It’s my turn to force a smile, meant to comfort. “Why don’t we just stick to the gossip?” I suggest. Maggie deflates and sinks back against the pillows. Desperation abandons her, already looking for his next victim. “Let’s see … ” I think. “The Dorseth brothers were arrested again. For stealing from Hal’s hardware store, I think. Oh, and I heard Joshua Hayes turned down Sophia Richardson when she asked him to go to the homecoming dance with her.”
“What?” Maggie squeals, struggling to sit up. I put a restraining hand on her shoulder and she leans back again, but her eyes are still wide with glee. “Where did you hear this? Tell me everything.”
For an hour I regale her with stories. Maggie eats it all up, intent, and for a bit I do manage to make her forget. But at some point she begins to lose focus, and more Emotions blur into existence, all touching the sick girl. Envy, Loneliness, Longing. Dark skin, skin pale as my bedroom walls, frizzy hair, sleek hair, dismissal and interest. Maggie half-listens to me now, nodding to keep me talking, but I’d guess she’s thinking of all she’s lost, all she’ll miss, everything she wants and will never have. I focus on this so I don’t give away the presence of all the Emotions.
Finally I glance at the clock on the walclass="underline" 5:46. I’ll only be able to stay for a few more minutes. My gaze flicks back to Maggie and traces the outlines of her hollow cheeks, the sprinkling of freckles across her delicate nose. She’s so tiny, a fragile bird that will forever be in the nest and never know what it’s like to spread its wings and feel the wind and the radiance.
I’ve gone quiet. Maggie turns her face to the window. Orange-yellow light spills across her blanket. She closes her eyes, and I watch her long lashes brush against her skin. “Elizabeth,” Maggie says. There is so much put into that one word, my name, that I know she feels enough for the both of us.
“Yes?”
Maggie swallows. “I was thinking … you know I joke about death”—the word makes her cringe—“and I brush it off. Hell, I dress like it.” She sniffs, attempts to harden, but it doesn’t work. Not now. Shuddering, she meets my gaze squarely. She’s decided something. “We’re all pretending, all the time. But now it’s different. I feel different. I think I need to face the fact that I’m going to die, and I need to hear someone say it.”
There’s no going back, and she seems to finally accept it, so I don’t attempt to help her with the pretense anymore. “I know, Maggie.”
She grins weakly. “You do, don’t you? You’ve always seemed to know things. But I wasn’t bothered by it like everyone else. You made me feel … safe. I used to get jealous. You’re so strong, so certain in who you are. I wanted more. I wanted to be beautiful, like Sophia Richardson, popular, loved, perfect. Since that wasn’t possible, I tried to be special by being the school Goth. And look at me now. I’m special now, aren’t I?” Maggie utters a bitter laugh.
“This isn’t—”
“I know. I know, okay? I don’t need to hear the speech again. I didn’t do anything to deserve this, bad things happen, it’s out of our control. I know, I know, I know. But why? Why me, why now? You know so much, Liz, then tell me. Why did this have to happen to me?”
I’ve been expecting this, anticipating this moment. No human can look into the face of death and not cower or panic. But I don’t have any words to calm Maggie, because the answer she’s looking for doesn’t exist. There’s no rhyme or reason for pain and suffering, for those beings that live to distribute it—these things just are. I could give her all the pretty lies, but it won’t hide the truth this time, and there’s no going back to our old ways.
“I’m here,” I tell her, so simple. There’s nothing else. Well, nothing but one more truth. And she’s waiting for me to say it. She needs me to say it. So I do. With all the reality of how empty I am. “You’re going to die, Maggie.”
She stares at me, the girl in the bed with the wet, white cheeks and the bleeding heart. Emotions are crowding close, reaching out for her like weeds in water. My nothingness swallows me whole. I stand. As if on cue, I hear Maggie’s parents down the hall, talking in lowered, worried murmurs. “I’ll see you soon, okay?” I say, standing.
“I love you, Liz,” Maggie whispers to my back. I pause, consider offering another false sentiment in return, but for some reason, I don’t. I walk out the door and don’t look back.
Nine
“So when did you want to do this?”
I squint up at Joshua, lifting a tired hand to shade my eyes. The drawing I’m working on lies half-finished in my lap, an image of hands braiding long hair. Quickly I unfold the cover of the notebook and close it. “Do what?” I ask. I’m slow this morning; more dreams and unanswered questions plagued me throughout the night.
Joshua shifts from foot to foot, debates for a moment, then plops down on the ground beside me. “We need to work on the portfolio. So, well, we could decide who should do what and work separately, but I’m not exactly creative, so … ”
“It’s not due for almost two weeks,” I remind him.
He plays with a rubber band around his wrist, staring out at the street. “Yeah, but I like to be prepared,” he answers.
We’re sitting on the front steps of the school. It’s quiet; no need to pretend, no risk of making a mistake.
Joshua moves restlessly. I can see that he’s one of those people who never stays still, probably not even when he’s sleeping. “Do you want to meet somewhere after school, maybe later this week?” I finally ask him.
A group of our classmates crosses the street, approaching the school. Their voices startle Joshua. The crowd is followed by two Emotions: Apprehension and Desperation. It’s so important to these kids to fit in, to belong. Joshua watches everyone clattering up the steps for a moment and then he looks back at me. There’s no way to know what he’s thinking from his expression. I note how neither of the Emotions stops to touch Joshua.
Then the front doors open, and the others are gone. Silence hovers around us again.
He realizes I’m waiting for an answer, and red spreads along his neck and cheeks. “Yeah, that’d be great,” he says, grinning at me sheepishly. “How about Thursday night? I can probably be done with my chores a little early and we can meet at my house.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Why not my house?”
His lingering glance at the hidden bruises on my face says more than words could. “I just thought you might like to have an excuse to … to get out for a while,” he tells me, his tone careful, gentle, as if I’m glass and he’s handling me in his callused palms.
“Fine. I’ll be there at six.”
Joshua grins, and his crooked smile brightens the sky. I arch my neck to keep my gaze on him as he stands, studying that unpractical hair of his, the strong jawline. There’s something … different about Joshua Hayes. My body reacts to him; I note the clenching sensation in my stomach where there should be none. It’s similar to how I feel when I’m working on my paintings or an Emotion is near: like I should be feeling something. Like I would if it weren’t for the wall. This has also happened with Fear.
It isn’t until Joshua’s smile fades that I comprehend I’ve said some of my thoughts out loud. “You’re different too, Elizabeth.” His voice is soft and he touches my shoulder, not an instant of hesitation in the movement, before turning and going back up the steps. “Bell’s going to ring,” he calls over his shoulder. “You already have too many tardies. Get up.”