Marcus pushes my hair behind my ear.
“Please don’t,” I say. A warm tear trails down the side of my face.
“I’m really glad,” he whispers, his breath rushing against my skin. His lips press against my ear, and the blood pumps through my body, hot and deliberate. He whispers again, but so faint I can’t hear. Soft, short breaths, another kiss. His nose nuzzles my neck. I lean into him, close my eyes, and exhale. I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be enjoying this when Devin is dead.
But I am. I can’t help myself. And I exhale again and again and again.
A figure moves toward us. I see it from the corner of my eye. I pull back.
“What’s wrong?” Marcus whispers.
Mr. Cordeau, the jeweler, is walking toward the food court. “I know him,” I say. “I don’t want him to see us.”
“Okay,” Marcus says. He leans back.
“He’ll probably tell Mrs. Rhodes,” I explain.
Mr. Cordeau passes by us, jangly bracelets and all, without seeing us, I think.
“Come here,” says Marcus. “Now no one’s watching.” He turns my face toward him. He smiles, and despite myself, I smile back. He plants a soft whisper of a kiss on my nose, then on my mouth. He leans over and nestles his face into my neck. I relax a little and shrug because it tickles. For the moment we’re just Cass and Marcus, two teenagers making out at the mall. I drown in the normalcy of it all.
Marcus’s breath grows louder and hotter against my neck. He pushes into me, and I turn toward him. His breath pours out and grows into a long hiss, hard air blowing on me. My heart jumps, almost stops short. I try to pull away from him, but I can’t. I don’t know why, but I can’t move.
And then there’s a sound. And it’s not his voice. A sound that pushes through me like a vibration. It’s a loud, painful, punching at my eardrums. I shrink down and hold my ears, but the sound keeps coming. It’s in my head; it’s all around, a ribbon of noise, curling around me, tightening.
I want to scream, but my throat is empty. And then the hands, the fingers—I know them—reach for the charm. And I know they always do; they always reach for the charm. A reminder. Best Friends. The hands pull at the necklace, which coils around my neck. The air is drying up, almost gone. I suck in a huge burst of it, all that’s left, it seems, and I get up and run. Run from the bench. The hands pull at me, then loosen their grip, and I breathe. I struggle, but I breathe.
My own hands press hard against my ears. The sounds won’t stop; they buzz inside me over and over. It’s like she doesn’t want me here. I have no right to be here, not without her. I have no right to be happy.
Maybe Marcus runs after me—I don’t know. I can’t think; I can only run. I can only run from Devin.
Before
MARCUS GRABBED MY HAND. “Let’s go,” he said, and started to run with me across the parking lot between his aunt’s house and the strip mall.
I held on to him, still loving the feel of my hand in his. “Where are we going?” I asked.
“Anywhere,” he said, still running. “We can go anywhere. Anywhere we can walk—or run, that is.” He turned around and grinned at me.
“We should really get back,” I said, trying not to sound out of breath. “At some point.” I was starting to feel less inclined to go back. I had no interest in the juicy details of Devin’s date, because now I had my own juicy details. And I’d rather just think about them. I wanted to stay with Marcus. I really wanted to go anywhere with Marcus.
“We’ll get back,” said Marcus. “Eventually.” He slowed down as we reached the strip mall. The security lights cast an orange glow over the parking lot, its faded parking lines, and potholes. “It’s still early. Look,” he said, showing me his watch. He had one of those crazy does-everything watches—the kind that tells time all over the world, can be taken scuba diving, and has video games inside. “We still have at least half an hour.” He smiled and held his free hand up toward the sky. “The night is young and so are we. Who said that, anyway? Somebody famous, right?”
I shrugged. “No idea.”
“Smart guy, whoever he was.”
“Or girl.”
“Yeah, okay,” he said, smiling. “Now, let’s go enjoy the young night.”
“Devin will be so mad.” As the words came out, I felt lighter. Like, so what if she was mad? I was here with Marcus, outside, at night. The air smelled like summer, humid and warm.
“Yup,” said Marcus. “Freaking awesome.”
We walked through the strip-mall parking lot into town. My breath slowed; I was glad to no longer be running. Streetlights dotted the mostly empty streets and only a few small windows showed light. The WayMart was still open, of course, and a few restaurants. Every so often a couple walked by or a small group of kids, but mostly we were alone.
“Take that!” Marcus said, tossing an imaginary something at the WayMart, as we walked by.
“Isn’t that where you work?” I asked.
“Exactly,” he said. “I’m off right now, and I’m out with you, and I just feel like sticking it to the old WayMart.”
Marcus knocked into me playfully. I laughed and knocked back into him.
We continued down the street, holding hands, still occasionally knocking hips. When we passed another couple, they smiled at us, as though we were all in some special club, and it warmed me from the inside out. I could get used to this club.
We hit the end of the block and then turned onto Elm, right by Cordeau Jewelers. The sign on the front door said Closed, but a light was on in a back window.
“Wow, he works late,” I said.
“Who?” said Marcus.
“The man who owns that shop,” I said. “Mr. Cordeau. He’s friends with Devin’s parents.” I held up my charm. “It’s where I got this.”
“Lucky you,” he said, grinning.
“Shut up,” I said, giving him a gentle whack. Only I could’ve listened to him talk all night. “I feel bad for him that he has to work so late on a Saturday night.”
“Must be a jewelry emergency,” said Marcus. “Oh, no,” he said raising his voice an octave or two. “Please help, my twenty-karat diamond fell into the fish tank! The betta’s trying to mate with it. I just can’t go on! Help! Helllllllp!”
“Stop,” I said, laughing. “You’re so mean!”
“I’m so not mean,” he said, grinning.
We walked past Mr. Cordeau’s shop and turned the corner at Elm onto the next block. There were fewer people there, more closed shops.
Marcus stopped walking. He stared upward. “Look at that sky,” he said. “Unbelievable.”
I stopped and turned toward him. I put my hand on my hip. “Is that another line?”
“No.” He smiled. “I thought we were past that. Do I still need to use lines? If so, let me know. I saved my cheesiest ones.”
I laughed. “No, no more lines, please.”
“Good,” he said. “You saved me from looking like a total ass. Now,” he said, “check out that sky. No clouds at all. Just stars staring back at us. The same stars people saw thousands of years ago. We can still see them. We can still see those same freaking stars. How amazing is that?”
“Pretty amazing.” It really was, not that I’d ever thought about it before. I loved that Marcus had.
“Those stars, man, they can see everything. Just imagine being up that high? If they could really see, imagine that. To see everything. To be everywhere at the same time. Amazing.”
Marcus let go of my hand. He moved behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist. At first I sucked in my stomach, afraid that even after being with him at his aunt’s house, he’d feel the fleshy rolls under my shirt. That he’d feel them and then head for the hills or, in our case, the other side of the stripmall parking lot.
He didn’t run. Instead he nuzzled my neck with his nose, and I felt his warm, soft breath on my back. I leaned into him and exhaled slowly. I put my hands over his. It didn’t matter anymore what
Marcus might’ve felt on my stomach, what he might’ve noticed. Because his arms were still there, wrapped around my waist, and he still liked me. He really liked me. And that, I thought, was truly amazing.
AFTER
I BURST OUT OF THE MALL into the hot, humid air. She’s here. Devin is still here. And I can’t tell anyone my best friend is haunting me. That she’s angry for what I’ve done. That she’ll never, ever let me be happy again because of what happened between us. Because then they’ll know. People are haunted when they’re guilty, when they’ve done something they need to pay for, right? This is payback. This is what I deserve.
The sun presses against me, and I slump forward and get sick. My CheezieBurger soda, along with remnants of my breakfast, splashes onto the stone pavers of the mall entrance and leaves a sour bubbly aftertaste in my mouth.
“Are you all right, dear?” the voice is deep and familiar.
I look up through watery eyes. Mr. Cordeau is standing there, large and friendly, concern etched across his usually merry face.
“Mr. Cordeau,” I start to say. But my words get caught. What can I say that won’t betray me? I wipe my mouth with my hand.
He pulls out a cloth handkerchief from his shirt pocket, the kind of handkerchief only older people carry. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says gently. He dabs at the corners of my mouth, then carefully wipes across the front. He starts to move toward my shirt, my neck, and chest, which are also soiled. “Oh, well, now, I—” he sputters, and moves his large hand away from my larger chest. “You’d better take care of that.” He smiles awkwardly.
“Thanks,” I manage to say, and take the soggy hankie. I wipe my shirt, which takes care of the chunks, just not the big brown stain. “I—I’ll clean this and get it back to you,” I say, holding up the soiled hanky. “I promise.”
“No worries, dear,” he says. “I’ve got plenty more.” He smiles. “Feeling any better?”
“A little.” I’m so grateful for his kindness, for his ordinary gesture, for his making me feel like maybe this is all in my head. I can swallow again.
Mr. Cordeau looks around. “Are you here alone?”
“Not exactly.” I tell him how I came with Lizzy and Gina and then ended up finding Marcus. I don’t mention Devin.
“So you left all your friends? Even your boyfriend?” says Mr. Cordeau. “I’ll bet they’re worried about you.”
“Marcus is not my boyfriend.” Maybe, if things were different…
“Maybe you should call them now,” he says. “You do have your phone?” He stares at me, his expression less soft, as if I’m about to get a lecture.
“I do,” I say. I pull it out of my bag to show him. The missed calls and texts glare back at me. I toss it back in. “I’ll text them later. I don’t feel good.”
“I see that,” he says. “You haven’t had anything to drink, have you?”
“Just a soda—” I stop. “You mean alcohol?” I say. “Of course not!”
He shrugs. “You never know with young people today. Sorry to offend, but it’s an honest question. Especially after everything you’ve been through.”
Everything I’ve been through? He has no idea what I’ve been through, what I’m going through. He and his clean hankies, his jangly bracelets, and his jolly grin have no idea. “I don’t drink,” I say, scowling.
Mr. Cordeau leans close. “How about we get you home?” His tone is lighter now.
Home. Yes, that’s where I want to be. Where I’ve always wanted to be, back on the couch. “Yes,” I say, momentarily awash with relief. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“I wouldn’t think of leaving you here,” says Mr. Cordeau. “It’s never a good idea for a young girl to wander around the mall by herself. And after what happened to poor Devin Rhodes”—he whistles— “well, there’s no such thing as being too careful.”
I nod, but at the mention of my dead friend, my gratitude evaporates. The thought of a whole car ride with him asking questions about Devin, digging deep, flashes before me. I sense what’s left of my CheezieBurger soda making for an encore appearance.
“You know what?” I say. “I really am fine. I’ll call my mom.” I reach into my bag for my phone.
Mr. Cordeau puts his hand on my arm. I look down at that spot, his large hand holding onto my forearm. I look into his eyes, and he relaxes his grip.
“Nonsense,” he says. “I’m here and willing to take you home. End of story.”
“I… well…” There’s nothing else I can say. I cringe inside. “Okay, thanks.”
We head toward the parking lot. I stare at my feet the whole time and try to keep up with Mr. Cordeau’s small talk. Praying he doesn’t start to dig again.
“Would you look at how this fellow parked?” he says as we pass a motorcycle taking up two spots. “Some people act so entitled. Like the world is theirs to take from it what they wish.”
“I know, really,” I say.
“You’re not like that; I can tell,” he says. He smiles at me, but the jolliness isn’t there. “You were a good friend to Devin,” he says. “Susan always spoke so highly of you.”
Mr. Cordeau is a friend of the Rhodeses. He cared about Devin. He’s just being nice. I think, too, about how often he spoke with Mrs. Rhodes. It’s okay, I tell myself, clenching. Don’t be rude. “My mom hates when motorcycles take up a whole spot.”
“Yes, yes,” says Mr. Cordeau. “They should have cycle parking up front, like they do with bicycles, don’t you think?”
“Uh-huh,” I pull my bag closer to me. It digs into my shoulder, but I like the feel of it being close.
Mr. Cordeau’s white Cadillac is parked a few spaces away from the motorcycle.
“That guy cut someone off when he was parking,” I say. Small talk. Stick to the small talk.
Mr. Cordeau looks surprised. “How do you know?” he asks.
“I saw it from the mall window,” I say.
He nods. “You’re quite observant.”
“No,” I say, smiling a little. “Just nosy.”
He laughs, but it’s sort of a weird laugh, and he doesn’t smile. “Yes, well, the world is full of impolite drivers. Remember that when you get your license.”
“I just want the license,” I say. “Then I’ll worry about being polite.”
Mr. Cordeau chuckles.
I begin to feel Devin’s presence around me again. The tingle is cool and constant on my chest where my charm rests. She’s still here, following me out of the mall. “Leave me alone,” I say under my breath. I’m surprised at the fact that I’m actually angry. After all, she chased me out of the mall, away from Marcus. “Stop already.”
“Sorry?” says Mr. Cordeau.
“Nothing,” I say, because I know he doesn’t feel what I feel, and if I tell him, he’ll probably drop me off at a psych ward.
The air around me chills. I squeeze my arms across my chest and the rush of air returns. I cover my ears. “Stop it,” I mumble. It’s enough. She can’t keep doing this. I can’t change what happened.
I try to ignore her. I hum quietly to myself to drown her out. She’s still there, her presence gnawing at me, but I shake my head over and over, as if by doing so I can shake her free. I swallow several times. I still taste vomit.
“Good thing we’re getting you home,” says Mr. Cordeau. “You do seem a bit peaked.”
I climb into the passenger side of his car. It’s very clean inside and smells like pipe tobacco. I put on my seat belt as Mr. Cordeau gets into the driver’s side.
He starts up the engine and pulls out of the parking spot, the giant lot getting smaller and smaller in the distance.
Before
IT WAS A QUARTER TO ELEVEN when we returned to the movie theater. Devin was pacing, looking at her phone. Her hair was all wild and out of place. Chad wasn’t with her.
“Devin?” I said as we got closer. This was a bad idea. As amazing as my night was, I was going to pay for it right now. “Are you o
kay?” Marcus rested his hand on the small of my back.
“Where the hell have you been?” she said. “I said meet me here at ten o’clock! Can’t you tell time?” Her jean jacket was back on and buttoned.
“Sorry,” I said. “I lost track of things.”
Devin looked at Marcus, then back at me. Her face transformed into a smug, bitter grin. “Oh, I see,” she said. “You were too busy to worry about your best friend.”
“That’s not true,” I said. But it was. She knew it, and I knew it. My stomach tugged at me.
“Nice, Cass,” she said. “You totally bailed on me. For what, a little action?” She stared at Marcus, giving him the up and down with her eyeballs. “With him?”
The irony was not lost on me. How many times had she done exactly the same thing to me? My whole body heated up, bubbled with rage. “Yeah, with him,” I said. “Surprised?” Having Marcus with me was empowering.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she said, taking a step back.
“All that stuff you said about having a better attitude, putting on makeup, buying new clothes. You’re so full of it!” My anger was full-throttle. “You didn’t think Marcus would like me. You didn’t want Marcus to like me.”
“Shut up, Cass,” she said. “You don’t make any sense.”
“I guess telling Chad I was an—oh, what’s the word?—oinker was meant as a compliment?”
Devin’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again—like a trout caught on a hook, gasping for air. She stared at me, then glared at Marcus. He shrugged, palms up.
“That’s not exactly what I said.” Devin was always so smooth; she wasn’t used to getting caught.
I got right up into her face, and she blinked a few times. “What exactly did you say?”
She frowned and looked away. “I was just being realistic,” she said. “I mean, I wasn’t going to say you were a supermodel. I said good things, too.”
“What good things?”
“Like, well, that you play the guitar.” She bit on her nail.
Devin Rhodes is Dead Page 14