Chapter Eleven
Eleven
AND THEN THINGS GET WEIRD. Because Jules walks in and sees me with my hand lying gingerly in Peter’s, staring up at him like we’re performing a precoital scene from Bridgerton.
I snatch my hand back and put it on my hip. And then at my side. And then try to shove it in my pocket. I don’t have pockets. God, what do I usually do with my hands?
I cross my arms.
Jules squints at me, and then at Peter, and then back at me. And then back at Peter. “What is happening here?”
“Nothing,” I say, my face turning hot.
It’s not like Jules hasn’t caught me with a boy before. But that was always just kissing or maybe some light underboob stuff. This is … not that. This is intimate intimate. And it’s mortifying.
Jules steps closer to me and touches a strand of my wet hair. “You were crying.”
“No, no, I don’t think so. Not really.”
She nods and stage-whispers to me, “Is it shark week? I have some Midol in the cabinet if you need.”
“No, Jules, Jesus. I’m just … having a moment.”
She quirks an eyebrow. “You?” She turns and faces Peter. “What have you done to her?”
“I …” He rubs the back of his neck and squints up at the ceiling. “I think, uh …”
“Ohhh, I see,” Jules says. “This is about Liam, right?”
Peter locks eyes with me over Jules’s head and he gives me this look.
“Sort of …” I say, tearing my eyes from his.
Jules nods. “Sure, of course. I know it’s extra hard for you two because of the whole ‘last two people to see him alive’ thing.”
“Right,” Peter says, his eyes still locked on mine.
Jules looks between us again. “Huh. I guess it’s true. Grief really does make people horny.”
“Jules!”
“I’m just saying I have condoms in my nightstand if you need them. I’m not trying to become an auntie at sixteen. Although, if it is shark week the chances of that happening are—”
“Okay! Everyone get the fuck out of my room.”
Mercifully, Jules leaves, but not before reminding Peter one last time to “keep his street dog wrapped in foil.”
“You’ve got to go too,” I say to Peter when it’s just the two of us again.
“Are you sure?” he says. “I can stay and talk if you wa—”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck again. He glances toward the door, but he doesn’t move. “At least add me on Insta. In case … Well, just in case. Okay?”
“Yeah. Fine,” I say.
He rocks back and forth on his heels like he’s trying to summon the will to leave. “I feel like … I feel like you’re not going to add me.”
“I will.” Apparently I don’t say it convincingly enough, because he still doesn’t leave. “Okay, fine, whatever. I’ll do it now.” I grab my phone, open the app, and confirm his red pending request. I turn the screen to him. “Happy?”
Peter smiles. “Actually, yeah.”
Whatever, I can just unfriend him later. “Okay, well, bye then.”
He looks like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t push it, thank god. One tearful hand-touching per decade is more than enough for me.
“I’ll DM you,” he says seriously, before slipping out of my room.
Finally. Now it’s just me and the crumpled birds.
Except … I thought I’d feel a sense of relief as soon as I was alone again. But weirdly I just feel … alone.
I look at the cranes’ crooked beaks and bent necks.
Little statues from the past. I get this impulse to gather them all up in the bathtub and set them on fire.
Watch their little white wings turn black and charred, folding in on themselves.
But instead I sit down at my desk and pull out a fresh sheet of paper.
I don’t know why I’m doing it exactly. In fact, I can hardly remember how to make them anymore.
But something like muscle memory kicks in and I’m folding and smoothing the sheet, pulling out the triangles and tucking in corners until the paper resembles a creature close to a crane.
For a second I think about flattening it and sliding it into my red notebook, but then I’d have to find the page it belongs with. And fuck that.
I pick up the new bird and set it next to the others on my dresser.
And then it all hits me. What I’ve done.
I’ve gone full Haley Joel Osment and told Peter Beckett that I see dead people.
Or technically, that I see alive people who are going to die.
What the actual fucking fuck was I thinking?
This is not a normal or even remotely okay thing.
The back-to-back clocks plus the forehead to the concrete must’ve really messed me up.
An extra sliver of panic pierces my heart. This is so fucked.
I mean, sure, after he found out, Peter stood there all steady and strong, trying to lightly touch fingertips with me or whatever.
But I know from experience it’s one thing to understand the clocks in a theoretical sense, and a whole other bag of dicks to actually see it unfold.
And that’s what’s going to happen next. Ms. Jegstrup is going to die.
And this will go from weird quirk to full-on nightmare for him.
This isn’t some Ouija board middle school sleepover shit.
This is real life. And real death. And when he sees how fucked up this is—how fucked up I am—he’s going lose it.
I grab for my phone and swipe up. I need to unfriend Peter immediately. I need to shut this all down before—
Great.
He’s already left me a mes—no, excuse me—nine messages.
PETERBECKETT1984:Hey.
PETERBECKETT1984:So I just wanted to let you know that I probably won’t have service on this camping trip.
PETERBECKETT1984:I just didn’t want you to think I was ghosting you.
PETERBECKETT1984:
PETERBECKETT1984:I officially regret sending that emoji.
PETERBECKETT1984:Death is not the opposite of life, but a part of it. Haruki Murakami said that.
PETERBECKETT1984:Sorry. That sounded wildly pretentious.
PETERBECKETT1984:I just … don’t want to mess this up.
PETERBECKETT1984:Okay, now I am officially pissed Zuckerberg doesn’t let us delete messages after they’re sent.
I sit there with the phone in my hands, reading his messages three times. And then I realize I’m doing something horrible. Inexcusable.
I’m smiling.
I’m reading his messages and smiling like a fucking idiot. It’s disgusting.
I lock my phone and set it on my nightstand. I need to focus on something—anything—else.
I pick up my backpack and haul my math textbook onto my bed. Unfortunately for me, Mr. Jerzo won’t be conveniently perishing over the weekend, which means I still have to study for my trig test on Monday.
I open the textbook. I look at the equations. And then I pick up my phone.
No. No. Fuck this. I toss my phone to the end of the bed.
Then I crawl over and grab it again. I shoot Peter a message before I can think twice about what I’m doing.
SYD_IS_NOT_HERE:uh … that function definitely exists
SYD_IS_NOT_HERE:but also. don’t worry. zuckerberg is going to die in 24 hours
PETERBECKETT1984:Holy shit, really?????
SYD_IS_NOT_HERE:no, stupid
PETERBECKETT1984:Hey, watch who you’re calling stupid, smartie.
SYD_IS_NOT_HERE:that’s … not how that insult works.
PETERBECKETT1984:I have this thing where I don’t insult girls that are cooler and smarter and prettier than me.
Dots appear and disappear.
PETERBECKETT1984:I guess THAT’s my kink.
Well, shit.