Invincible (32 page)

I close my eyes and swallow. Small waves lap against the shore and I have to remind myself this water is not stuck here like I am; it will soon touch the ocean and be released.

“Are you done?” Marcus says. His voice surprises me. It seems so long since I've heard it.

I pass him the half-empty vodka bottle. He shakes his head.

“This is the emergency?” he says. “This is why I skipped school?”

There is anger in his voice. Anger. At
me
.

“Marcus,” I say. I have done something to upset him, but my brain can't catch up fast enough to figure out what it is. I take his hand in mine. For a second, the world feels a little more solid.

“Evie,” he says. “Look at me.” His eyes are sad, serious. I am in trouble. “Promise you won't get mad at me for what I'm about to say.”

“I can't promise that.” Something catches in my throat. This is going to be bad. I can feel it.

He sighs. Looks down. Looks back up at me. “Maybe they're a little bit right,” he says. “I'm worried about you too.”

“About what?” I pull my hand away from his. “What is there to be worried about?”

“I don't think your partying is about having fun anymore.”

“I'm having fun.”

“Really? You're having fun right now?”

I don't answer. I can't answer.

“Evie,” he says, his voice cracking. There are tears running down his face. “You keep acting like you're invincible, but your life is falling apart. I can't stand watching you self-destruct. I love you too much. Nobody's invincible, not even you.”

I can't even hear the waves anymore. Anger fills my head with static until all I hear is electricity.

“Say something,” he says.

“I can't believe you're on their side.”

“You know that's not true. I'm on your side. I've only ever been on your side.”

“I can't believe you're sitting here giving me a drug speech when it was you who got me into them in the first place.”

“What are you talking about? That's not what happened.”

I don't know what I'm saying. I don't know what words to attach to everything I'm feeling right now. All I know is I've never felt more alone or betrayed than I do right now. Marcus was the one person I thought I could trust, after everyone else abandoned me. He was the one person who never worried about me or judged me, who never tried to protect or baby me. Now he's as bad as everyone else—worse, because I truly believed he understood me,
really
understood me. I thought we were going to take on the world together. But now he's just as much a part of that world, and this is a war I'm going to have to fight on my own.

“Fuck you,” I say. But I stand up too quickly and fall right back down, my bony ass hitting the hard edge of the driftwood. Marcus catches me. He holds on too tight. “Let go!” I shout, pushing him off of me. I stand up again, and this time I'm sturdy enough to start walking. “I don't need your protection,” I say as I head toward the road.

Marcus follows me. “I'm not trying to protect you,” he argues. Why won't he let me go like everybody else? “I'm trying to protect myself. I can't handle watching this happen again to the person I love most.”

I go cold. “Don't worry,” I say. “I'm gone. Now you won't have to watch.” I keep walking. “Stop following me!” I scream at him. “It's over. I don't need you.”

“I'm driving you home,” he says behind me, his voice almost unrecognizable, from either anger or hurt or both.

“I can walk.”

“It's, like, ten miles to your house from here.”

“Oh, you're so kind.”

“Jesus, Evie. Since when is that a bad thing? When did caring about someone become such a crime?”

I slam the door as I get into his car. I can't believe I used to find this piece-of-shit Mercedes charming. With all the money his dad has, Marcus could afford a much nicer car, but he drives this one around, wearing his thrift-store clothes and listening to his sensitive indie music, pretending to be someone he's not. He's a rich kid who goes to the most prestigious prep school in the Bay Area. That's who he is. The lie is what I fell in love with, not this guy who wants to control me like everyone else.

I turn as far away from him as possible during the excruciatingly long ride home. The mix of anger, vodka, and bad Oakland roads makes my stomach churn. I close my eyes so the world will stop moving, but even in the darkness it goes by too fast; I cannot stop it, I am out of control, I am shuttling through madness, and everything is happening without me.

I don't want to look at Marcus because I'm afraid of what will happen if I do. I'm afraid a flood of feelings will drown me. I'm afraid of what anger can turn into when sadness is allowed to defile it. I will not let myself be weak. I will not let myself hear his sniffles beside me. I will not acknowledge that I have made him cry. I have finally lost the last piece of my old self. I am fully cruel. There is nothing of nice Evie left in me.

I finish the bottle of vodka and throw it out the window. I want the satisfaction of hearing the glass breaking; I want to hear it smash, but we are going too fast, and it gets lost in the sound of moving.

I get out of the car without saying anything. I am grateful for my drunkenness, grateful that it takes so much concentration just to walk; there is nothing to spare for feeling. For fear. For regret.

Just walk without falling down. Just make it to the front door. Just open it and get through the living room without anyone stopping me. Just get to my room and peace and quiet. They will be mad. They will want to talk. They will follow me. But if I just keep moving, they'll eventually have to give up. That is my plan. That is what will happen. I am in control now.

But that is not what happens.

When I get inside, no one jumps up to scream at me. No one asks me where I've been. No one asks who I was with or what I was doing. Mom and Dad are sitting on the couch, waiting for me as I expected, but it is not anger I sense.

“Evie,” Dad says. “Sit down. We have something to tell you.”

What, I'm grounded again? They put actual bars on my windows this time? They've fixed my door so it can be locked from the outside? Oh fuck, is this an intervention?

But something is off. Their eyes are puffy and red with tears, even Dad's. This is not how it should be. The room spins and I stumble over to the chair across from them. I do sit down, but not because they told me to.

“Sweetie,” Mom says, leaning forward to take my hands in hers, not even caring that I'm obviously drunk. “I'm so sorry to have to tell you this.”

Somehow, I'm able to focus long enough to look in her eyes, and that's when I know. This isn't about me at all.

“No,” I say, shaking my head, suddenly way too sober.

“It's Caleb,” Mom says. “His parents just called.”

“No, no, no.”

“He went into emergency surgery last night,” Dad says. “He didn't make it.”

I hear a sob that must be mine, like all the air being sucked out of me, but it sounds far away, as if I am somewhere outside this room, listening through the heating vents. Who are these people? What are they saying? Who is that girl who looks like me? Why is her heart so broken?

“I wish you'd told us he was doing so poorly,” Mom says. “We had no idea. He seemed so healthy the last time we saw him.”

“I have to go,” I say, standing up. I must get away from this news and this house and these sad faces. Anger, I would know what to do with. Anger, I can deflect with my own. But sadness and loss, how am I supposed to fight with that?

“Sweetheart, wait,” Mom says. “Let's call a truce for now, okay? We're here to support you through this.”

She doesn't get it. I don't deserve their support. I don't deserve their comfort. I don't deserve anybody's comfort. It's my fault I was such a lousy friend to Caleb, that I wasn't there for him at the end. Stella never would have done that. She never would have abandoned him. I've failed her. I've failed them both.

“I need to be alone,” I say. They don't try to stop me as I walk out the door.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

Dear Stella,

I'm sitting in a cab I'm going to pay for with my mom's stolen credit card and I just bought $80 worth of pills from a drug dealer at People's Park, so I guess I'm a real outlaw now. It seems like it should feel at least a little fun being bad, but all it feels like is necessary, a chore, like homework or washing the dishes. Except there's no shame in dishes. The dishes aren't dangerous.

I walked up to the seediest-looking guy I could find, complete with multiple face piercings and neck tattoos, and said, “I'm looking for Norcos.” No “Hello.” No “How are you?” It was so easy. Too easy. He only had Oxy, so I figured, what the hell? If I'm going to be a fuck-up I might as well go all the way, right? I took one pill just to see how strong it is because I have no idea what my tolerance is anymore, but I have an envelope with a bunch more burning a hole in my pocket. It should only be a few minutes until it kicks in.

I'm not really sure what I'm waiting for. Why don't I just take them all and get it over with? Go out in style. I'm sure you're rolling your eyes right now. I can hear you saying, “Come on, Evie. Suicide is so cliché.” But really, Stella, what's more cliché than cancer?

The thing is, everything that matters is gone. You're gone. Caleb's gone. Will and Kasey are gone, in their way. The Marcus I thought I loved is gone. What else is there for me to do? Finish a bunch of homework over the summer so I can do senior year with a bunch of people I don't like? Barely graduate, then go to a crappy college my parents can't even afford, major in something I don't even care about, start a career I hate? Marry some guy I don't love, have some kids I don't want?

Do you think this cab driver is happy? He spends all day and night in this car that smells like puke and air freshener, driving around drunk people like me. He was probably a neurosurgeon where he comes from, but he had to flee his country because people are all ultimately assholes and will always find ways to start wars and kill each other and run innocent people away.

No matter what I do, I'm going to die alone. Even surrounded by people, everyone dies alone. Then what? Then nothing. Then life is over and it wasn't worth anything.

I think I'm going to take a few more of these pills.

Stella, I miss you so much it makes me sick. Remember when you said everything cool has happened already? I know you were just talking about music, but it feels like everything good in my life has happened already too. The best I can wish for is to spend the rest of my life thinking about the past. And what kind of a life is that, wishing the whole time it could go backward?

But maybe it doesn't have to be that way. Maybe I don't have to waste all that time. Maybe I can be with you sooner. Maybe I can be with you now.

Love,
                  

Evie
                    

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

I GUESS THIS IS WHAT PEOPLE WOULD CALL A BEAUTIFUL day. The sun is shining and the air is warm. But this beach is still covered in dog shit and garbage. There's the dead seagull from—When was I here last? Yesterday? This morning? I can't even keep track of my own life anymore. The bird is slightly more decayed. Flies have picked it apart a little more. Soon it will be just brittle bones that will sink into the sand.

I wish it was night. I wish it was dark. All this sun and cheerful blue sky and puffy white clouds feel like an insult. I sit on a piece of driftwood and take my boots off. I bury my feet in the sand, feel it cool between my toes. The sensation sends a shiver up my legs, into the parts of me that are broken, the sick bone removed and replaced with something stronger, indestructible. I wiggle my toes and feel this texture created by time, by years of water lapping against stone, softening it, breaking it down to tiny, crystalline pieces. Even the hardest things are porous. Even the sharpest rock can be smoothed by wind and waves. Fire makes rock, but it is the other elements that shape it.

The world shifts and I realize the pills I took a half hour ago have finally kicked in. Relief spreads through me and I am suddenly warm. Suddenly life doesn't feel like such a huge disaster. I missed this. God, how I missed this. My despair fizzles into nothingness and evaporates into thin air. I am free. I am boundless.

I look at my toes and wonder how they're even moving, how the signal from my brain can make it all the way down my body. How is this even possible, when that seagull is decaying, eaten by tiny bacteria; when Caleb and Stella were so big, so strong, yet lost their wars against microscopic viruses? How is it possible that I am here and they are not?

All of this time, all of these days of self-destruction since I've been out of the hospital, I don't even know what I've been fighting. God, fate, science—whatever I choose to call it doesn't change the fact that I survived and they didn't. No one chose for that to happen. No person decided whose life was worth saving and whose life was expendable. I don't know who I'm angry with. I don't know who to blame. I don't know who to rage against for this injustice.

The answer is nobody. It is not for me to know why certain people are taken and some survive, and my destroying myself is never going to answer that question. My being gone will never bring them back. I can let myself be consumed by fury, by loss, but the waves will keep dancing against the rocks and turning them into sand, life will keep changing forms, and I am powerless to stop any of it.