Away We Go - Emil Ostrovski Page 0,22

I just wanted to save her. I thought if we find out where the sick kids go—”

Ever since I’d started avoiding Zach, I’d made up for it by hanging out with Alice, who was always trying to save me, worrying about my level of alcohol consumption, what I did on Friday nights.

“Maybe she doesn’t want to be saved,” I said. “Why do you need to save her?”

“Everyone wants to be saved, kid,” he said in surprise. “It’s just a question of who’s doing the saving.”

His hand dangled at his side. I could reach out and hold it. I could push him against a tree and kiss him, or punch him. I took a step toward him, and he tensed. That killed me, so I stopped.

“Noah,” he said.

“We—” Cuddled was the next word I had in mind, but it sounded ridiculous. Unable to capture what I mean. Unable to capture the closeness of two people. “That night. We raced.”

“It was fun,” he admitted.

“We could just have fun,” I said, trying not to beg. “It wouldn’t have to be anything. Just fun.”

He shook his head, sad. “It’s not a good idea, Noah.”

That’s when I heard the sound of an engine making its way along the forest path. Zach squinted through the trees at the source of the sound, and when he made out the construction truck, a change came over him.

“Noah,” he said. “Don’t you wonder where those trucks go?”

OPINIONS

Director Speaks Out: Westing’s Mission to Help, Not Curtail Liberty

those among you who complain of the infringement of rights. But the Internet is filled with a proliferation of insensitive material, and in the past, when Internet access was unrestricted, cyber-bullies targeted recovering youths. As for contact with parents, do students remember when parental contact was left unchecked? Do students desire a repeat of Houston? At any other high school in America, many students here would have hanging over them the very real probability of expulsion. Yet Westing has only ever expelled those found guilty of committing sexual and/or violent offenses. We have been lenient and liberal in our policies, transparent about hospice care in the tertiary clinics and next steps in the recovery process. Restrictions are in place for the protection of students

Westinger. Page 2

SEVEN WEEKS BEFORE THE CATACLYSMIC, FIERY, KIND OF CLICHÉD END OF ALL THINGS (OR NOT)

BLESS YOU

I wake.

Through the window, I watch a construction truck roll along a path leading to the northeast section of the wall. The construction workers have been working at the wall all month, but nobody ventures close enough to see why.

Beside me, Alice is asleep again, her chest rising and falling, contentment written on her face. Garbage duty really takes it out of you. I brush a hand through her hair. So many gray strands. One, two, three . . . The meds fuck everyone up differently. Seven, eight, nine. . . I get to twenty-three grays until I can’t take it anymore, so I roll out of Alice’s bed, leaving her to frequent whatever happy places there are to be found in the crevices of her mind.

The Polo key is still in my hand. I slip it into my mouth again.

My computer waits on the kitchen table, by a bowl of unfinished cereal that’s gone untouched for several days. Whatever milk was once there has probably turned to yogurt. AwayWeGo calls to me—I try to resist, fail—while I wait for a plateful of hot dogs and bland potatoes to be sufficiently nuked so as to approach edibility, only to realize I don’t want to go through the effort of chewing. Marty’s probably still out Russian-ing it up in the library. I could send him some annoying texts of the Are you jacking off to Turgenev again? variety. Again. I could, but shouldn’t, so I do.

He gives me the silent treatment.

I spit the key out onto a paper napkin, get up, and excavate a bottle of vodka from inside a box of Capt’n Crunch labeled Noah Falls. Alice is sleeping and happy, and I, too, want some of this happiness business I keep hearing so much about. Unlike Alice, I rarely find fulfillment in my dreams, though once I dreamed of Zach and me walking through some nameless gray city, holding hands. No, it didn’t turn into a wet dream. Not this one, at least. All we did was hold hands; in the dream I did not have leprosy, did not have to moisturize five times a day.

I pour myself half a cup of the