Page 18 of 72 Hours of You

But unfortunately, it’s so much worse than someone trying to mass-murder the senior class. It’s ice cream social day.

This little party is last year’s seniors’ gift to us. They could’ve just put another bench next to the five already in the quad, but no. We get Costco ice cream and an industrial-sized tub of sprinkles. Which means I have to sit in the cafeteria and watch Emma lick whipped cream off her finger while Ethan stares with a boner tucked up his waistband.

After last night’s nightmares, I really don’t have the bandwidth to fake my way through this type of bullshit forced camaraderie. Mom. Bubbe. Charles … Their faces are still burning into my retinas. Like when you blink after a camera flash—the light is gone, but its ghost stays behind, haunting you when you close your eyes.

“Hey, Hoffman,” Noah says, coming up behind me in line. He throws his arm around my shoulder. “You psyched for this or what?”

“Extremely psyched. I mean, sure, I could just buy a pint of Häagen-Dazs for four dollars and eat it alone in my room, but this way I get to make A Senior Memory.” I point to the Styrofoam bowls of off-brand Neapolitan. “And like, fuck the sea turtles, am I right?” No one ever cares about the goddamn sea turtles.

Noah squints at me. “You okay, Hoffman?”

“Yeah, I was just joking. I love sea turtles.”

“No, I mean …” Noah says, his eyes lingering on my forehead.

“Oh, that,” I say, my fingers involuntarily reaching up to touch my bandage. I changed to a Transformers Band-Aid just to find out what stupid thing Peter would say when he saw it. My eyes sweep the cafeteria, but I don’t actually think he’s here at all. Somehow he’s avoided this forced show of youthful jubilation. Lucky bastard.

“What’d you do?” Noah asks.

“Huh? Oh, I tripped.”

“Well, if you really feel like tripping …” he says, a smile curling the corners of his mouth, “you should stop by grief group tonight. Oh, and we have room at our table.” Noah nods to the one near the window. “If you wanna hang now.” Emma, Sophia, Ethan, and a few other people are sitting on top of the table, dipping their spoons into each other’s bowls as if mono doesn’t even exist.

“An enticing offer. Truly. But I have some homework I need to finish.” The thought of listening to them talk about honoring Liam in the same breath as gravity bongs and Xanax-laced blunts turns my stomach. Emma lets out a shrill laugh and grabs Ethan by the arm he’s flexing. Something about that laugh, and her all-black outfit, makes me want to pour kerosene all over this cafeteria.

Noah keeps talking about lacrosse or Legend of Zelda (I have no idea if a dodongo is a sports move or a bad guy), but the words muddle together in an incoherent jumble. The yelling and happy shrieking is starting to feel oppressively claustrophobic.

“I’ll let you know,” I say to whatever invitation he was extending, and extricate myself from Noah’s arm. I grab a turtle-killing bowl of half-melted ice cream so I don’t seem as unhinged as I feel and find an empty spot in the back corner near the bathrooms. I pull out my bloodred Doom Doodle notebook and start filling up the margins with drawings that make me feel slightly less insane.

The notebook is this morbid holdover from the six months of head-shrinking I was subjected to after Mom died and Dad decided that Jules and I needed to “deal with our emotions.” Hilarious coming from the guy who hasn’t felt an emotion in close to a decade.

Therapy was 99 percent bullshit. Like really, they get a master’s degree and charge you $200 an hour to tell you the same shit that you can find on any Medium self-help listicle. But whatever.

Dr. Lawson was the one who recommended I “channel my anger” into drawing. It was one of her less shitty suggestions. All the clocks that I’ve seen go into this notebook. Each person gets their own page, even if I didn’t really know them. It’s like my own fucked-up spiral-bound graveyard. Bonus: I’ve gotten really good at drawing.

The key is to do the tribute and then never look at it again. Just turn the page and wait for the next person to take a dirt nap. Although sometimes I do wonder how far back I’d have to flip to see Mom’s. Or Bubbe’s. Or …

I push my pen down harder onto the page. Stay in the present, goddamn it.

Except, the present is this: Ms. Jegstrup walking into the cafeteria with a giant smile, rainbow Crocs (that she not-so-subtly uses to indicate her class is an “LGBTQIA+ safe space”), and a bright pink clock over her head. I can see her tan-colored bra under her white button-down and it kind of guts me. There is no sadder bra color than tan, and she’s probably gonna fucking die in it. And, oh look, there’s a tiny coffee stain on her collar too. It’s like she’s trying to make me feel like shit.

Drawing isn’t helping.

I shove the notebook back in my backpack and scan the crowd one more time. It takes me a second to realize I’m looking for Peter. Which is weird as fuck? There is literally no reason I should care where he is. In fact, I’ve spent the last three weeks actively avoiding him at all costs.

I pull out my worn paperback copy of Heidegger’s Being and Time and skim my favorite passages, trying to forget Peter, the nightmares, the clocks, and the unfortunate fact that Heidegger was kind of a Nazi. But the pink glow of Ms. Jegstrup’s countdown keeps distracting me. I’m like a moth to a flame. Except that’s not quite right, because the moth dies in that metaphor, and Ms. Jegstrup is the one who’s dying, not me. I’m just the person sitting outside watching the wilted moth carcasses pile up next to the flashlight.

Okay, gross. I seriously need to stop letting this shit invade my brain spac—

Shit.

She’s making eye contact with me.

Hi, yes, hi, I see you. Keep smiling but look somewhere else. Okay, nowhere else to look. Great. Yeah, hi. Smile. Smile. Too much smiling. She’s coming over. Fucking fantastic.

“Happy Ice Cream Social Day, Sydney!” Ms. Jegstrup says. God, her voice is happy. She is happy.

“You too, Ms. Jegstrup.”