by Ohlin, Nancy
Max cracks another smile. I will myself to shut up. He’s used to sophisticated, salad-eating Thorn Abbey girls like Devon. And Becca.
I start to bite my nails, then stop. A minute passes, then two. A few students walk across the quad, going in and out of the library. But other than that, things are totally dead, including my non-conversation with Max.
He looks up at the sky. I look up, too. It’s velvet black and dotted with stars. I try to make out the Big Dipper, Orion, the Pleiades.
“If we had to do it all over again, do you think we’d see the same constellations that people saw thousands of years ago?” I muse. “I mean, maybe we wouldn’t see a big dipping thing or a hunter’s belt or whatever. Maybe we’d see completely different patterns. It’s all a matter of perspective, right?”
Max picks up another pebble and aims it at the pillar. He hits it with a loud thunk. “You’re kind of strange. You know that, right?” he says after a moment.
I blush furiously. He thinks I’m a freak, too.
“Besides, the Big Dipper and Orion’s Belt aren’t constellations. They’re asterisms.” He stands up. “I’ve gotta go. See you in Bags’s class. Thanks.” He smiles, turns, and walks away.
Hope flutters in my chest.
He smiled at me. For real. And he thanked me for . . . well, I’m not sure what, but something. Was he flirting with me just now? Maybe he doesn’t hate me after all.
Back at Kerrith Hall, I check in with the security guard in the lobby and race up the stairs, two at a time. My thoughts are in a mad, happy jumble. Max. Maximilian. Maximilian De Villiers.
Tonight felt like a breakthrough. Max and I made a connection. A tiny, fledgling connection, but still. I’m sure it hasn’t been easy for him to find the right person to help him move on after Becca’s death. After all, we deep, smart, solitary types have a tough time relating to people who aren’t like us.
But now Max has me. As a friend. Even as more than a friend. Whatever he wants.
I haven’t had a crush on a boy in ages, not since Will Weikart in eighth grade. Will and I were in band together. One day during rehearsal, he gave me this look. Kind of like the one Max gave me this morning after class. No boy had ever looked at me that way before, as if I were cute or interesting or special, and in that instant, I decided that Will and I should become boyfriend-girlfriend. Which never quite happened. He kissed me once, in the parking lot after the holiday concert while I was standing in the freezing cold with my clarinet case, waiting for my mom to pick me up. That was the extent of our relationship. After the holiday break, he acted like he had no idea who I was. I texted him a bunch of times, but he never texted back.
Maybe things will be different with Max.
When I reach the second-floor landing, I hear the faint strains of pop music, voices, laughter. There is no one in the halls, though, and everyone’s door is closed. I wonder if Devon is still up. I wonder if I can get her to tell me about Max and Becca’s relationship. The more I know about the two of them, the easier it will be to get closer to Max.
I am almost at the third-floor landing when someone taps my shoulder. I whirl around, surprised.
As I turn, my feet go out from under me with a sudden, swift force. I fall, and my face slams hard against the wooden step. I cry out in pain and touch the raw, tender place on my cheek. I can already feel a bruise forming.
“You shouldn’t sneak up on people!” I shout at whoever was behind me.
But no one is there.
7.
“OW! THAT HURTS!”
“Oh, shut it,” Devon orders me. She holds my head still with one hand while she rubs a weird-smelling cream on my face. “I know it stings, but it’s good for you.”
“What is it, anyway?”
“It’s a special blend. My acupuncturist made it for me when I messed up my leg at Killington.”
“What’s a Killington?”
“Really, Tess? It’s a ski resort in Vermont.”
Noted. I add “Killington” to my mental Thorn Abbey cultural-literacy checklist. I have to stop being so clueless if I’m ever going to fit in. I wonder if Max skis? Does he go to this Killington place too?
Devon leans back and scrutinizes her handiwork. “God, you look like a poster child for domestic violence. Are you sure you didn’t get into a girl fight?”
“I told you, I tripped on the stairs. I thought someone was following me, and—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. You’ve got to stop being such a klutz. These buildings are older than dirt, and don’t even get me started on the fire hazards. Elinor and I were smoking in the third-floor lounge one night, and we almost burned the place down. The walls are, like, made of straw.”
“You’re allowed to smoke cigarettes here?” I ask, surprised.
“Seriously? No, you’re not allowed to smoke anywhere on campus. Besides, I wasn’t talking about cigarettes.” Devon sighs. “Stay there. I’m just going to put a piece of gauze on that so the cream stays on while you sleep.”
“Okay, thanks.”
She twists her shiny black hair up in a clip and pads over to the closet in her fuzzy slippers. She looks like a Victoria’s Secret model in her flannel pajama bottoms and multiple tank tops. When I wear stuff like that, I just look sloppy, like it’s laundry day.
Clothes rustle, stuff falls, Devon swears, and a minute later, she returns with a giant first-aid kit. “My mom made me bring it. She’s a doctor,” she explains.
“Really? What kind of doctor?”
“A cardiologist.”
“Wow, she must be smart.”
“She’s a psychotic bitch.”
“Oh.”
I wonder what Devon means by that. Is her mom really crazy and mean, or does Devon just not get along with her? Should I ask Devon, or would she be offended? I’m not used to having intimate conversations with other girls. Or boys. Or anyone, for that matter.
Devon takes a square of gauze and lays it gently across my face. It feels light, almost imperceptible, like butterfly wings. I close my eyes and try to figure out what happened on the stairs. Maybe Devon’s right, maybe I’m just a klutz. But I could have sworn someone tapped me on the shoulder. Was I so busy daydreaming about Max that I imagined the whole thing?
“I just need to tape this up, and you’ll be all set,” Devon says.
“This is really sweet of you, thanks.”
“What are roommates for, right?” She rips off a piece of surgical tape. “So where were you tonight, anyway?”
I blink. “I went to that Monday night movie thing.”
“You did? Who’d you go with?” she asks skeptically.
“I went, you know, by myself.”
Devon smirks. I must sound pretty pathetic. “I saw Elinor and Priscilla there,” I name-drop hastily.
“Did you sit with them?”
Okay, so how do I answer that? I don’t want to admit that I was too scared to ask Elinor and Priscilla if I could join them. That would definitely make me sound pathetic. On the other hand, I don’t want to mention Max. Devon’s friend’s ex-boyfriend. But if I don’t mention him, she might find out anyway.
“No. I would have, but that Franklin guy showed up. The one from my English seminar? And he was with his—with Max De what’s-his-name. They sat down next to me,” I blurt out finally.
Devon stares at me.
“I didn’t really speak to them because the movie started,” I say in a rush. “To Catch a Thief. It’s amazing. Did you ever see it?”
She doesn’t answer. I realize that the “not talking to them” part isn’t exactly true. And she probably didn’t buy how I mangled Max’s name.
But I’ve told her enough. I seriously don’t want her to know that I stalked Max out of Chapin and that we did talk. A lot. I think Devon’s starting to warm up to me. If she figures out that I’m interested in Max, she’ll probably hate me forever out of loyalty to Becca or whatever.
“She loved that movie,” Devon says quietly.
“I’m sorry. Who?”
“Becca. To Catch a Thief was one of her favorites. Have I shown you a picture of her? She looks like Grace Kelly, actually.”
Grace Kelly? “Um, no.”
Devon walks over to her dresser and rummages through a small wooden chest, dumping out earrings, bracelets, strands of pearls. Finally, she plucks out a tiny silver key. Then she sits down at her desk, opens the bottom drawer, and pulls out a box. It’s large and flat and silver and etched with some sort of flower design.
She opens the box with the key and touches whatever’s inside gingerly, the way she touched the gauze on my cheek. The box seems special and romantic, like the sort of box I would keep love letters in. If anybody ever wrote me love letters, that is.
She pulls out a photograph and brings it over to me. “Here. That’s her.”
I hesitate for a second before taking the photo from Devon. Earlier, I was anxious to see what Becca looked like. But now, I’m not so sure.
“Isn’t she pretty?” Devon prompts me. “Grace Kelly, right?”
I force myself to look. A tall, slim girl poses in front of a sailboat, smiling and waving at the camera. She’s wearing a tiny white bikini, and her pale blond hair is blowing in the wind.
My chest tightens. Becca isn’t just pretty. She’s radiantly, gloriously beautiful. Grace Kelly beautiful. And she has this air of innocent sweetness that makes you not want to hate her for it.
But at the moment, I do. Hate her. Because how can I compete with that? She is obviously perfect inside and out.
Was, I mean.
“We were all so worried about Max after she died,” Devon says, gazing wistfully at the photo. “He kind of stopped living. Like he had no reason to go on. He still seems that way, doesn’t he? But I guess you don’t know him that well.”
I gnaw on my thumbnail. I thought Max was starting to warm up to me. Like Devon. So much for that.
“You should stay away from him. Becca and I used to be roommates; now you’re my roommate, and you’d just remind him of her. You know what I mean?”
I don’t answer. This conversation makes me want to cry.
“Tess? Are you listening to me?”
“Y-yes. I heard you.”
Devon smiles and kisses the top of my head. “Good girl. How’s your cheek? Does it still hurt? You should take a couple of Advil or Tylenol before you go to sleep. And if that doesn’t do the trick, I’ve got some stuff that’ll really take the pain away.”
I think about Max, about how quickly our non-relationship bloomed and then died. Is this what a broken heart feels like? I doubt there are any pills for that. Besides, I have no right to a broken heart. I never had a chance to get that far with Max.
I can’t sleep.
For a while I lie staring at the ceiling, counting Mondays. Around two a.m. I switch to Tuesdays, then to Wednesdays, but that doesn’t work either. I eventually give up and drink warm Coke and read some American History chapters with my penlight.
Around four a.m., I decide to get up and go for a walk. I can’t stand being in the room anymore. I put on a hoodie over my pajamas and pull on my fake Uggs over my SpongeBob socks. I grab my keys and slip out the door, being careful not to wake Devon, who is crazy-talking in her sleep again. Something about a dress.
The halls of Kerrith are deathly quiet. I’m extra careful going down the stairs, holding the railing the whole way. In the lobby, the security guard isn’t at his post. It’s too late, or early, even for him.
Outside, I breathe in the chilly, foggy air. It’s only September, but it’s super-cold. The grass under my feet is soft with dew. The sky is dark, moonless, and overcast. There is no Big Dipper, no Orion’s Belt—no constellations or asterisms or stars whatsoever.
And then, for some reason I can’t quite explain, I begin walking toward the beach. Whitwater Beach. I quickly cross the deserted quad, passing the fountain with the stone pillar. At the edge of the woods, I find the trailhead that Devon pointed out when she was showing me around on Sunday.
I hurry along the narrow dirt path, crossing my arms over my chest to try to get warm, and it occurs to me that maybe this isn’t the smartest idea: hiking down to the beach, alone, in the dark. In my pajamas. I didn’t even leave a note telling Devon where I was going or think to bring a flashlight or my phone.
Still, I don’t stop and go back. Something drives me onward. It’s where she died, I tell myself. It’s the last place where she was alive. But why do I care about Becca Winters? Is it because I have a stupid, hopeless crush on her ex-boyfriend?
I feel so dumb, like I’m in eighth grade againpining over Will Weikart. When he didn’t return my texts, I went over to my friend Kayleigh’s house and we polished off an entire half-gallon of Philly Vanilla ice cream plus a bag of potato chips. The next day I had the worst stomachache along with a gigantic new zit on my forehead. And at lunch, Will was making out with that slutty Danielle Gump in the cafetorium.
My love life definitely sucks. Then, now, forever.
When I reach the crest of the path, I can make out a sliver of ocean. I have to figure out how to get down to the water. I haven’t been to the beach—any beach—in ages, not since my mom and I drove to Cape Cod when I was in third grade. We were visiting her friend Noreen, who worked at a motel there and got us a room for cheap. I remember the massive waves on the Atlantic and the screaming, happy kids on their boogie boards . . . and the calmer waters of the bay with toddlers splashing in tide pools and couples reading the Sunday paper. I remember peachy sunsets and eating fried clams and soft serve with my mom while we strolled around the pier, checking out the fancy yachts. She would talk about the big boats with a mixture of pleasure and envy that I didn’t understand back then.
But these woods, this path, and the beach beyond bear little resemblance to Cape Cod. Everything about this place is cold and uninviting. Of course, it’s probably the early hour of the day and my foul mood. Or the fact that a girl I didn’t even know, a girl who’s been on my mind way too much since yesterday, drowned in these waters.
I stop in my tracks. There’s no good reason for me to be here. I have zero business chasing ghosts or chasing Max De Villiers, which is basically what I’m doing. I’m tired and freezing, and I’d be better off back in Kerrith Hall with a cup of vending-machine hot chocolate and my comforter.
That’s when I see him. He is standing on a rocky cliff, holding a bottle in his hand, his feet precariously close to the edge.
Oh my God, he’s going to jump.
“Max! No!” I scream.
8.
MAX DOESN’T TURN. I BREAK INTO A RUN, SHOUTING HIS NAME.
“Max! Don’t!”
He flings the bottle toward the sea, yelling something. It sounds like die, but it’s hard to hear over the wind and the waves crashing below. Plus my heart is pounding, practically bursting out of my chest. I won’t get to him in time.
He wants to be with Becca.
I force myself to run faster, faster—and somehow, by some miracle, I manage to reach him before he goes over. I’m so freaked out I can barely think. I grab fistfuls of his navy school sweater and try to yank him back from the ledge. But he’s way bigger than I am, and he barely budges. He doesn’t even seem to notice I’m there.
I catch sight of the precipice below: a sheer cliff wall ending in a churning black abyss. My stomach twists. I’m afraid of heights. And here I am, teetering on the edge of the world with a suicidal boy, and we’re both going to die.
I burst into tears, still clutching Max’s sweater. I’ve never been so terrified. He finally regards me with a blank look. His eyes are red, as if he’s been crying too. He doesn’t seem to know who I am.
“Max, it’s me!” I sob.
Still nothing. It’s like he’s in a trance.
“Please, please! You don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. You need to step away from there, okay? Here, take my hand.”
He blinks and slips his h
and into mine, and I coax him back from the ledge. He’s obviously wasted; he reeks of whiskey. Alcohol and grief, great combination.
Once we’re on safer ground, away from the cliff, I lead him toward the woods with quicker steps. Just then, a gray seagull swoops by, so close that I flinch. It circles us once and flies away, its screech falling on us like broken glass.
For a split second, the seagull glows bright white against the predawn sky. But the sun isn’t up yet. I must be hallucinating. Max frowns at the bird but says nothing.
We reach the trail leading back to campus. I let go of Max’s hand and lean against a tree to catch my breath. Off to the side of the path is a sign that I didn’t notice before: DANGER: NO HIKING BEYOND THIS POINT. Somewhere in the woods, I must have taken a wrong turn. And yet it led me to Max.
I swipe at my tears with my sleeve. “What the fuck?” I say finally.
Max’s gaze flicks toward me.
“Seriously, what the fuck?” I repeat, raising my voice. I’ve never spoken to anyone like that before, but now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. “I know we don’t know each other very well, but honestly, what were you thinking?”
Max closes his eyes and rubs his temples. Maybe I’m getting through to him.
“Are you completely selfish?” I continue. “Do you want to destroy the lives of everyone who’s ever cared about you? Is that what she would have wanted? Becca?”
Her name escapes my lips before I can stop myself. I didn’t mean to say it. Devon warned me not to upset him.
Now he is completely alert. He glares at me, squeezing his fists as though he wants to punch something. “What did you say?”
I step back out of his reach. I don’t think he’d hit me, but you never know with a drunk person. “I—I’m sorry she’s gone. “I really, really am. But she’s not worth dying for. No one is.”
His expression darkens. He looks tormented. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he whispers hoarsely.
“Yes, I do! This boy from my old school, Paulie, jumped off a bridge last winter because he found out his girlfriend was cheating on him. He’s still in a coma.”