back to back before. They’re usually separated by weeks, with just enough time between their arrivals that I start to let my guard down.
It’s been a while since I had a nightmare this bad, where I wake with a jolt, panting, bathed in sweat, on the verge of screaming, David’s face flickering on the edge of my brain. Right after the shooting, I had them every night—dreams about walking into that closet, about the noises I heard coming from the other room, the realization that Jordan was still out there, the ache of my arm muscles squeezing hard against my legs, the pain from the scream held tight inside my throat, and then there’s a bang and I jolt upright out of bed.
Both nights I wake up confused, disoriented, brain scrambled, bathed in sweat, arms aching. The only way I manage to pull myself back to reality is with the grounding techniques that McMillen taught me over the summer, where I list everything I see, touch, smell, feel, hear, and finally my brain is back in the present moment and out of that closet.
My mom doesn’t notice, of course. The first morning, she’s gone before I even come downstairs, and the second, she’s actually here, full of logistics and formality. That’s the way my family has always communicated—through our weekly schedules. It used to make sense: when Jordan was around, my parents had to juggle work and his various activities, all the details of who was driving him where, when. Back before things got really tense between us, Jordan used to joke that without all his extracurriculars, our parents wouldn’t know what to do with themselves, and I’d reply, Also they wouldn’t know what to talk to me about, which was funny at the time but really not funny at all when I think back on it. Now, on the rare occasions when we run into each other, there’s always this brief moment of confusion on their end like Wait a second, who is this strange girl in our house? before they remember who I am and that I still exist.
It turns out that now that all his stuff isn’t on their calendars to think about, work has easily expanded to take their place, almost like Jordan was never here.
This morning, after my mom leaves me in a wake of stale perfume, I collapse into a chair at the kitchen table and pour myself a bowl of cereal. I take a bite, but it tastes like cardboard. I used to love cereal, but so did Jordan, and these days I can barely choke it down.
I push the bowl away and put my head down on the table for a second, wondering just how bad it would be if I skipped school. I haven’t been out with my spray can in a couple days now, not since Lucy handed in her dumb resignation, and my fingers are itching to light Michelle Teller’s house up with color.
Two days back at school, and I’m already sick of it. This year cannot end fast enough.
On the way home from her audition the other night, Lucy told me that she talked to Zach’s friend Conor, the lead singer, and he said she was a shoo-in for drummer. I was unsurprised, of course. They would have been idiots not to pick her, since (a) (the dumb guy reason) she’s totally hot, and even though she doesn’t normally swing his way, it’s not like he knows that yet, and (b) (the actual, real reason) she’s legit the most badass drummer since John Bonham died (swear to god). I’m excited for her, even if I can’t manage to show it properly. Also—and this isn’t like an actual thing I’ve been thinking about, because I have no interest in boys or dating right now or ever again—that kid Zach seemed pretty cool. And he was even cuter close up. The other night, sitting there with him after I almost freaked out for the dumbest reason ever…I almost felt safe.
I haven’t felt safe in so long.
We have drama today, so instead of letting my head sink farther into the wood of the table, I pull myself up and out the front door.
* * *
—