by Amy Giles
Jess
Andrew’s hand freezes just as he’s shoveling a jumbo shrimp in his mouth. He does a double take, his eyes traveling up to Lucas’s bruised face and split swollen lip.
Lucas catches his eye and points to me. “She did it.”
I elbow Lucas, forgetting about his bruised ribs. “OW!” he shouts, louder than necessary, I think. Then he points to me again. “See what I mean?”
As we make our way through the audacious catering hall, Lucas holds my hand. Huge murals of dolphins swimming and diving around what must be a Mediterranean island by the whitewashed buildings overlooking the sea take up the entire back wall. Long banquet tables are covered with elaborate displays of cheese platters, fruit, seafood, carving stations. Lucas heads straight for the food and loads two plates.
“Is that all for you or should I get my own plate?” I ask, looking over his arm.
“I’m bad, but I’m not that bad. Melon?” He points to the fruit display that’s shaped to look like a lobster. I nod and he tears off a melon skewer antennae.
We sit at a table with Pete and Gwen. Aisha and Ron join us.
Peachy walks over, fist-bumping everyone around the table before sitting down with us; he’s already lost his date.
“Yo, man, you get mugged or something?” he asks Lucas.
“You should see the other guy,” Lucas says.
“We’re going to have to put that on a card for you to hand to everyone who asks,” Pete says. He tosses a cheese square in the air and catches it in his mouth.
Peachy persists. “Yeah, but seriously. What happened?”
So Lucas tells them every last detail of all three rounds of the match, how he was so scared he wanted to call it off and run to the bathroom, how he nearly lost it in the second round, but by the third round the other guy was gassed and Lucas was able to get some hooks in to knock the guy down.
Pete, Ron, and Peachy are riveted. Gwen and Aisha grimace.
“Jess? Did you go?” Gwen asks.
I nod, slowly. “Yeah. He’s not even embellishing.” Lucas shoulder-bumps me and grins.
The DJ gets right into it, pumping the music so loud it makes talking impossible. That’s probably the point. Swarms of people rush the dance floor.
“Come on, let’s dance.” Lucas takes me by the hand and tugs me toward the wildly gyrating crowd. I pull away.
“It’s going to be ugly,” I warn him. “Cleanup-in-aisle-six ugly.”
“I never said I was any good. I just want to dance.” He puts his hands on my hips and walks backward holding on to me until we reach the dance floor.
We find our groove together, laughing and touching more than dancing. Pete takes Gwen by the arm and tangoes in between us. “Coming through,” he announces.
Lucas takes my hand and twirls me. “See? You got this.” He reels me back.
“Just don’t let me fall. These heels are a bit higher than I’m used to.”
With his hand on my waist, I know without a doubt he’d never let me fall.
Close to my ear, he whispers, “Careful. People might actually think you’re having fun.”
“Can’t let that happen.” I laugh.
He spins me out again. The song ends and a slow song comes on. This is more my speed. Lucas takes my hand and pulls me closer, inch by inch, until I am leaning fully up against him. I don’t resist. Not like I ever could resist Lucas.
Lucas
Of the eighteen people who died that night, five of them would have graduated today. Graduation gowns and mortarboards are placed over their vacant chairs, in alphabetical order. All around me, shoulders heave and people try to wipe away errant tears, especially when Mr. Klein calls on us for a moment of silence before they start handing out the diplomas. Ethan would have graduated today. I’m glad Jess is sitting with my parents. I know they’ll take care of her.
Even though Jason graduated two years ago, I still feel him here today, especially when they call my name—our name—to accept my diploma. It feels like a baton is being passed to me. Jason made it this far; now it’s up to me to take it from here and run with it.
As I walk across the stage to accept my symbolic rolled-up piece of paper from Mr. Klein (the real diplomas will be mailed to us), I squeak out a tiny bubble of a fart, barely audible over all the commotion, but definitely toxic. Steak and onions last night. I grin for the cameras in the audience but really I’m thinking, Smell you later. It’s totally juvenile, but something Jason and I would’ve laughed about together later.
After the ceremony, everyone in the auditorium pours outside the school. Mom, Dad, and Jess find Pete and me. Mom takes her phone out to get some pictures, but she can’t stop crying.
“Lucas and Pete, squish together. Closer. Pretend you like each other,” she says, dabbing her nose.
I groan; Pete grins. We wrap our arms behind each other’s backs. It’s ninety-seven degrees today and our robes are navy, trapping the heat against my body like an insulated thermal bag. I haven’t stopped sweating since I got dressed. The sun beats down on the cement and brick; buildings block any relief of a breeze. There’s no tree in sight, no sliver of shade to save us. Summer in the city is in full swing.
Pete turns to whisper in my ear, “I’m totally alfresco under this robe.”
Mom takes the picture just that second, capturing my look of grossed-out shock forever.
“Jess, you get in there now,” Mom orders.
Jess hops over and squishes in between Pete and me.
“Careful,” I warn her through my forced smile. “Pete’s going commando.”
“Smart move,” she says, and smiles. Mom takes the picture of the three of us.
Pete sees his family and waves. Pointing first to Jess, then me, he says, “Bonfire, tonight. Meet you guys there.” Then he runs off to have his picture taken with his parents and his grandma. One strong gust of wind and Pete’s going to flash his Bubbe. I pray to the weather gods for this one graduation gift. Please!
Jess hands my mom her phone. “Mrs. Rossi, would you mind taking a picture on my phone please?”
Mom takes a picture on Jess’s phone and hands it back. Jess immediately looks at it, her thumbs tapping.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Sending it to Marissa,” she says, typing a text.
Reggie pokes her head through the crowd, her eyes darting between my parents and me.
“I just wanted to give you a quick hug.” She slips through the crowd to make her way over.
My parents haven’t seen Reggie since right after Jason died. At first it was just because they were dealing with their grief, but really I think they’ve been harboring some misguided resentment toward her. And Reggie, sensing she was persona non grata, stayed away.
But now Mom and Dad exchange looks as Reggie, making good on her word, hugs me quickly and tries to escape. Shooting those nonverbal married couple looks, Mom nods to my father in agreement and takes those first hesitant steps. “Hi, Reggie.”
Reggie turns around, looking sad.
“Hi, Mrs. Rossi.” Even her voice sounds younger, insecure around my parents.
Mom opens her arms. “We’ve missed you,” she says.
Their small talk starts off strained, but then starts to warm up. Within minutes, my parents invite Reggie to come to dinner with us. And they’re not taking no for an answer.
All around us, people are laughing and crying. In another year or two, there won’t be clusters of empty seats at graduation, or an entire “In Memoriam” section in the yearbook. They’ll move on and try to forget about that night. There’ll be another thing that will rock their world, maybe another storm, another war, another monster. But this will be history.
Life is either about moving forward or looking back. We’re moving forward again, but we’ll never forget what’s back there behind us. We can’t. Because if we forget, it could happen again.
Jess
The late-August heat makes its way into the g
arage, suffocating us like a wet blanket.
“Jab with your left, then come at it with your right! Keep moving!” Lucas says, punching the air every time my fist makes contact with the bag. We’ve been at it for fifteen minutes and I’m exhausted. But I see now why it helps Lucas so much. All of that anger has a place to go.
Lucas convinced his parents to let him hang a heavy bag in the garage so he can train at home in addition to Leo’s gym. He’s only had one other fight since the one back in May. His bruises are turning a putrid shade of yellow, even two weeks later. But he won that one too.
Three months have passed since the day I found my mother crumpled on the bathroom floor. Since then, Mrs. Alvarez has become even more of a regular fixture in our home. If Mom was noncompliant before, now she does whatever Mrs. Alvarez tells her, including taking her antidepressants every day and seeing her therapist twice a week.
Glimpses of my mother from before are coming back. Therapy is like having to reset a broken bone; in order to heal properly, it has to hurt a little first. Her therapist had me come in to talk about our life together, before and after Ethan died, to help my mother reengage with her life and her relationships. There were a lot of tears, from both of us, especially when I told her, “I know it’s not your fault. But I lost you too when I lost Ethan. You left me alone.” I’ve been keeping up with my peer support group too.
My shattered life is coming together again, piece by piece.
We live our lives like survivors, weaker in some places, but stronger in others. Scarred, but healing. Just a few months ago, I couldn’t imagine anything beyond trying to get through the day. Now I’m thinking about my future, a path unfurling for the first time with a glimmer of hope. Today, Lucas and I are going to look at colleges upstate together. If for some reason we don’t get into the same school, we’ll figure out how to make us work. We’ve been through worse. Every day we’re stronger, closer to being whole again.
Lucas wipes the sweat from his brow with his forearm. “You take a shower first. Let’s try and hit the road by ten.” He tosses back a glass of water.
I pick up my phone off the floor. There’s a new text:
ARE YOU SERIOUSLY DATING LUCAS ROSSI????
All I can text back is: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
“Who are you texting?” Lucas asks.
“Marissa.” I stare at the screen with a huge grin on my face.
By ten o’clock, we’re on the road, heading north, leaving Queens behind.
Windows open, I dangle my hand out to feel the breeze weave through the web of my fingers as we cross the Whitestone Bridge. My hair blows around me, the sun splashes down on my face.
Lucas takes my left hand and squeezes, little compressions that remind me that I’m here, I’m alive. I’m still fighting.
A Note from Amy Giles
In publishing, an author has one last chance before a book goes to print to make changes. At best, I’d hope to catch a few embarrassing typos. It never occurred to me that I’d need to update my author’s note to address the Parkland shooting in Florida that killed seventeen students and teachers on Valentine’s Day, 2018.
I wrote the first draft of That Night in 2014. It was not written in reaction to Sandy Hook or Aurora or any particular mass shootings in recent history. It was written out of grief and despair that these events keep happening. But with this recent shooting, there appears to be a new force challenging our lawmakers, our elected officials, the status quo. From this most recent heinous crime, students have become the most vocal advocates calling for action. New gun law activists—some still too young to vote, but not for long—are shouting at the top of their lungs, “Never again!” Your voices are the ones that will affect real change. You will succeed where we have failed.
That Night is a work of fiction. Rather than focus on the shooting at the Balcony, I wanted to turn the lens to focus on the victims who survive this kind of tragedy, the “walking wounded.” I wanted to tell a story about what life is like for them a year later, after the cameras and reporters leave. For Jess, Lucas, Mrs. Nolan, Mr. and Mrs. Rossi, and Marissa, their lives will never be the same, whether they suffer from grief and loss of a loved one, anxiety, PTSD, and/or clinical depression. The repercussions of gun violence extend well beyond the reach of a bullet.
While this story is an invention of my imagination, we’ve seen that the real world can be equally, if not more, terrifying. From lockdown drills at school to the nightly news, to the most recent Parkland shooting, the world can become too much to bear alone. If you’re feeling scared, overwhelmed, anxious, depressed, please talk to someone about it. A parent, a teacher, a counselor at school. Anonymous, confidential, and free hotlines across the country are also available anytime you need help.
If you or someone you know is feeling suicidal, call 911 immediately.
National Suicide Prevention Hotline
(800) 273-TALK (8255)
Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week
TTY–Hearing and Speech Impaired: (800) 799-4TTY
Text ANSWER to 839863
National Hopeline Network
(800) SUICIDE (784-2433)
(800) 442-HOPE (4673)
Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week
www.hopeline.com
TeenLine
Teen-to-teen counseling
(310) 855-HOPE (4673)
(800) TLC-TEEN (852-8336)
6 p.m. to 10 p.m. PST
Text TEEN to 839863
www.teenlineonline.org
Crisis Call Center
(800) 273-8255
Text ANSWER to 839863 Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week
www.crisiscallcenter.org
National Mental Health Association Hotline
(800) 273-TALK (8255)
Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week
www.nmha.org
National Institute of Mental Health Information Center
(866) 615-6464
8 a.m. to 8 p.m. EST, Monday through Friday
www.nimh.nih.gov
National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) Helpline
(800) 950-NAMI (6264)
10 a.m. to 6 p.m. EST, Monday through Friday
www.nami.org
Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA) Helpline
(800) 662-HELP (4357)
Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, English and Spanish
www.samhsa.gov
Boys Town National Hotline
For teens (boys and girls) and parents
(800) 448-3000
Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week
www.boystown.org
Speak Up
Safely and anonymously report suspected gun violence threats
(866) SPEAK-UP (773-2587)
Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week
www.bradycampaign.org
Acknowledgments
It takes a team effort to write a book.
I would like to thank my agent, Alexandra Machinist, for championing this book in its earliest stages. My unflappable editor, Jessica MacLeish, who put so much time and energy into helping me take this book apart and piece it back together. Thank you to the ever-warm and gracious Rosemary Brosnan for welcoming me on to your team. A debt of gratitude goes out to everyone at Harper who had a hand in shepherding both of my books into the world.
Thank you to Kelvin Dickenson, Chris Cassatto, Sean Cooper, and Erin Beaty for helping me get into the mind, body, and spirit of a boxer. For more reasons than I can list here, I am eternally grateful to Julie Hochman, LCSW, whose enormous heart, skill, and talent have helped countless teenagers find their way. Thank you to Anne Myrka for allowing me to pick her brains about pharmaceuticals and drug safety, but above all else, for being a friend and kindred spirit.
To the people of Far Rockaway: thank you for allowing me to settle into your peninsula on the Atlantic. I may have taken a few liberties, but I trie
d to stay true to your location and vibe. Your community is no stranger to tragedy, and I apologize for adding an additional fictional one. In writing this story, I wanted Lucas and Jess to personify and honor your resiliency and strength of character that I so deeply admire.
And last, but always first, thank you to my heart, my home: Pat, Maggie, and Julia.
About the Author
Photo by Danny Schrafel
AMY GILES is the author of Now Is Everything. She lives on an Island that is Long with her husband, her two daughters, and their rescue dog. Visit her online at www.amygiles.net and follow her on Twitter @AmySGiles.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Books by Amy Giles
Now Is Everything
That Night
Back Ad
DISCOVER
your next favorite read
MEET
new authors to love
WIN
free books
SHARE
infographics, playlists, quizzes, and more
WATCH
the latest videos
www.epicreads.com
Copyright
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
THAT NIGHT. Copyright © 2018 by Amy Giles. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
www.epicreads.com
Cover art by stocksy/Lumina
Cover design by Katie Fitch
* * *