Then there was silence.
I wanted to jump.
I hadn’t come this far only to come this far, so to speak.
I hadn’t chickened out. But I was curious to know what she’d do next because…
Well, because she’d just walked into a shit show.
The person behind me spoke again.
“Crass doesn’t sell hoodies. They’re anti-capitalism. Nice brain fart, dude.”
Dafuq?
My head bolted in her direction.
It was her.
Holy hell, it was Charlotte Richards in the flesh.
With the thick chestnut bangs and big green eyes and emo anime attire. Which was basically American-porn attire. Kilts and AC/DC shirts and knee-high socks under Dr. Martens.
She was not a popular kid, nor a hermit. But she had this air about her. I don’t know. She made me want to get to know her.
Pacing toward me on uneven shingles, she shoved her fists into her jacket. “You made this hoodie yourself? That’s lame.”
I pretended to ignore her, hurled the empty beer can into the dark jaw of the school’s backyard, and grabbed a fresh one from my backpack, cracking it open.
It pissed me off that she’d called me out on my bullshit, even if I was crushing on her.
People our age were too dumb to know British anarchist punk bands from the seventies don’t sell merch.
But of course, I had to go and want the one chick who actually had brains.
“Can I have one?” She plopped down next to me, hugging the chimney with an arm for security.
I blinked at her.
Nothing about this situation rang real to me.
Her being here.
Talking to me.
Existing beside me.
She must have known that I was a social pariah. Nobody spoke to me at school… or out of school, for that matter.
And I didn’t mean that as a figure of speech.
I wondered how much she knew about my circumstances. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t like I’d date her or even deal with her tomorrow morning.
That’s the beauty of quitting life—you don’t have to hand in a notice.
Hesitantly, I offered her the Bud Light.
Charlotte released her death grip from the chimney and took a small sip.
“God.” She poked her tongue out and passed it back, wrinkling her nose. “Tastes like feet.”
I swallowed the rest of the lager, feeling an unjust sense of superiority. “I suggest you stop licking feet.”
“And drinking beer, apparently.”
“You get used to it. Nobody likes the taste of alcohol. Just the way it makes you feel.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You get drunk often?”
The only light illuminating us came from nearby buildings.
Charlotte freaking Richards, ladies and gents.
Up close.
So pretty I would smile if I could still feel anything past the numbness.
“Often enough.”
Translation: Way more than I freaking should at my age.
“Do your parents know?”
I pinned her with a what-the-fuck? look.
I didn’t normally feel so easy with people, let alone those with boobs, but the beers had loosened me up. Plus, in my head, Charlotte and I had spoken to each other plenty.
I popped a brow. “Do your parents know you’re getting hammered tonight?”
“My parents are dead.”
It came out flat. Monotone. Like she’d said it so many times, it no longer held weight.
But she rendered me speechless for a moment.
Sorry seemed too small a word. I didn’t know anyone our age with two dead parents.
One dead parent—sure. Happens. My mom was six feet under.
Two—that was some Oliver Twist shit.
Charlotte Richards just out-tragedied me.
“Oh.”
Really, Kellan?
Of all the fucking words available? Oh?
“How?” I added, not that it reinstated my right to speak the English language.
She rocked her leg, glancing around. “There was a fire in our house. Everything burned down.”
“When?”
When?
Why did I ask that? I sounded like an insurance inspector.
“Just before Christmas.”
Thinking back, I’d noticed she wasn’t at school before and after Christmas.
Sure, I bet kids talked about it.
But seeing as I was a little less popular than a lone, used tampon in the girls’ restroom, I wasn’t in any danger of being on the receiving end of gossip.
Truth be told, I’d become so invisible, people bumped into me by accident.
“Sorry,” I grumbled, feeling lame. It made me resent her. I wasn’t supposed to feel lame tonight. “I don’t really know what else to say.”
“Sorry’s fine. What pisses me off is when people hear about it and say I’m lucky I survived. Yay, lucky me, orphaned at thirteen. Pop the champagne.”
I made a popping sound, drank straight from the imaginary bottle, then held my neck, pretending to choke on it.
She offered a tired smile.
“I could’ve gone upstate to live with my uncle, but St. Paul is too good an opportunity to pass up.” She grabbed the beer from my hand, and our fingers touched. She took another sip and handed the can back to me. “So, why are you here?”
“Why are you here?”
She winked. “Ladies first.”
Charlotte Richards had jokes.
Damn, she was cool up close, too.
“I needed to think.”
“Hashtag lies.” She let out a humorless snort. “I saw you leaning over the edge. You’re here for the same reason I am.”
“Which is?”
“To end it all,” she declared dramatically, slapping the back of her hand to her forehead.
She lost her balance, lurching forward. I shot my arm out to stop her from falling. She clutched it with a yelp, unlike someone intent on ending her life.
I was kind-of, sort-of cupping her boob now.
I REPEAT: I’M KIND-OF, SORT-OF CUPPING CHARLOTTE RICHARDS’ BOOB.
I pulled away frantically, but she snatched my hand, tearing into my skin, and it was awkward, and there was a ninety-nine percent chance I had a semi, and Jesus Christ, why hadn’t I jumped minutes ago when my pride was still intact?
Her heartbeat thrust against my palm. She loosened her grip on me, and I withdrew, snapping my gaze back to the Hudson.
My jaw was so tense it hurt.
“Wanna die, my ass,” I muttered. She’d almost shit herself a second ago. “That’s cool. Not your fault. Statistically, you’re now less likely to want to off yourself.”
This was my area of expertise.
I had straight-up mad knowledge when it came to suicide. I’d done my homework. Which was ironic, considering I never did my actual homework.
I knew, for instance, that people were most likely to kill themselves between the ages of forty-five and fifty-four.
I knew the most common suicide method was a firearm (fifty percent), and men were more likely to succeed in it.
Most importantly, I knew pretty, smart Charlotte didn’t really want to kill herself. She was having a moment, not a year.
I looked down at my future demise, then up again.
I’d come here to die because I wanted everyone from school to see. To scar them the way they’d scarred me, leaving an ugly dent inside them that couldn’t be covered with makeup.