Eternity tft-3

by Elizabeth Miles

  “That’s okay,” she said. She didn’t look like one of Drea’s music friends, though. She looked like a plastic model of a person, almost too perfect. Her face seemed oddly frozen into an expression of neutrality, like one of the dolls Mel used to play with. “I’m Meg.”

  “JD,” JD muttered absently. He wasn’t in the mood to make small talk. Wrong place, wrong time. He scanned the room, looking for Em. His heart skipped. There. Em and her parents were sitting close to the front with Gabby and the Doves. Her head was down and he could see her shoulders moving ever so slightly. She looked broken. Beautiful, but broken.

  Everything is changing, JD thought again. Life was short and he couldn’t waste any more time. He had to forgive Em, and then tell her how he felt: that he loved her. He had realized he loved her years ago, and remembered the moment exactly.

  They’d been on the couch in his den, watching a documentary about the death penalty for their freshman year civics class. It was just some boring assignment; he was getting ready to turn the movie off and pop in another movie so he could hear her laugh. But when he turned to Em, he saw tears streaming down her face.

  And his first, overwhelming instinct was to reach over and comfort her somehow—but he realized he, too, needed her comfort. He wanted to smell her hair, to scoop her up, kiss her, and tell her it would all be okay. Instead, he’d shoved a box of tissues at her and turned back to the movie, heart pounding, earth-shattered.

  That was the day JD admitted to himself that he was in love with his best friend.

  The service began with a brief sermon, and it wasn’t long before a heavy pressure started to build in JD’s chest. He felt heat pricking at the backs of his eyes and the bridge of his nose, and he forced himself to look around the room to distract himself. His eyes drifted from Em’s back to the dark, wooden, satin-lined casket to the heaps of flowers toward the front of the room. Sent by grieving—or guilty—classmates, probably. One of the arrangements in particular stood out: an enormous bouquet of red orchids. They looked strange and garish next to the other flowers, in muted shades of cream and white, and reminded him unpleasantly of blood. His stomach twisted.

  “. . . and now, we welcome to the podium Drea’s good friend Colin Roberts, who will perform a song he wrote for today.” JD snapped back to attention and watched Crow walk to the microphone, holding his guitar in one hand and brushing his black hair out of his eyes with the other.

  There he was: Asshole of the Year. What did Em see in this guy? What had Drea seen in him? Crow hadn’t even finished high school. Rumor was, he dropped out—before he could be kicked out. JD had hung out with Crow only once, at a party at Drea’s house. They’d barely spoken, so JD knew only two things about Crow: He played in a band and he used to be really good with computers. Oh, and he smoked a lot of pot.

  There was no question in JD’s mind that he and Crow were after the same girl. It was Crow who Em went to meet that night at the old mall. Which meant it was Crow who was to blame for what happened to JD there; he’d been hit in the head with a falling industrial pipe, an accident that nearly got him smothered in concrete and left to die. Luckily, Em had managed to get him out of there with just a scar above his eyebrow to show for it, but it was her fault that he’d been hurt in the first place.

  Which meant it was Crow’s fault.

  Crow cleared his throat and spoke into the microphone. “Many of you barely knew Drea,” he said, not even trying to conceal his disdain for the crowd in front of him. But then his voice broke as he went on. “Maybe . . . maybe it’s not too late for you to pick up a thing or two from her anyway. She was always open-minded. Obsessed with everything unique and different. So if you want to honor her, try to be a little bit more like her from now on. Be like how she would want you all to be if she were still around to see it. Break away from the fold.” With that, he brought up his guitar. “Drea, this one’s for you.” And he began to pluck out a song, slowly at first.

  Then he found the melody and his music washed over the room, at once sad and defiant.

  Just like Drea.

  JD was more than a little annoyed that the song was so good. Crow could really sing, too, in that raw, rough way that girls were always into—belting his voice into the air and tapping his foot to the beat. JD imagined Em staring up at him in the front row, listening to that voice, finding comfort in it. God, it made him feel sick how girls loved musicians. He lowered his head, consumed again by feelings of confusion and resentment.

  He felt an elbow in his side.

  “Here,” Red Ribbon Girl, Meg, murmured, offering a tissue. He was about to tell her he was okay, he wasn’t going to cry, but she pressed the tissue into his hand before he could resist. She must have mistook his annoyed expression for anguish. She turned her petite face at an angle and stared at him with that same doll-like expression: “Ya know, I’ve always thought death was really just the beginning of something else. Something we can’t understand.” Her voice was light and girly, and yet it felt like ice sliding down his back.

  JD nodded and turned back to the altar, hoping that the girl would leave him alone. She was clearly trying to be nice, but her whole attitude was so clinical it just came off creepy.

  Crow was playing the final notes of his tribute. When he finished he turned and walked offstage without even acknowledging the quiet and respectful round of applause. Everyone clapped. Everyone except JD.

  You may have won over this crowd, he thought. But Em will see through your bullshit eventually.

  At the end of the service, JD squeezed his mom’s shoulder.

  “Do you think I should go up there?” he asked, motioning toward the casket, where some mourners were lining up to pay their final respects.

  “Only if you want to, JD,” his mother replied.

  Of course he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to see Drea’s face, frozen in an eternal expression of death. He didn’t want to see what they’d done to her, how they’d “fixed her up” with makeup she’d never have worn. What if it was a cookie-cutter version of Drea Feiffer up there—made to look fake and plastic and everything she’d railed against her entire life? Plus, he thought open caskets were creepy. Who wanted to see their dead loved ones like that? But he owed her this. One last good-bye.

  “All right, I’m going to do it,” he said.

  As he pushed his way against the tide of the shuffling crowd, JD spotted Drea’s dad, Walt Feiffer, struggling with the same bouquet of giant orchids JD had noticed earlier. It was on the verge of tipping over, and Walt was attempting to right it. He was alone.

  JD sighed and looked around. If no one else would help Drea’s dad, he would. He made his way over to the altar. Just as he was about to offer a hand, Walt let the flowers drop to his side—though it looked more like a shove—and JD wondered if Walt hadn’t been wrestling it to the ground this whole time.

  “Can I help, sir?” JD barely recognized his own voice; it sounded strained.

  Walt turned around. His eyes were red, and he smelled like alcohol. He was crying, too, letting tears stream down his face. JD was embarrassed for him, and felt guilty for being embarrassed. Walt had lost his daughter. He had the right to cry. And drink.

  “First my Edie, now my Drea,” Mr. Feiffer said, slurring slightly. “What do I have left?” Another sob escaped the man’s throat.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Feiffer,” JD said. “Drea was a friend of mine.” The words of condolence stuck in JD’s throat. His mind flashed back to the scene in the gym: the hysteria, the heat, the smoke. Could he have saved Drea?

  It was too late now.

  Until this moment, he hadn’t understood or fully processed the true horror of it: Drea was gone, and she was never coming back—ever.

  He couldn’t do anything about it.

  No one could.

  He turned to the casket. He could see the top of Drea’s head, except it wasn’t her head—or rather, it wasn’t her hair; the undertaker must have put a wig on her. Was that b
ecause her burns were so bad, or because they wanted her to look more like a 1950s housewife than a rebellious teenage girl? JD swallowed hard and took another step closer.

  Drea didn’t look like herself. Her navy-blue dress was plain and demure, and the wig—a straight brown bob—was jarring. Her features were placid, like she was in the middle of a deep sleep. Her hands were folded across her ribs, and there was a single flower tucked between them. It was bright red and intricate, like the orchids Drea’s dad had been wrestling with.

  Good-bye, Drea. I’ll miss you.

  “Did you put that there?” Walt Feiffer had come up behind JD and was pointing shakily at the flower. “Get it out of there. Get that away from my daughter.” He was in a frenzied panic, reaching over JD with such force that he practically tackled him. JD stumbled forward, closer to the casket than he would’ve liked, watching in horror as Walt tore the flower out of Drea’s hands and crushed it under his boot on the floor. JD fixed his eyes to the spot on the ground; the flower’s petals were smeared and broken but the center remained more or less intact. He was reminded of the occasional dead bird he’d come across when he rode his bike as a kid.

  JD looked up and noticed how those nearby looked quietly away, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  The reaction was intense, but JD remembered that if anyone was entitled to it, it was Walt. He needed to cut the guy some slack. After all, Mr. Feiffer had already lost his wife, many years ago, when Drea was still a little girl. JD couldn’t remember the details—Drea never talked about it—but he did recall that Edie Feiffer had died in an equally terrible accident. Locked in a freezer or something? And now Walt had lost his daughter, his only child, too.

  Meanwhile, Mr. Feiffer had started fumbling with a cigarette and a silver Zippo. His hands were shaking violently. He was drunk, definitely. JD didn’t have the heart to remind him that they were still indoors—in a church. He did the only thing he could think of: He motioned for the lighter, took it, and lit the flame so Walt could take a long drag.

  “She was a wonderful person, Mr. Feiffer,” JD said, hearing the lameness of the words even as he said them.

  Mr. Feiffer didn’t even respond. His eyes were fixed on something invisible. Like he was gazing at nothingness. JD turned to go.

  By that time, the crowd had thinned out significantly, and Em was nowhere in sight. He trudged out of the church feeling more unsettled than ever.

  * * *

  Back at home, JD’s mom pulled out a homemade casserole from the freezer. “JD, honey, will you bring this over to Sue and Dave’s for me? They have a lot going on right now and I have a feeling they could use a good home-cooked meal.”

  JD tried to recall the last time he’d gone over to the Winters’ house—certainly not since he’d gotten hurt at the Behemoth. With the exception of their almost make-up at the dance, before the fire, he and Em had barely exchanged ten friendly words in the last two months. He knew a lot of that was his fault. He’d been pissed at her for choosing Crow. He’d blamed her, too, for the accident that had nearly killed him. She’d tried to apologize a dozen times and he’d blown her off. But he was tired of being angry, and hurt, and not doing anything about it.

  He was tired of missing her.

  “Let me change,” he said, feeling in his pockets for his phone, which had just started buzzing. It was Ned.

  “Hey, dude, I need you in the booth tomorrow,” Ned said, sounding his usual combination of frazzled and pumped. “One of the soundboards is on the fritz and I’m running rehearsal, so there’s no one else to check it out.”

  Ned was directing this spring’s student play, some Greek drama, and JD had promised to help out. He’d done lights and sound on a few previous shows—the engineering part of it came naturally to him. Plus he loved the calm, remote darkness of the booth, high above the stage, where you could see everything and everybody, but no one could see you.

  “Yeah, that’s fine,” JD responded. Couldn’t hurt to have some distractions lined up. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He ran upstairs, replaced his gray suit with a more comfortable pair of jeans and his favorite yellow-and-black woolen flannel, then came back to retrieve the food from the kitchen.

  It took about one minute to walk from his back door to the Winters’ front stoop; it was just enough to remind him of the last time he’d set foot in Em’s house: the day he left her flowers and a bar of chocolate. And a note. Always, JD. He could still picture the way Mrs. Winters had looked at him—like she had known that the gift was more than just an apology. That it was a confession, too, and a pledge.

  He still didn’t know exactly what Em’s reaction had been to the gift.

  “JD! What a nice surprise,” Em’s mom said when she appeared at the door.

  “My mom thought you might want some casserole,” he said, holding up the dish.

  “Oh, how sweet of her,” Sue said. “Let me take this into the kitchen.” Then, with only a second of hesitation, she added: “Em is resting upstairs. I’m sure she’d love to see you, hon.” She turned and walked down the hallway toward the kitchen.

  JD took a deep breath as he started up the stairs. This was it. His chance to come clean, to start over, to start something.

  Em’s door was partly open; he knocked softly and, hearing no response, entered. Em was lying on her bed, still wearing her clothes from the memorial service, having fallen asleep while reading. Her dark hair was splayed across a mountain of white pillows, and her eyelashes fluttered ever so lightly from dreams JD hoped were good.

  He felt a pang of disappointment and also relief. And, deeper than that: love. Plain and simple. She was so beautiful. He moved quietly across the room to turn off the lamp. As he did, he caught the title of the book she’d been reading: Conjuring the Furies. The book was old and worn, and JD could see that it was heavily flagged with Post-its.

  Curious, he picked it up and flipped through the dusty pages. Mostly Greek and Roman mythology, probably for the independent English project that all of Mr. Landon’s students were working on in his absence. The former Ascension English teacher had been found dead last month, and the long-term sub had assigned semester-length research papers. Or maybe Em was planning to get involved in the school play?

  JD stopped short at page thirty-eight: a detailed drawing of a bleeding snake. The caption read: Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. Only blood will bring them back. He felt a sudden surge of nausea. He remembered the night he’d found Em in the graveyard, covered in mud, holding a dead snake. He’d been scared, worried, and disgusted all at once. She was grieving—going crazy because of all the deaths. That’s what he’d told himself at the time.

  It was warm in the Winters’ house, but he shivered involuntarily. Creepy stuff. He’d bet money that this book wasn’t grief-counselor-approved. Should he mention it to her parents?

  He turned the page to a new chapter: “Justice versus Revenge.” He adjusted his glasses and began to read.

  Once summoned, the goddesses of vengeance don’t know when to stop—nor do they want to. They can’t distinguish between appropriate punishment and malevolent retaliation. The desire for revenge is subsumed by its evil underpinnings, leaving tortured victims in its wake.

  JD felt like throwing the book across the room, or burying it. He didn’t go for energy and juju stuff but he could swear he felt bad vibes seeping from its pages, like toxins. Before he could close the book, Em stirred sleepily and opened her eyes. He could tell she’d been crying, but she managed a small, tentative smile. He smiled back, closing the book quietly and placing it down on her bedside table.

  “Hi,” she said. Her voice sounded small.

  “Hi,” he said. He felt awkward standing above her; he kneeled down next to the bed so their eyes were level. “My mom sent over some food, a casserole and—” He cut himself off before he could start to ramble. “Listen, Em, I know you’re having a hard time right now. And I wanted to tell you . . . I wanted to make sure you know . . . t
hat I forgive you. I’m not mad at you anymore. I’m here for you. Always.”

  She was half-asleep again, and he couldn’t force out the last bit of his speech. The most important part. The part about being in love with her. So instead, he kind of half-stroked her shoulder, pulled up the afghan that was folded at the bottom of her bed, tucked it around her, and left.

  As he trekked back across his lawn, he replayed the last few minutes in his head. Em’s sleepy smile. The way his palms had tingled when he’d kneeled next to her. At least he’d said some of what he needed to say. There was some satisfaction in that.

  But a sense of dread cut into any contentment he might have felt, and he blamed it on Em’s ancient book. He couldn’t shake the memory of the words Only blood will bring them back. What the hell did that mean? Hadn’t they all seen enough blood by now?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Through sleep-fogged eyes, Em peered at her alarm clock. Seven o’clock. Gabby would be there soon.

  After the memorial service yesterday, and especially after Crow’s speech and song to the crowd, Em had decided that her self-imposed break was over. A week of avoiding the everyday pressures of Ascension had apparently done nothing but heighten her anxiety. She could only watch so many movies—and spending her days alone allowed her mind to circle back, always, to what Crow said the night of the fire. Her mood had alternated between fierce rage (like hell she was “becoming one of them”) to a deep concern something within her was changing undeniably.

  Either way, it was time to face reality—nothing would be gained by lying in bed, scared and angry. And reclaiming her life is what Drea would have wanted and what she would have done. It was funny how much she had learned from Drea about true strength: about sticking up for the people who mattered; about loyalty; about ignoring what other people thought or said about you; about pushing through your own fears.

  Em had made Gabby promise to pick her up on Monday morning, normal time, no questions asked. Gabby had sounded skeptical over the phone, but she’d agreed.