Page 20 of 72 Hours of You

I SPEND THE REST OF THE SCHOOL DAY with this ache in the pit of my stomach. Everyone else is high on sugar and the novelty of missing first period, but their collective joy only makes me feel even more insane. Like an alien observing the human race rather than a member of it.

Here is the teenage boy jumping on the back of another teenage boy. This is how they telegraph happiness.

Ah, and here is the teenage girl. She squeals when she sees another teenage girl of the same pack. This is how they communicate friendship and camaraderie.

Everything seems so fake and forced. It’s like I’m the only one in the audience of some deranged play that everyone else is putting on. They’re running around on stage, saying their lines, doing their bits, but I’m the only one who sees the curtains are on fire. The planks on the stage are rotten. And the lights above our heads are flickering, flickering, flickering.

I’ve tried before. To get someone else to see what I see. Like a fucking idiot, I pulled Oakley Rogers’s sleeping bag closer to mine and whispered everything—all the fucked-up shit—to her at sleepover in fourth grade. She giggled and looked at me like I was a superhero. And it was great, having someone know. Until I actually predicted someone’s death. Then all she did was look at me like I was crazy. Evil even.

To her credit, she never told anyone. And I learned not to tell anyone either.

When I finally get released from the daytime prison the American government calls our education system, I do the only thing that gives my brain five seconds of dopamine. I go for a run.

I run until my legs ache. Until I stop seeing Charles’s red-rimmed eyes. Stop hearing his voice screaming in my ears. Stop feeling Bubbe’s slowing breaths under my cheek. Stop seeing Mom’s ghostly face.

I make it back to my house, breathless and dripping with sweat.

And find Peter Beckett casually reading a paperback on my front stoop.

Nine

I TRY TO GET A LOOK AT WHAT PETER’S READING, but he rolls it up and slides it into his back pocket before I can. If it’s The Catcher in the Rye I’m going to kill myself.

“Hey, Syd.” The last bit of sun left in the sky catches on his hair as he stands up, making him look all golden and shiny, like a little kid’s participation trophy. Cute but useless, I remind myself.

He shifts, like he wants to take a step forward, but stops.

I fold my arms across my chest to convey that I’m annoyed he’s here and also because I’m a little concerned he can see my nipples through the sweat stains on my sports bra. Normally, I don’t care, free the nipple and all that. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s seen me facedown and bleeding that’s making me more self-conscious than usual. “What is this? An eighties film where people just show up at your door?”

“I tried to DM you,” he says. “But my messages wouldn’t go through.”

“I’m set to private.”

His eyes stay on mine for a fraction of a second too long. “I’ve noticed.”

A cool September breeze blows through, making me feel increasingly cold and clammy. I’m suddenly hyperaware of the way my sweaty shorts are sticking to my thighs. “If you’re going to hold a boom box over your head, let’s get it over with because I need to take a shower.”

“I’m more of a monologue-in-the-rain kind of guy.” Peter smiles, warm and open.

“What do you want, Peter?”

“I’m here because of Jegstrup.”

The tips of my fingers go numb. “What about her?” There’s a defensive edge to my voice that I’m not quite quick enough to cover up.

Peter squints at me like I’m a Rubik’s Cube he’s trying to spin into making sense. Good fucking luck.

“I just meant … her assignment? The poetry project?”

“Oh, right.” What did I expect? That he was gonna roll up and tell me he also saw a pink neon death clock over her head? “It’s not exactly the best time.”

“Sure,” he says. “I just thought we could get a head start. You seem like the kind of person who has a turns-in-assignments-early kink.”

“You seem like the kind of guy who has a look-me-in-the-eyes-and-tell-me-you-love-me-in-missionary kink.”

I expect him to balk, but infuriatingly, he just says, “I might.”

“Good for you. Listen, not that this impromptu chat hasn’t been the absolute highlight of my day, but I have other things I need to do now.” Like be anywhere but standing outside my house in my old running clothes discussing kinks with Peter Beckett. “We can meet at the library tomorrow.”