The Half Life of Molly Pierce (9 page)

“Molly,” he says. He sounds relieved. “It is you, isn’t it?”

“Who else would it be?” I ask.

“Right, of course.”

A silence. I’m supposed to say something. With Alex, you always have to talk first.

“Guess you were right.”

“It’s not about being right.”

“Maybe, sure. But you were.”

“I suppose I was.”

“I guess we’ll try again sometime.”

“Of course.”

“You think I have to, what? Figure it out by myself?”

“If you’re starting to remember, it might not be so far off.”

“Sure, right.”

Another silence.

I have a headache. It’s turning into a migraine. I can feel it pulling at the edges of my eyes. Pulling at the surface of my skin. Sucking everything inward.

“Well,” I say. “See you Wednesday.”

“You’re okay?”

Are you suicidal, Molly?

Are you thinking of hurting yourself, Molly?

Should we put you back on medication, Molly?

“I’m fine, Alex. Thanks.”

“Night or day,” he says.

Night or day.

That’s what he said the first time he gave me his phone number.

“Anytime,” he said. “You can call me anytime, night or day.”

“I remember.”

I hang up the phone.

My head hurts.

In the kitchen, Hazel waits with a small pill and a glass of water.

“Here, Molly, take it,” she insists, pushing it toward me.

I swallow it without question, washing it down with a sip of tepid water.

“Where did you get this?” I ask. My parents keep all the medication under lock and key. If they’re not home, I have to wait for them.

“They gave me one,” she says. “For emergencies.”

If you threaten suicide, your parents will give your migraine medication to your thirteen-year-old sister.

“Is it over?” I ask.

“It was the brother,” Hazel says, “the whole time.”

“Huh.”

“Are you tired? Do you want to watch another? They’re doing a marathon.”

“I think I’m tired. My head hurts. I’m going to lie down.”

Hazel follows me upstairs. I wash my face and brush my teeth. I’m already wearing pajamas; I don’t remember putting them on.

In my room, Hazel sits on the edge of the bed. I crawl around her and she fixes the covers around my chin, like a smaller, younger version of our mother. She gets up and pulls the blinds shut and then she turns my light off and then she sits back down next to me.

“Feel better?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Getting better.”

She is as quiet as a cat. Her breathing is completely inaudible.

She twines one of her fingers around one of my fingers, and I squeeze weakly. This is code for something. We’ve never talked about it and we don’t know what it means but it’s a code. I move over on the bed and she lies down next to me and curls up with her nose just pressing into my neck. I can feel the pulse in my neck magnified by the pressure of Hazel’s nose and I have such a strong sense of déjà vu. It comes from nowhere. Hazel with her nose against my neck. It feels so specific.

“What’s wrong with her?” Clancy says from the doorway.

“She has a headache,” Hazel says.

“I have a pill. Do you need a pill, Molly?”

When you threaten suicide, your parents will also entrust your migraine medication to your younger brother.

“I gave her mine,” Hazel says.

“Hey—who was it? The creepy friend?” Clancy asks.

“The brother,” Hazel says.

“The brother?”

“I didn’t see it coming,” she says.

“I’ll be downstairs. Call me if you need anything.”

He closes the door.

Hazel rolls over onto her back. We stare up at the ceiling together. It’s too dark to see anything but our shoulders touch and I can tell her eyes are open.

“Did I know?” I ask her.

“Know what?” she says.

“Did I think it was the brother?” Usually I’m good at guessing.

“Oh,” she says, laughing. “Yes. Yes, you knew it was the brother. Should have listened to you.”

“Nailed it,” I say. Hazel laughs more. She finds my hand underneath the blanket and squeezes it.

“Molly,” she says, “I’m so happy you’re here.”

“You’re so weird,” I answer.

When I wake up in the middle of the night, she is gone.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

I
wake up late the next morning. Someone has turned my alarm off, left me a glass of water on my bedside table with another small pill beside it. There’s a yellow mixing bowl on the carpet next to the bed. I’m glad I didn’t need to use it.

I look at the clock. Halfway through second period.

My head feels normal again, so I skip the pill and pull myself out of bed. I could get away with going back to sleep, but I’m supposed to meet Sayer later. My parents won’t let me out of the house if I don’t go to school.

I shower. My mother’s left a note on the counter downstairs. Text her if I need anything. Let her know if I decide to stay home or go to school. She’s left my car keys next to the note. I have a bowl of cereal and grab a jacket. I can tell it’s cold outside. There’s a breeze and the sky is blue and the clouds are moving fast.

My backpack is by the door and I find myself hoping that sometime during the hours I can’t remember, I managed to do some homework.

Not that it matters now.

My teachers are used to half-completed assignments from me.

They sort of accept it, at this point.

I used to be at the top of my class. Sophomore year into the beginning of junior, I was a straight-A student.

And then I sort of lost it.

In the car, I keep the radio down. I check my phone at a stop sign, finding messages from Erie, from Hazel and my mom, and one from Sayer.

From Sayer.

My heart does some weird skipping motion in my chest and I toss the phone back on the passenger seat, continue through the intersection after what I’m sure is an abnormally long stop.

I didn’t even read it. I’m sure the only reason he would have texted me so early is to cancel whatever tentative plans we had. Now, of course, I’m wondering if we even had plans. Did I make the entire thing up? That seems like something I might do.

But it happened, right?

I know it happened.

It must have happened.

I don’t look at my phone again until I’m parked in the school lot.

The text from Erie asks me where the hell I am. From my mom and Hazel, it’s concern.

From Sayer . . .

It’s a promise to pick me up at four.

We’ll go for a drive, he says.

Have dinner, if I want to.

His number, finally, so I can put him in my contacts list. So he won’t show up as private anymore.

My heart beats a steady staccato against my chest as I gather up my things and walk to school. I go to the principal’s office, let them know I’m here, and instead of being upset, the secretary seems practically overjoyed to see me.

“Ms. Pierce,” she croons in her heavy, syrupy voice. I can never remember her name. “Your mother called. Told me you might not make it at all. I’m so happy to see you’re feeling better.”

Yes.

That’s me.

Feeling Better: The Story of Molly Pierce
.

I laugh at my own joke (it’s an old one between Clancy and me: thinking up titles for our future autobiographies). The secretary beams, clearly thinking she’s delighted me.

That’s me, too.

Delighted.

“Guess I’ll just go, then,” I say, ducking out the door, “to class, you know.”

She waves me off and I make my way to my locker. I text my mom, let her know I’m here. I text Hazel. Tell her I’m fine. I text Erie, even though I’ll see her soon.

It takes me a minute to remember what day it is, to figure out what class falls when in our six-day rotational schedule. I’ve missed the first ten minutes of Spanish, and I walk there as quickly as I can.

Luckily my Spanish teacher seems not to care much about my tardiness, as I’ve just realized the nameless secretary forgot to give me a note excusing my considerable lateness.

I slide into my usual seat next to Erie. Back row. She stares at me.

Luka isn’t in this class. He took French.

I take a long time getting my book out, pulling my notebook from my bag, finding the right pen. Erie never takes her eyes off me.

She rips a piece of paper from her notebook, scribbles something on it, tosses it boldly on my desk.

The Spanish teacher is a hundred years old and is always forgetting where she left her glasses.

Where the hell were you?
her note demands.

Overslept. Migraine. I texted you.

I toss the note back and she seems slightly mollified by this answer. She doesn’t grab her phone to check, which is nice. We go back and forth like this for most of the class.

Still meeting Sayer today?

Four o’clock.

Plans?

Drive around. Maybe dinner. He’s picking me up.

She considers her response for a while; when I look at her, she’s lost outside the window somewhere, chewing on her pen cap.

Finally, she writes something. Throws it at me.

Carbon’s getting on my nerves
.

Is that really his name, though? I mean—really?

It’s his name
.

Getting on your nerves how?

Like, making up poems about me. Leaving them in my locker
.

That sounds sweet.

He wrote a sestina about my hair
.

How does one even do that?

Every word—you know, every repeating word—it was just “hair.”

That’s not how you write a sestina.

That is what I said
.

Huh.

I actually write that. I write
huh
and then I throw the note back at her, and it’s almost the end of the period and she doesn’t respond. She crumples up the paper and tosses it into her backpack.

“Luka’s asked out three girls so far,” Erie says a few minutes later. We’re at her locker. She’s digging for a piece of gum. “At least—that’s what he says.”

“Three girls before lunch. Impressive.”

“They all said no.”

“That’s not true,” Luka says, materializing behind us. “One of them said
definitely
no. The others were gentler. Sort of like—
well, no, not at this venture
.”

“Not at this venture?” Erie says.

“Slightly less impressive,” I revise.

“Yeah, well. This is your fault,” Luka says, shrugging.

“I heard girls like when you write them sestinas,” I say. “Try that.”

“What’s a sestina?” Luka asks.

Erie emerges from her locker with a single piece of gum. After some deliberation, she tears it into three pieces and hands them over.

“I do have nice hair,” she says.

“I’ve never noticed,” Luka says. He takes the gum and pushes past us.

Erie is momentarily stunned, so I shut her locker for her and take her arm and lead her down the hall after him.

“Do you think he—”

“No, Erie, I do not think he meant it,” I say.

“Well, why do you think he—”

“I don’t know—because he’s Luka.”

“But he didn’t have to—”

“Oh, look,” I say, pointing. “Carbon.”

We all have study hall together next, and although Luka was ahead of us, he somehow manages to get there five minutes late. He plants himself next to me. Erie and Carbon have left a seat empty on my other side. They’re whispering about something.

“What about her hair?” Luka whispers loudly, prompting an irritated look from Mr. Stone, who’s monitoring what is supposed to be our silent study hall.

“Shh,” I say.

Luka shrugs and settles back into his seat. He takes out a book and proceeds to not read it.

“What do you think about it, though?” he asks, nudging my side with his elbow and pointing over to where Erie and Carbon are sitting.

“What about it?”

“I give it, what—a week? Another week?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what do you think about him?”

“I don’t know.”

“And do you even think that’s his real name?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hey, you’re getting really great at conversations. Been practicing?”

“Sorry, I just—is it a little hot in here? I feel sort of hot.”

I feel weird. It’s like the auditorium is falling out of focus, like my eyes aren’t working properly.

“I’m not hot,” Luka says. “Still seeing Sayer tonight?”

“Yup.”

“Plans?”

“Dunno. He said we’d drive around.”

“Sounds fun.” A pause. “He just seems a little weird, right? A little off?”

“He’s not off, Jesus—Luka, his brother just died.”

“What? He has a brother?”

“What?”

“What? Oh, are you talking about . . . No, I was talking about him. Carbon. I mean, it can’t be his name—right? It’s not his name.”

“Carbon? What? I don’t know. Why do you even—”

“It’s just, you know, it’s not even a
real
name. It’s an element. Is it an element? Is carbon an element?”

“I don’t know, I think it’s a chemical.”

“Right, a chemical element. And not a name.”

“Whatever, what do you care?”

“I don’t,” he says. “Hey, do you want some water? I’m going to the bathroom. I’ll get you some water. You look a little weird. Do you feel weird?”

“I just feel hot,” I say.

Hot and blurry. Hot and indistinct, like the edges of my eyeballs are wiggling and causing the room to warp out of sync.

“Water will help,” Luka says, using my shoulder to heave himself up. “I’ll get you some water.”

I try and mumble thanks but Luka has vanished and I am somewhere I don’t recognize.

I’m with Sayer.

It’s weeks ago.

I remember.

I know Sayer.

I’m with Sayer and he leans in and kisses me and I kiss him back.

And then he tells me he loves me and I tell him I love him back.

Sayer.

He lied to me.

I know him.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers