“The Astonishing Color of After. The Bell Jar.”
“Suicide books.”
“Yeah. You know the plastic paper on a new album? It’s like suicide had that same glossy shine, and once I ripped it off and listened to the music, it didn’t live up to the hype.”
“The problem with books about suicide is they’re written by people who are alive.”
I jerked my chin toward him, throwing him a penny I’d prepared before he’d come here. “A penny for your thoughts?”
“I still think about committing suicide.”
“And your brother?”
“I don’t believe he wants to kill himself, although I strongly hope he reconsiders.”
I rolled my eyes. “Kellan.”
“The past year’s been a shit show. Dad did a stint in rehab. I think he misses the hell out of me. He gets so lonely, Dicks. We only visited him twice the month he was there. Then Tate got himself a girlfriend. She practically lives with us now. Cooking plant-based rabbit food every day, buying me crocheted pajamas from Whole Foods, replacing my vintage leather jacket with vegan leather. She even tried to limit my time with my dad after he got discharged.”
“That’s bullshit.” I scrunched my nose. “Did you put her in her place?”
He ran his fingers through his new platinum hair. “I’m putting them through hell. I barely talk to Tate anymore. He fights with Dad all the time. I heard him telling Hannah, his girl, that he’s thinking of moving away. He got a job offer in Seattle. As much as I hate this school, I’d have nothing to live for if I moved away from New York. Dad’s all I have.”
“He’ll do anything to keep you away from your father,” I mouthed. I hated his brother without ever meeting him. “What a tool.”
We stayed on the roof for another hour, catching up.
I told him about my physics project, the books I’d checked out, pieces of gossip about my friends. He told me how he’d started writing for a few fanzines, and I pretended it was news to me.
He also began working on an actual novel, but he didn’t elaborate when I fished for details.
This time, we took the stairs down together.
When Kellan turned to leave, he groaned, “Yeah, yeah, I know the spiel. Same day, same time, same roof.”
“Try not to die this year.” I punched his arm. Nerd with a capital N.
“No promises.” I made a sad face. He rolled his eyes. “I’ll give you a heads-up if I decide to.”
I offered him a thumbs-up as I continued walking backward to the train station.
I parted a cloud of helium-filled, red, heart-shaped Valentine’s Day balloons knotted to two street vendor carts. It felt like I’d stepped out of a dream, back into a reality I didn’t want to deal with, that didn’t want to deal with me.
The only thing keeping me from crashing down was Kellan’s half-moon smile.
Reluctant, but there.
“It’s a date.”
Charlotte Richards got under my skin.
No question about it.
Maybe because she was pretty.
Maybe because she cared.
Maybe because she wasn’t just another beautiful face to look at.
She was also great books and funny notes and encouraging words, praising the short stories no one else knew I wrote.
All I knew was, I’d started to see this little arrangement as the worst thing I could have done to myself.
The only thing to keep me going this year was knowing I’d get to hang out with Charlotte.
And when I did, I didn’t even tell her all the important things that happened.
Like that time Mark MacGowan shoved my head in the toilet after I’d almost broken his nose in a fight, and how all the other sweaty bastards in the locker room watched and cheered him on.
Like the fact that I’d started having wet dreams about her.
Like how I didn’t feel anything anymore other than confusion.
No, I basked in her Charlotteness, because she was rare and sweet and sunshine.
Then went back to my existence.
Too angry to listen.
Too jaded to care.
age sixteen
I arrived ten minutes early.
Kellan and I had kept the books and short stories tradition alive throughout the year, but lately, he’d been looking disinterested. More so than usual.
The circles behind his eyes had become more prominent, and a dark energy crackled around him, threatening to electrocute you if you got too close.
Still, I found myself trying to reach him, subconsciously or not.
Almost talking to him.
Almost touching him.
Almost hugging him.
I always ended up taking a step back, coward that I was. Kellan had made it clear that I shouldn’t—couldn’t—get anywhere near him.
I didn’t want to break the rules. I feared losing him. Not just as a friend, but lose-him lose him.
It occurred to me on multiple occasions that I should probably tell someone more qualified than me about the situation. I even got as far as waiting outside the student counselor’s office.
But then I’d remember every time they forced me to talk about The Night Of with adults and how each conversation only made it worse.
One thing that had changed this year was that I’d started hanging out with some boys at school. We grabbed a slice of pizza or walked the High Line or washed our hands in Sabon in SoHo.
I’d even let one of them kiss me.
Mark MacGowan.
Full disclosure: the kiss sucked.
Another full disclosure: that hadn’t stopped us from trying again (and again and again).
We’d been making out for a couple of months now, but we were both happy to keep our relationship secret.
Mark was probably ashamed because I wasn’t a rich heiress like everyone else around here, and I was embarrassed because, frankly, I’d met cans of Diet 7UP more intelligent than this guy.
Tap, tap, tap.
I clicked my lock screen off when I heard Kellan pounding up the stairs and shoved it into my pocket, turning around to face the rusty metal door.
He appeared on the roof. His gauntness hit me with the weight of concrete. He looked ghost-like up close.
But the thing that struck me most was that he was stunning, even more so than before. It was as if his face used to be a blurry picture, and now it’d finally come into focus.
It’d been said—whispered—that he was hooking up with girls from school in secret. That, despite the fact that he was a hermit, he slept around often.
I didn’t want to think about these rumors.
They made me nauseous.
I caught myself holding my breath and smiled when I realized he’d arrived early, too.
“Happy Birthday, Dicks.” He unzipped his tattered backpack, throwing something into my hands.
I unwrapped it, unveiling an entire block of spongy, carroty cake.
“Dang.” I squashed it in my fingers, laughing. “Setting the bar high for next year, Marchetti.”
He advanced toward me and plucked out two Bud Lights. I wondered if he’d heard I’d started drinking or just figured it out because everyone drank these days.
We clinked cans and sat crisscrossed.
My right leg rocked.
He ran a hand through his hair. “How’s the black slug doing?”