Chapter Two
Two
EMMA CHOY GLIDES INTO FIRST PERIOD in black Lululemons, a tight black turtleneck (even though it’s like seventy-five degrees outside), and the perfect swoop of charcoal-black eyeliner around her eyes.
Sophia Aldis sashays in after her wearing a nearly identical all-black “grief fit,” the only difference being that her eyeliner comes to a flawless cat-eye spike in the corners.
I can’t believe the cheerleaders are still doing this shit.
It’s been three weeks since Liam died. Turns out it wasn’t a car crash.
Well, not in the way I imagined it, anyway.
He and Cameron were running around outside the Burger King, throwing fries at each other, and someone ran him over in the drive-thru.
Cameron saw the whole thing. She hasn’t been to school since.
Apparently, she’s just lying in bed in this borderline catatonic state.
The one thing that’s been giving me peace is that Liam at least got to eat some of his burger before he died.
Emma slips into her desk chair and Sophia leans down over her, her long blond hair framing both their faces. They squish together and take a selfie. Then they take three more. Emma scrolls through a few filters, slaps one on, and hits post.
I pull out my phone and there it is, right at the top of my feed. Their faces in black and white, their eyes round and wide. The perfect picture of mourning.
21 days without you babe. U r so missed.
I swipe. There’s another black-and-white photo of an empty desk by the window. Jesus, they tagged him in the seat. That wasn’t even his desk! I swear to god they’re one step away from geotagging the Burger King.
“Hey.” Peter slides into the seat next to me, letting his backpack drop from his shoulder and setting today’s book of choice on his desk.
The last couple of days it was a Winston Churchill biography, but he must’ve finished that, because today it’s an Emily Henry rom-com.
He either has exquisite taste or none at all. I haven’t decided yet.
He glances at my phone. His eyebrows go up and he looks from Emma and Sophia back to me, staring for like three full seconds. I untuck my long dark hair from behind my ear, making a barrier between me and Peter.
Emma turns around and makes a crumpled-up worried face at me, her lip gloss pooling on her puckered lips. “And how are you two?” She grabs my hand and Peter’s.
I slide my hand out from under Emma’s perfectly manicured, black-polished grip. “I’m fine.”
She lets out an aggressively long sigh. “I just can’t believe it’s his three-week anniversary.” Three-week anniversary. As if she and Liam’s death are in a middle school relationship.
“You know,” she says, leaning closer to Peter, “a few of us have started a grief group. It meets every Friday night. Sometimes Saturdays. You should come.” She looks up at him from under her eyelashes in this affected way that she’s clearly worked on in the mirror.
“Noah always brings a keg. It’s very healing. ”
Ah, there it is. Using Liam’s Tragic Death To Try And Get Laid. I know I have that one on my Fucked-Up Shit bingo card somewhere. I want to stab my eyes out with my #2 pencil from secondhand embarrassment.
“That sounds like … something,” Peter says. Jesus Christ, she is actually rubbing her thumb in circles on his palm. He removes his hand from Emma’s grip and runs it through his hair. “I’ll definitely think about it.”
I’m not sure Emma registers that he hasn’t actually committed to anything, because she looks pretty pleased with herself.
“Oh,” she says, turning to me like she just remembered I exist. “You’re obviously super welcome to come too.”
I don’t have to go to this “grief group” thing to know exactly what it’s like.
The upperclassmen sprawled out on the couch at Noah’s, in their all-black outfits, getting stoned and watching Bluey cartoons and pretending that what they’re doing is grieving.
Hey guys, let’s roll a blunt in Liam’s honor.
You know how he adored weed. It’s what he would’ve wanted.
“Wow, Emma,” I say, making my voice go as high as hers. “I seriously appreciate the offer. So, so much. I actually have another grief group that night. You know? At the Spaghetti Factory? But otherwise I would totes be there.”
Peter lets out the tiniest snort but Emma doesn’t notice. She nods solemnly as if I’m making complete sense. “Well, if either of you need anything …” She turns back around, and busies herself with her phone, probably drafting a TikTok on Grief Fits that Hit!
Peter drags his desk a little closer to mine, and I resist the urge to scoot farther away. “So …” He drops his voice. “What are you actually doing this Friday?”
“Washing my hair,” I say, pretending to focus on drawing today’s Doom Doodle (a trampled-on cheeseburger with x’d-out eyes).
“That’s funny, because I’m going to be racing my dad’s car for pinks,” he says.
I raise an eyebrow at him. “Racing for pinks?”
“I thought we were doing a 1950s bit.”
“We are not doing anything. I am minding my business. Which is what you should also be doing.” I push the ballpoint pen down so hard I can feel it making a ghostly imprint on the pages underneath it. I don’t need anyone seeing Peter and me talking to each other. It only makes things worse.
When Liam died, this weird thing happened where everyone at school became high-key obsessed with Peter and me. And not each of us as individuals, but as like, a combined thing.
Apparently, being “the last two people to see him alive” made us part of the narrative.
PeterAndSydney saw him right before he died.
PeterAndSydney were there.
Ugh, if only PeterAndSydney had stopped him from going to that Burger King!
Do you know what kind of burger he ordered? I bet PeterAndSydney know.
Yet another reason never witnessing a Zero Hour is one of my rules.
We weren’t even actually the last two people to see him alive.
That title goes to Cameron (but she’s not exactly taking questions at the moment) and the guy driving the truck.
He’d probably be able to tell you exactly what kind of burger Liam went with.
I’m sure it was smeared across his windshield.
I’ve tried to avoid it all—the questions, the whispers—but gossip at Chapswell High has a way of escalating whether or not you want it to.
Last year, someone leaked nudes of Sophia and people couldn’t stop talking about them for months.
Like, the art club made fan art. Some of the charcoals were actually pretty stunning.
The point is, they weren’t even proper nudes—you could see, like, a shadow of a shadow of an areola—but it still made headlines for the entire winter semester.
So I’m not shocked the student body is feasting on Liam’s death like a bunch of starved zombies, nibbling on his personality and picking over his final moments.
I can only imagine what they’d be like if they found out I knew the actual, precise moment of his death down to the second. If they found out I’m some sort of mutant freak who sees neon-pink death clocks over people’s heads seventy-two hours before they die. If they found out …
But they will never find out. Because I will never, ever tell anyone. That’s a mistake I won’t make again.
I lock my phone and throw it into my backpack. I can still feel Peter’s eyes on me when Ms. Jegstrup walks into class. As usual, she’s all business, setting her worn leather satchel on her desk along with her thermos.
I keep my eyes locked on her. I don’t even let my feet or knees angle in Peter’s direction.
Jules forced me to watch this TikTok that said your focus flows to where you angle your body, so I’m keeping all my limbs pointed straight ahead and away from him.
I don’t believe in that woo-woo shit, but still, it’s the principle.
It’s not that he’s not nice and everything.
He seems fine. And you’d have to be as dead as Liam not to notice that he’s technically good-looking, in that green-eyed, wavy hair, tall, bland, parent-approved ABC Freeform kind of way.
If you’re into that kind of thing, which I’m not.
There’s something about him that’s so … unnerving.
It’s like he also believes we have some weird mystical connection from watching Liam climb into the car that drove him to the Drive-Thru of Death.
We don’t.
I’ve seen enough pink clocks to know that when it’s your time, it’s your time. There’s no preordained plan. There’s no bearded raggedy-ass white guy in the sky pretending to give a shit if we live or die. There’s no hidden meaning. And there’s no changing it.
Hopefully Noah sends a conversation-changing dick pic to someone in his harem so the cheerleaders can stop dressing in all black and reminding me every second of every day that Liam is gone and that Peter and I watched him go.
I like it better when I’m the only one dealing with the aftermath of a clock. Witnessing everyone else’s reactions to death is just too much.
My only saving grace is that this is a small town, which means I average seeing two clocks a year.
(I’ve kept pretty meticulous records, even if I’m the only one who will ever see them.) And so Liam plus that old guy at the parking garage three months ago have me covered for the year.
Once everyone forgets about Liam things can go back to normal.
The tardy bell beeps, and I finally sense Peter shift in his seat to face forward.
“Good morning!” Ms. Jegstrup says. She looks up from her thermos and beams at us.
And then a pink clock blinks to life over her head.
Fuck.