs at the door. And I think I care about Ringo too, so I don’t know, maybe my ID needs to be checked.

  “Are my services no longer needed?” Ringo leans over my shoulder so close, I can breathe him in. I blush, but then he picks up my mug and slurps some of my coffee. He wrinkles his nose. “That concoction you have there is going to kill you. Like, it’s literally going to give you diabetes, Lake.”

  I pull it back from him. “Hey, I’m just starting to like coffee. Back off.”

  We leave Duke to guard Margaret’s belongings, and stake out one of the sofas with the overstuffed arms where I can cradle my mug against my chest and almost pretend I’m three or four years older than I actually
am, a college girl with everything figured out. Ringo props his arm on the back of the couch and hikes his knee onto the cushion so that we’re facing each other dead on, inches apart.

  “I don’t know why I’m here,” I admit suddenly. “I know there’s nothing that you or anyone else can do. I got the paperwork, though, and the walls, they started pressing in.” I wrap my arms around myself and squeeze. “I needed to pull the rip cord and get the hell out of my house, you know?”

  “More than you can imagine,” he says.

  “My birthday. It’s so soon.” I moan and drop my forehead into my open hands. “How am I ever going to choose? I can’t. I can’t possibly. It’s—it’s in less than two weeks.” Ringo shifts his weight and looks off to the side. “Did you know that? Two weeks!” Our knees are nearly touching, but he pulls his away from mine ever so slightly. I almost wouldn’t notice if he didn’t seem to be developing a twitch over the eye with the red patch over it, the one that made him Ringo and not just Christian. “The paperwork,” I continue. “It’s so clinical.”

  “Yeah.” He scratches his nose. “I, uh, I remember.”

  “Two forms of government-issued identification. Resurrection candidate drop-off. Hello, we know what they mean—dead body. Dead person. And—” I rest against the cushion, feeling lightheaded. I’m watching the puzzle pieces of his face. I still see the birthmark when I look at him—I can’t help that—but the more I’m with him, the more I see just Ringo. I do wind up focusing on the unmarred half, the full eyelashes that brush the smooth skin and frame his cool blue eyes, the dark eyebrows, interesting for how much bolder they are than the color of his hair. It’s strange that in some ways I’m pretty sure the scarred port-wine stain on his skin makes the right side of his face all the more striking and beautiful. But I’m waiting for him to jump in, the way he did at Penny’s shiva. It’s like I came for a fix of Ringo comfort, but he’s not dealing all of a sudden.