We All Looked Up (23 page)

He jogged off toward the hole in the fence before she could berate him any further. And what else could she do but follow? The hole had been cut so low to the ground that she had to get down on her hands and knees to pass through it. The bite of gravel, then a patch of soft dirt, and finally the cracked cement of a derelict runway. A small commemorative plaque was mounted just on the other side of the gate:
SAND POINT AIRFIELD WAS THE ENDPOINT OF THE FIRST AERIAL CIRCUMNAVIGATION OF THE WORLD IN 1924.
Just another little piece of utterly irrelevant history, aspiring to permanence, doomed to oblivion. The end of the world revealed the futility of all commemorative plaques.

Everyone was running for the only building on the lot that had any lights on inside. It was some kind of barracks, but it looked less militaristic than academic—like something off the campus of a liberal arts college on the East Coast. Anita moved with the crowd, expecting sirens to switch on at any moment, followed by a hail of machine-gun fire, but they made it to the foot of the building without incident. The doors, unsurprisingly, were all locked.

Even if they'd lost Sunny and her friends, the people who remained seemed galvanized by the change of scenery, chanting and waving their signs with newfound enthusiasm. Golden's crew rolled a few kegs of beer across the tarmac, and they quickly succeeded in transferring the majority of the contents into their bodies. More than once, Anita plucked a cup out of Andy's or Peter's hand, but before long, the two boys were as red-faced and muddled as the rest of the protesters.

Decorum didn't last long. The nearly full moon was shining down like the bright, pupilless eye of some phlegmatic god when the first stone was thrown. The crowd was desperate for action, and pretty soon everyone had joined in, taking drunken aim at the barracks with whatever was close at hand. Anita saw Andy pull the commemorative plaque out of the ground and toss it onto the roof, where it stuck in a rain gutter. Within fifteen minutes, half the glass in the barracks had been knocked out. Not long after, a plump man in uniform appeared in the exclamatory comic-book bubble of a broken window on the second floor. The hailstorm momentarily ceased.

“How do y'all see this ending?” he called down.

Golden, standing on the steps of the barracks, had elected himself negotiator. “You let everybody out, including yourselves.”

The man disappeared from the window for a long time, so long that Anita began to worry he was planning some kind of assault. But then, just as the crowd was getting restless, he reappeared. “You don't touch any of my men and women.”

“Of course,” Golden said.

“Your word.”

“You've got it.”

Like that, it was over. Within minutes, the tarmac filled with hundreds of kids, all of them dressed in pale-blue jumpsuits. Interspersed among them were a few soldiers in full camouflage, hurrying through the crowd toward the front gate. Anita saw Corporal Hastings pushed down onto all fours, but he only stood up again and kept walking. Parents called out the names of their children and reunited tearfully. The rain had begun to fall again, and as they were all too buzzed on their triumph to want to disperse just yet, the celebration moved indoors.

Anita had lost track of Andy and Peter in the hubbub, so she followed the crowd into the barracks. There was still power inside, and it was blissfully warm. They ended up in what looked to be the central dormitory. Everyone was milling around, looking for loved ones. When Anita finally found Andy, he hugged her tightly.

“Can you believe it?” he said. “We did it!”

“I guess so.”

She could feel his heart beating so fast it was almost a flutter. He started to pull away, but then they were pushed back together by a shift in the crowd. For a moment, she thought he was about to kiss her.

“So what do you think I should say?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“When I see Eliza. I mean, should I take credit for this whole rescue thing, or should I play it cool?”

Anita made sure that no sign of disappointment appeared on her face. “Whatever you want.”

“Be less helpful. Come on, Anita. This is serious. It's game time!”

“Isn't everybody going home?”

“No way! Golden brought a fucking party with him, yo. Tonight, the thrill of freedom meets a shit-ton of hard liquor. If I ever had a shot with Eliza, this is it.”

Somebody switched off the overhead lights, earning a chorus of lascivious yowls from the crowd. A moment later some kind of huge curtain fell away from the windows, letting in a few pale strands of moonlight.

Andy cracked his knuckles and hopped up and down like a boxer waiting for the bell. “Okay. I'm gonna have one or two or six more drinks, then I'm gonna make my move. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck.”

And as Anita watched Andy skip across the room, she finally felt it, rumbling like a bone-deep hunger she'd been ignoring for weeks. A sensation somehow totally new and totally familiar at once. It was the glistening green blossom of jealousy, and deeper down, beyond the place where the stem met the dirt, the parched and greedy roots: love.

E
liza

IN THE SPACE OF FIFTEEN
minutes, the dormitory had been completely transformed. The place was still reverberatingly loud—echoes lingering in the corners of the room like cobwebs—and nothing could totally disperse the horrifying bouquet of a few hundred teenage boys packed into a small space. But by taping a couple of dozen flashlights to the walls (covered with sheets to diffuse the light), setting up a halfway decent DJ with a halfway decent PA system, and pushing the bunk beds back from the center of the room to create a dance floor, Golden's crew had actually managed to give the place a bit of atmosphere. An overturned bed frame served as a makeshift bar, where a great leaning tower of red plastic Solo cups was pared down one layer at a time as volunteer bartenders prepared drinks with a consummate ignorance of mixology. A stranger handed Eliza a brimming cup of tequila.

The music twitched like a tweaker coming down, thrummed like a subconscious thought. People began to dance, but Eliza stayed close to the bar, where there was a bit more light. She watched as Anita snuck up behind the “bartenders” and disappeared with a whole ­bottle of bourbon (and wasn't that a little bit out of character?). Soon after, Andy showed up to wait in line for his own drink. Eliza almost stepped out of the shadows to say hello, but some animal instinct told her to hang back. There was a wildness in his eyes that she didn't trust.

The tequila was already beginning to work its way around her body—loosening the muscles and lubricating the joints. She let herself sink down into the strange mixture of numbness and sensuousness that alcohol always brought on, and felt a familiar craving begin to assert itself, throbbing somewhere in the deepest, darkest crevices of her body. It was the same craving that occasionally led her out to the Crocodile to sit alone at the bar, waiting for one of the moony hormone synthesizers always revolving around her to break loose from his orbit and buy her a drink. The need to see some boy lose his shit because he wanted her so bad. Her sudden freedom was every bit as intoxicating as the liquor, and though she could pretend she was just wandering around, checking the scene, her eyes had an agenda. She knew she should get home to see her dad as soon as possible, but she couldn't leave yet. Not before she'd found Peter.

Of course, it was possible that he wasn't even here. Maybe someone else had worked out the location of the detention center and managed this whole rescue operation. Only that would have been such a gigantic failure on the part of the universe, Eliza refused to even consider it.

It was another two drinks and forty-five minutes before she spotted him, engaged in what looked to be a pretty violent argument with his sister. Eliza couldn't hear most of what they were saying, but it seemed like Peter was trying to get Misery to leave the party, and Misery was refusing. She grudgingly surrendered her beer (“God, it's not like I've never had a drink before!”), then darted off toward the dance floor. Peter moved to follow her, but Eliza caught hold of his elbow.

And then there they were, together at last. The darkness of the dormitory brought back memories of that day in the photo lab. She could remember the feel of his mouth on hers—rough with stubble but clean, clean as the good, clean boy that he was.

“Peter,” she said. His flesh pulsed warm against her palm.

“I need to get my sister,” he said, pulling himself out of her grasp and beginning to walk away.

“What's the rush?”

“Golden's here, for one thing. And Bobo. I just wanna get home with Miz, okay?”

Eliza followed him down a narrow path between two rows of bunk beds, past a couple talking in hushed tones in a bottom bunk.

“Peter, just wait up a second!”

He turned on her so suddenly that she flinched. “Why should I wait? What else could you want from me? I got you out, okay? Isn't that enough?”

They were alone now, hemmed in by beds and everything that beds stood for. Eliza had no idea why Peter was so angry, but she did know there was one way to make it all better. Grabbing him by the shoulders, she shoved him back against the frame of a bunk bed with the rough confidence of someone who'd never taken no for an answer, who'd never needed to. Peter dropped the bottle of beer, and the sound of it crashing down coincided with the crash of her lips against his. She slid her tongue along the tiles of his teeth, the taste of him weirdly familiar, even though it had been more than a year since the last time they'd kissed. She waited for his arms around her body, the pull tight and the tilt of the head, and then they would fall inward onto the bed and finish what they'd started in that darkroom. Only his arms weren't pulling her in; they were pushing her away.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

“What's wrong with
you
?” he spat back. “You think Ardor means you can treat people however you want?”

“No. I don't even know what you're talking about.”

“Have you been with someone else, Eliza? Since we found out about Ardor?”

“I'm not sure I—” Her words caught in her throat. How could Peter know about the boy she'd hooked up with in the detention center? Or had he just guessed? Either way, he had no right to judge her for it. She'd been lonely and terrified, isolated from her dad and her home and what few friends she had, as the world outside kept spinning madly toward destruction. And so she'd allowed herself a moment of intimacy with a stranger. So what? Eliza felt herself ballooning with a sense of righteous anger.

“You're one to talk. You had a girlfriend when we first kissed.”

“I know. And that was a mistake. But I broke up with Stacy a
month
ago—for you!”

“Then why didn't you say something? You had a million chances to talk to me and you never did! I'm the one who ended up writing to you!”

Peter slid out of her arms. “Well, it doesn't matter now, does it? Andy's my friend. I wouldn't go behind his back.”

Eliza shook her head, confused. “Wait . . . this is about Andy?”

“Of course it is.”

“But that's stupid. I don't care about Andy!”

Peter snorted. “I don't think you care about anyone.”

He disappeared into the gloom between the rows of beds, a gloom that seemed to grow deeper and darker as Eliza stared at it, as if every single shadow on Earth were converging on this very spot, blotting out the light layer by layer, like shovelfuls of dirt tossed onto a coffin. They came from him and they came from her and they came from way out in space and they came from everything that drew breath. She gulped down the rest of her drink, then went back for another.

In the lot behind the barracks, Eliza walked the flaking paint line of an old basketball court as if it were a sobriety test—one that she was failing miserably. A few other people were outside, but they all stood under the eaves of the building, out of the rain, smoking. All she could see of them was the occasional golden flare of a cigarette. It was only drizzling now, but in the distance, lightning built huge electric blue sculptures in the sky, ephemeral trees that nevertheless left tenacious marks on the retina. Her skin didn't feel like skin, but an insensible little force field around her body. If the rain fell any harder, it would melt her down like the Wicked Witch of the West. She wondered what her death would be like. Would it happen fast—a lightning flash of pain and then nothing? Or would it be slow, choking on dust or starving to death under some collapsed building? She felt dead already; Peter had blown a hole in her pride and her faith and her hope all at once. What had gone wrong? Hadn't he come looking for her at Cal Anderson Park and held her hand tight as a mousetrap as they ran through the haze of tear gas? And why had he brought up Andy? Andy was just a friend. And as for that other boy, sure, they'd hooked up. But it wasn't as if she had a boyfriend or something. She hadn't had a boyfriend since . . .

I haven't ever had a boyfriend
, she realized, followed by an even more terrible revelation:
And now I never will.

There were a lot of countdowns that had haunted her over the past few weeks, from the totally mundane (how many breaths she had left to breathe) to the whimsically specific (how many more times she'd get to watch
Pitch Perfect
), but this was definitely the most depressing statistic of all: Between now and the end of the world, there would be no one else who would love her, and no one else she would love.

Thunder rolled across the flat expanse of Magnuson Park. Any second now, the real rain would come. That was Seattle all over. A goddamn perpetual drizzle, with occasional breaks for pouring rain. Just like life. Perpetual shit, with occasional breaks for pouring shit. And then, at the end, a big rock lands on your head.

She walked through a cloud of cigarette smoke and back into the barracks, then followed a hallway into some derelict dormitory, all rusted bed frames and moth-eaten mattresses. The room, like any place where lots of people used to be and now nobody ever was, felt haunted. Eliza would have been afraid, only she was floating a couple of feet behind her body now, a ghost herself, watching some faraway Eliza open a random door and walk into the darkness beyond, like that character in a horror film that you want to yell at—
Don't go in there, you dumbass!
She banged her knee against a table, then hurt herself even worse kicking the thing in anger. The heavy dubstep beats from the party melted away, exposing the quiet plinking of a distant piano. At first she thought the music was only in her head, but it got louder as she moved deeper into the room. Another door, and on the other side, the music expanded into presence. There was a bit of light from the red glow of an exit sign above the door. It bloodied the edges of a foosball table, a pool table, a couple of old pinball machines, and all the way in the corner, someone seated at an upright piano.

Eliza tiptoed across the room and landed softly on a scratchy couch. Her eyes began to adjust, just enough for her to make out Andy's slouched shape on the piano bench, tapping out a half-­familiar tune—one of the songs he and Anita were always practicing, preparing for the Party at the End of the World. As if that were really going to happen.

When he stopped playing, Eliza gave a single loud clap. Andy's silhouette jumped.

“What the hell?”

She laughed. “Encore, maestro!”

“Eliza? You scared the shit out of me.”

“And hello to you, too.”

She stood up, almost tripping over the leg of her chair—even worse, almost spilling her drink. She gave a little bow in celebration of her superior balancing skills, then stepped gingerly across the room. The floor was a precarious log afloat in a rushing river.

“What are you doing in here?” she asked.

“I couldn't find you,” he said. His voice was a drunken lilt. “I figured you were off somewhere with Peter.”

“Nope. I'm right here, with you.”

“So you are. Feel like a duet?”

She bent down to place her glass behind the piano bench.

“Little old me? Nope, nope. It's all you. Let's hear one of your favorites.”

“All right. I'll hit you with some Flaming Lips.”

Andy began to sing, his sweet little voice floating on top of the heavy piano like the scoop of vanilla ice cream on a root beer float:
“‘Do you realize that you have the most beautiful face?'”
After the first verse, Eliza sat down next to him, letting her hip touch his. If he felt it, he didn't give any sign. But she wanted a reaction; the urge was still there, even stronger now with the exaggerating effect of the alcohol and the bitter taste of rejection in the back of her throat. As he started into another chorus, she let her left hand find the small of his back, ascend the ladder of his spine, and come to rest gently on the knob at the base of his skull. She watched her index finger wrap itself around a lock of his hair, spinning it like a strand of bubble gum. He choked on a syllable, choked on desire, though his hands kept playing the accompaniment.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Doesn't seem like nothing.”

“Something, nothing. What's the difference?”

“I can't sing while you're doing that.”

“So don't sing.”

When he hesitated, she turned his head to face her and kissed him with all the rage and appetite she had in her, finally putting a stop to the music. His hands slid up her hips, found the zipper of her jumpsuit, and pulled. Cold air on her skin, then his warm fingers, tingling, as if they were especially alive after playing. She pulled his hoodie and T-shirt up and over his head, scratched hard down his chest, felt at his jeans for the sign that she was wanted. He kissed her neck as he fumbled with the clasp of her bra.

Eliza allowed her eyes to drift open. Over Andy's shoulder, she could see where his hoodie had landed, in a narrow rectangle of gray light in the middle of the room. Strange—it had been completely dark in here a second ago. And now the silver line was stretching out, as if someone were taking a highlighter and underlining the floor. The line became a wedge, reaching toward them like a pointing finger. The shape of a person in the doorway, then darkness again.