Текст книги "Revived"

Автор книги: Cat Patrick

Соавторы: Cat Patrick
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

twenty-nine

In the middle of the next night, something awakens me. I look at the clock: It’s 2:38 AM. Unsure about what pulled me from sleep, I listen to the sounds of the darkness. A tree brushes against the glass outside my window; car tires squeal in the distance. I listen for Mason’s snores before I remember he’s not home.

I feel alone, but I’m not afraid. I relax and listen to the world until the creaks of the house and the barks of the dog next door blend into the background and I manage to fall back to sleep.

When I wake again, my brain is muddy. It’s daytime, but the world is too still. The sun is on the wrong side of the house. But also, there’s something else.

Somehow, in the core of me, I know.

I reach for the phone next to me. I text Matt to confirm.

It happened in the middle of the night.

Audrey is dead.

thirty

Mason’s on his way back from Seattle, again, but for now I’m by myself. Honestly, I feel like I have been this whole time. If James checked up on me, he did it invisibly. Guess that makes him good at his job.

I brush my teeth, think about the fact that Audrey is dead, and throw up. Then I brush my teeth again. I stare at myself in the mirror for a long while, not really seeing. I start to feel trapped in my own skin, like I need to move or I’ll go crazy. I rush out of the house, not knowing where I’m going. I walk a few blocks, then text Matt.

Daisy: Where are you?

Matt: Home.

Daisy: I’m coming over.

No answer.

Maybe I called a cab; maybe it just showed up. I don’t really remember. I give the driver the McKeans’ address and remind myself to breathe the whole way there. I look down at my lap and realize that I’m wearing a pair of Audrey’s jeans. I fold forward and sob silently for the duration of the ride. Lucky for him, the taxi driver doesn’t look at me or ask whether I’m all right.

The Mini sits in front of the McKeans’ house, smiling and waiting to beep beep around town with Audrey at the wheel. I want to kick the car or drag my key through the paint: It’s too happy.

Matt answers my knock but says nothing. He opens the door wider so I can come in, and I do, even though I’m pretty sure he doesn’t really want me to. I follow him to his bedroom, not caring who’s home or who minds.

“I don’t know why you’re here,” he says when we both sit down on his rumpled bed. This is the first time I’ve ever been in his room.

“I didn’t want to be alone,” I say honestly. I have no filter anymore. “And I wanted to know what happened. Did you do it?”

“Yes.” He’s looking across the room with flat, emotionless eyes.

“And?”

“And nothing,” he says. “I injected it into her IV less than five minutes after they called time of death.”

“And?” I ask again, as gently as I can. Matt’s head snaps in my direction so quickly that it makes me jump.

“And what, Daisy?” he hisses. “What the hell do you think? Does it look like Audrey’s sitting next to me right now?”

His hand is gripping the bedspread like he’s afraid he’ll fall off.

“I’m sorry I came,” I say, standing. “And I’m sorry it didn’t work.”

“I’m sure you are,” Matt mutters. My blood boils and all I want to do is scream at him. Tell him that I loved his sister, that I love him. Shake him and say maybe he did it wrong. Wrap my arms around him and lie on his bed and cry with him.

Instead, I leave.

An hour later, Matt’s on my doorstep. He’s sweaty and I wonder if it’s possible that he ran all the way here. I let him in and we go upstairs to my room. It’s exactly the same as when I went to his house, but in reverse.

Except it isn’t.

We don’t say a word to each other. I walk into my room first and he follows; halfway across the floor, he catches my hand and spins me around. He grabs my face in his hands and kisses me, unsure for a moment, then hard, aggressive, but nothing I don’t want him to do. I feel like I’m drawing out his pain like venom from a rattlesnake bite and, for a few minutes, it makes me forget my own misery.

We fall onto my bed and hold each other so tightly that our hands can’t really move to explore body parts or anything. Besides, this isn’t about moving through the bases. This is so much more than that.

Clothes are somehow undone, and we’re so close to…

Matt abruptly pushes back and stands. His jeans are unbuttoned and his T-shirt is rumpled and stretched out. His hair is wild, covering his left eye completely. I can only see the tears welling up in his right.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says with a voice so pained it burns me. “I don’t know whether to hold you or hate you.”

I’m stunned into silence. Matt turns toward the door. “I have to go.”

And he leaves like that, disheveled, but I don’t say anything. He might run into Mason on the way out—who knows when he’ll be back—or scare mothers pushing babies on the street. But I don’t care what Matt looks like right now, and I know he doesn’t, either. Because when someone dies—dies for real—things like how you look don’t matter anymore.

In fact, what no one ever told me is that nothing does.

thirty-one

I stare at the ceiling of my bedroom, thinking or not thinking, floating or just lying there. I might have been at Matt’s three days or three hours ago: Time passes in odd increments. The lamp on my nightstand buzzes so loudly I want to smash it but I’m numb all over. My arms are glued to the bed. I look at my phone and register the time; the instant I look away, it’s gone from my memory.

Mason’s back.

Cassie’s back.

Someone brings me food that I don’t eat. Instead, I examine it like a fossil, drawing conclusions from the plate’s contents. The dish contains breakfast: It must be morning. There are blueberry pancakes: Mason’s concerned. There’s a vitamin on the tray: He’s really concerned.

The second I start to feel amused by my archaeological approach, I remember that Audrey is dead. I’m sitting here counting the number of grapes on my plate like tree rings and Audrey will never eat breakfast again.

Suddenly blueberry pancakes are an insult.

I shove the tray to the end of my bed. I roll onto my side and clutch my torso and curl into the fetal position because it’s too much. She’s not going to pick me up for school. I’m not going to meet her for lunch. She’s not going to tease me about liking her brother or about my taste in music, or lend me clothes or talk about Bear or Jake or anyone else.

She’s dead.

My phone rings; it’s Megan’s tone. I don’t answer it. I don’t even look at it. Anger rolls through me: I shouldn’t have been in Seattle when Audrey was dying. I should have known something was up. I should have stayed.

My chest caves in; my heart is crushed. I try to psychically ask Matt to come over and lie next to me. But not to kiss me or anything. Just to lie here. I imagine him staring into my eyes like in Kansas City, but all I can see are his tears for his dead sister.

I cover my head with my pillow, but the thoughts are still there.

I wonder if they’ll ever go away.

I stay in bed until nighttime, then wander the house in the dark. For hours, I stare out the living room window at the desolate street, hoping to see Audrey’s ghost there, waving at me. I retreat into my sour, stale room before anyone wakes up in the morning. I listen to showers running. To breakfast being made. My phone buzzes so many times that I turn it off. Mason brings more food; the hunger strike continues.

“You need to get up,” Mason says. He walks across the room and throws open the curtains. He opens the window and the fresh outside air stings my nostrils.

“No,” I mutter.

“You’ll feel better after a shower,” he says.

I laugh bitterly. As if a shower could wash away the pain of losing Audrey. “Not likely.”

“Your choice,” Mason says, moving to the door again. “We’re leaving for her funeral in an hour.”

Of course, I get up.

I stand on shaky legs like a newborn fawn and hobble across the room. I can feel the lack of fuel in my body, but the thought of food makes me want to hurl. I grab clean underwear from the dresser then check my phone, which is charging on the desk. There are several missed calls from Megan; there’s a text waiting from Matt:

Matt: I’m sorry.

Just two words, and yet, they are monumental.

They give me enough kick to move.

I shower and dry my hair, then pin back my curls in the front. I stare at my blue eyes in the mirror for a long time, searching for recognition. My face doesn’t look the same anymore.

I go back into my room and pull on a black skirt of Audrey’s.

It might seem weird to wear a dead girl’s clothes to her funeral, but to me, it feels okay. She was free with her stuff, and half the clothes in my closet are probably hers. And besides that, there’s the note.

Mr. McKean brought it over the night she died. It seemed an odd delivery at the time—why not stay with your family?—but then I realized he probably needed to keep busy so he wouldn’t be forced to sit and think about Audrey. He’s like one of those sharks that will die if they stop moving. So he brought over the note.

I pick it up off the nightstand and run my fingers over Audrey’s straight-up-and-down cursive. It looks so much like her to me. I reread the first half of the letter.

Daisy—

Promise you’ll do two things for me.

The first is easy: Take my clothes. ALL OF THEM. Even if you throw them away, get them out of our house (but I have pretty good taste—haha!—so you should just keep them).

You’ve seen those people who can’t let go. They sob over old T-shirts that aren’t worth anything. My mom is a pack rat; she’ll obsess. My ugliest pajamas will break her heart. Take them, Daisy. Do it for me (and for your wardrobe

).

There is a knock at the bedroom door.

“Almost ready?” Cassie says quietly. Her tone is less robotic, more like how she acts when we’re in public.

“Yes,” I answer. I fold the letter and put it in my pocket, slip on some flats, and open the door.

“You look nice,” Cassie says.

I don’t care.

For a girl who, according to her brother, didn’t have many friends, Audrey’s funeral service is packed. I can’t help but wonder whether school let out early for attending kids. Then I imagine Audrey’s ghost reading my mind and immediately feel like crap for thinking that.

I inhale a breath of musty old church air. It’s a good turnout, I mentally say to Audrey, as if she can hear me. Everyone loved you.

I’ve never been to a funeral, so I have no basis for saying that this one seems typical. I don’t cry, because when dozens of Audrey’s classmates stand and talk about her, they cry enough for all of us. They sob. They weep. Dramatically, they proclaim to the sky that they will miss their best friend. Meanwhile, I think back to Audrey’s room. I think of the faces in the pictures on her desk. I recognize very few faces here.

Again I feel awful for thinking such thoughts.

After the service, we caravan to a nearby cemetery. The day is bright, like Audrey’s personality. The vibrant orange and red fall trees and the towering monuments look earthy and polished at the same time, just like my friend was. Everyone gathers around her grave; I try to listen and feel something without passing out from the lack of food. It’s only a warm day, not too hot, but I’m sweating just the same, wishing that Audrey were here to make a joke about me forgetting to wear deodorant.

The crowd disperses following the burial, and very quickly the only people left are the preacher, the McKeans, and us. Matt stands apart from his parents, staring at his sister’s grave. Mason and Cassie wait for Mr. and Mrs. McKean to thank the preacher, and then they offer their condolences. I watch Mason put his hand on Cassie’s back like a loving husband and want to scream for him to stop pretending. Because this is real.

I look at Matt and imagine that I can see a halo of pain radiating from him. Despite everything, I know I love him.

Without thinking about it, I walk over, stand beside him, and grab his hand.

My eyes stay on Audrey’s casket. I don’t look to see for sure, but I assume Matt’s do, too. He doesn’t pull away; he holds tight and doesn’t let go. What we both need is each other.

We stand like that, staring, forever. With her brother next to me, without the crying fakers pretending to be her friends, I let myself really feel the loss. I feel it in every part of me: in my hair and in my toes. I feel it like something is rotting deep down in my core, releasing bitterness and anger and pure sadness into my veins.

Standing here, holding Matt’s hand, I want to say so many things to him. I want to tell him that I’m so sorry. I want to say that I feel horrible that Revive didn’t work. I want to say that I love him and that I want to take all of his pain away.

But I can’t. I can’t speak. And I can’t take Matt’s pain, because I have too much of my own, and I have no place to put his.

As if it’s mimicking my emotions, the afternoon sky clouds over. It smells like rain is on the way. I break from my trance and look to the clouds.

Are you up there? I think to Audrey. Nothing happens.

Because she’s dead.

Dead.

I think of what that really means.

It is not like being gone—like my real parents or the nuns or people in the cities we had to leave—because gone implies that you can come back if you really want to. Contrary to what I may have been taught, there’s no coming back from death. Not really. Someday, I’ll die for good. And then I’ll be like Audrey.

Not gone.

Dead.

I shudder at the thought, and Matt squeezes my hand tighter.

I look back to earth and the gravesite. Only then do I realize that Matt and I are alone. I look at him.

His eyes are on me.

“Hi,” he says, as if he’s seeing me for the first time. He looks down at our clasped hands and smiles, and then moves his gaze back to my eyes.

“Hi,” I say back to the boy I never want to leave.

“I’m really sorry,” Matt says.

“Me, too.”

Eventually, we leave the cemetery. We drive in heavy silence to Matt’s house. Cars are parked everywhere: in the driveway and out front, across the street and around the corner. Matt eases into a small space down the street and as we approach on foot, I try not to look at Audrey’s happy car.

Inside, there are piles of food on every available surface, and every room is crowded with people wearing black and navy blue, talking in hushed, respectful tones as if they’re afraid they’re going to wake the dead. I feel like I have cotton in my ears: When people talk to me, I have to ask them to repeat themselves.

“What?” I ask Mason after he mumbles something to me.

“I asked if you’d like some food,” he says, looking at me with concern.

“Oh.”

My thoughts snag on something I don’t remember five seconds after I think it, and when I look back at Mason, he’s not there. I’m not sure whether or not I answered his question. Maybe he’s gone to get food; maybe he’s just gone.

I stand in one spot until I start to feel paralyzed, then I move to make sure I still can. That’s when I realize that Matt and I are never more than a few steps away from each other. After we arrived, we split up, but we never really split apart. Bound by an invisible chain, I move into the kitchen, thirsty, and he’s already there, his nose in the refrigerator. He sits on the sofa and I check out the photos on the living room walls. I lean against the piano, desperate for this day to be done, and he lightly brushes my shoulder as he passes. I realize that we’re giving each other strength using all we’ve got left: our presence.

Matt is sitting on the hearth across the room when Mason walks up and tells me that it’s time to go. I’m beyond exhausted, and it could be eight or midnight: Either would make sense in my new, strange world.

Fifteen feet between us, Matt and I stare at each other, neither of us moving but both of us knowing it’s going to get more difficult before it gets better.

“Okay,” I say, still watching Matt. I’ll see him at school when he comes back. But it will be different. Leaving now feels like saying goodbye to our old selves, to anything light and carefree.

Goodbye, halcyon.

My eyes well up with tears, and they stay locked on Matt’s until I reach the doorway of the room and am forced to turn a corner. Even when I look away, I can feel his stare. I’m not sure how my feet are capable of walking away, but they do, and when I reach the back of the SUV, I collapse on the seat and fall asleep in an instant. Mason zombie-walks me into the house when we arrive, and I sleep in my funeral clothes, even my shoes.

thirty-two

Four days later, I shoot upright in bed at four in the morning. Heart thundering in my chest, I listen for signs of what startled me awake. There is movement downstairs: I hear two pairs of footsteps rushing around the house.

I jump out of bed and run down to the lab to see what’s going on.

“Go back to bed,” Mason says when he sees me. “Everything’s okay.”

“What are you doing?” I ask. My heart sinks when I see him standing beside the black case.

“God wants us to try something,” he says. He looks incredibly uneasy. Cassie shakes her head as she leafs through a file.

“Where are those forms?” she asks.

“I’m not sure we’ll need them,” Mason says quietly. “How many vials do you think we should bring?”

“The most we’ll use is three, but bring five to be safe.”

“What are you going to try?” I ask.

“There’s been a car crash,” he says. “A man coming home from a night shift,” he explains in broken sentences like he’s preoccupied. “A janitor. Car’s totaled. God wants us to try to Revive him.”

“But it hasn’t worked on adults,” I say, shocked.

“I know,” he says. “Not yet, but they’ve made improvements.”

Not enough, I think.

“And it’s the middle of the night,” I continue.

“I know.”

“And the test group is only the bus kids, and—”

“I know!” Mason shouts. He flips around and stares at me. He looks angry, but somehow I know it’s not really directed at me. “Don’t you think I know all of this? The program is supposed to be controlled. It’s not supposed to be like this. Now he expects us to…” He stops talking midsentence and takes a deep breath. “It’s going to be fine, Daisy,” he says. “We heard on the scanner that the locals are on the way. If we don’t make it before they do, we won’t be able to try it.”

I watch as Mason goes through the process that opens the Revive case, as his hand moves to choose five vials from the fifty. Wildly, my eyes flit over the vials. Forty-nine of them might save this man; the one filled with water most definitely will not. My temperature rises. I don’t remember which one it was. I think it was somewhere in the—

“Don’t take that one,” I blurt out without thinking. Mason’s hand freezes in midair. Cassie and Mason both turn to face me, their expressions shifting from confusion to shock to anger.

“Why not?” Mason asks.

I don’t speak.

“Why shouldn’t we take that one?” he asks again.

I’m frozen solid.

“What did you do?” Mason snaps. I recoil. He’s never talked to me like this before.

Strangely, Cassie is the one who rushes to my side. “Daisy, as you know, time is of the essence here,” she says calmly. “We can talk about this later,” she continues, shooting Mason a look. “But if we need three vials right now, which part of the storage box should we take them from?”

I point to the leftmost row, and the row on the bottom.

“You’re sure there’s nothing wrong with those?” Cassie says as Mason starts grabbing vials.

I nod, not wanting to betray myself by speaking. In truth, I’m only pretty sure. Not a hundred percent sure. Not bet-my-life-on-it sure.

Bet someone else’s?

“Go upstairs,” Mason says flatly as he closes the travel container. He doesn’t meet my eyes when he moves past. I listen to him storm out to the car. Silently, Cassie goes, too.

thirty-three

A few hours later, I walk through the doors to Victory High a completely different person than I was just a few weeks ago. I haven’t showered, and I’m wearing the T-shirt I slept in. My untamed dishwater curls are wrapped into a knot. I don’t have on any makeup, not because I might cry and wash it away, but because it takes too much energy to put it on in the first place. I had three bites of a banana and a Coke for breakfast. I can’t remember whether I brushed my teeth.

Inside school, it’s too loud. Too bright. People are staring at me, whispering behind my back. They look like the unfocused background in a photograph: They’re there to show contrast, but for nothing more.

I walk up the flight of stairs to the second level and work my way to my locker. Some girls are chatting at the locker next to mine. They stop talking when I approach and step aside so I can get through.

“Hi, Daisy,” one of them says quietly.

“Hi,” I say. I don’t know her name.

I swap out my books and try very hard not to look at Audrey’s locker as I walk away, but it doesn’t work. I see it, and I imagine her standing there, smiling at me on the first day of school. Complimenting my shoes. Asking me to lunch.

Breathing.

Living.

As if I have emotional food poisoning, all of my tears and snot and even a shrill scream come out of me at once. Everyone in the hallway stops and stares. I run to the nurse’s office and get excused from school.

The hall pass reads, “Distressed.”

I block out the world for two days, or at least I think I do. When Mason’s had enough, he picks the lock on my bedroom door.

“You have a visitor,” he says. I have a pillow over my face so I can’t see him or anyone else.

“Tell whoever it is to go away.”

“You’ll have to do that yourself,” Mason says. I hear him leave the room. Someone else comes in. Whoever it is sits on the end of my bed but doesn’t say anything. I don’t move the pillow: I breathe into it and wait. The moisture of my breath, trapped between me and the fabric, makes me feel like I’m in a sauna, but I don’t move. And still, silence. Eventually, I start to get perturbed. Why come into my room and just sit there? Frustrated, I toss aside the pillow. And then I see someone I never thought I’d see again.

“Sydney?”

“Hi, sweetie,” she says in the voice that always made everything better. “I hear you’re having a tough time.”

The acknowledgment of my pain brings it all out again; I begin to sob. Sydney moves closer—right next to me—and wraps her arms around me. She’s wearing a gray sweater that I’m pretty sure I ruin with snot, but she doesn’t seem to mind. We sit there like that, her smoothing my ratty hair and me crying on her shoulder, until I don’t have any tears left.

After that, we talk for hours. I tell her all about Audrey—every minute I remember. I tell her a lot, but not everything, about Matt. I share that I feel guilty for being with Megan when Audrey was dying. That I think there’s something going on with the program that’s stressing Mason out. That there’s even more that I don’t want to talk about right now.

“You’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders,” Sydney says. “I can see why you needed some time to yourself.”

“I wish Mason was as understanding as you are,” I say.

“Oh, Daisy, you need to give him a little credit,” she says. “He may not have known what to do, but he knew enough to call someone who might. And I think he’s more in tune with what you’re going through than you might think.”

“Maybe…” I say, not really believing it. Mason’s a science guy, not a feelings guy. “I just don’t know what to do now. I don’t know how to be without Audrey. What should I do?”

“Daisy, I wish I could fix everything for you,” Sydney says. “I’m so sorry to see you hurting. But the hard truth is that the only thing that can mend a broken heart is time.”

I’m quiet, frowning because she sounds like a condolence card. I tell her as much.

“Well, it’s good advice,” she says. “That’s why it’s on so many cards.”

I half smile at her; she takes my hand.

“There are little things you can do,” she says.

“Like what?” I ask, craving a prescription that will cure my heartbreak.

“Well, like first thing in the morning, when you wake up and remember that Audrey’s gone, instead of dwelling on what she won’t get the chance to do, think of something really great that she did do. Honor her a little, and then move on.”

“Easier said than done,” I say. “What else?”

Sydney shrugs. “Take a shower. Go to school. Pay attention. Do the things you used to like to do; eventually, they’ll get fun again. Call Megan and talk to her about your feelings. When he’s ready, try to reconnect with Matt.”

I’m quiet, so she continues.

“Unfortunately, there’s no formula for making the pain of death go away sooner. No matter what, you’re going to carry this with you for the rest of your life. But how you carry it is up to you. You can choose to dwell on the sadness of losing Audrey, or you can choose to celebrate the time you had with her.”

“You sound like her,” I say.

“She must have been a smart girl,” Sydney jokes.

For the first time in days, a small laugh comes out of me.

“Are you going to get in trouble for coming here?” I ask.

“What God doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Sydney says. “And besides, my best girl needed me. You may not know it, but I’m always here for you, Daisy.”

Sydney leaves after dinner, and it’s like she takes some of my angst with her. By talking openly about Audrey, I feel like I’ve released a lead balloon. I’m a little bit lighter. A little bit better.

I go to bed at nine and sleep like a baby. When I wake up in the morning, the memory of Audrey’s funeral slams into my brain. I push it aside, choosing to think instead about the time she thought she saw Jake Gyllenhaal outside Starbucks downtown. Sad and happy tears stream down my face as I laugh out loud about her reaction: She really thought it was him.

“You’re totally Gyll-obsessed,” I say aloud to Audrey, wherever she is.

And then, I go take a shower.

I walk to school, hoping that the fresh air and vitamin D will help perk me up even more. On the way, I dial Megan’s number.

“I’m sorry for not calling you,” I say.

“Don’t apologize to me,” she says. “Your best friend just died. I’m impressed that you’re even functioning.”

“I wasn’t there for a few days,” I say.

“I know,” Megan says quietly. “Mason called my mom for advice.”

“Sometimes I think they love each other,” I say, smiling.

“Same.”

“It’s a good thing we love each other, too,” I say. “Just in case they ever own it and get married or something.”

“We’re already sisters, anyway,” Megan says.

We’re quiet for a few seconds.

“Hey, Megs?”

“What’s up?”

“I feel… guilty,” I say.

Megan is quiet, encouraging me to go on.

“I feel like I’ve been given so many chances, and Audrey didn’t even get one,” I say. “I feel horrible about it.”

“You have survivor’s guilt,” Megan says softly. “It’s normal.”

“Yeah, but it’s more than that,” I say. “I feel like I should have done more for her. I feel guilty for being in Seattle when Audrey was going downhill. I feel like I abandoned her or something. I actually feel bad for being with you.”

Megan is silent for so long I think the phone might have lost service.

“I can see how you might feel that way,” she says finally.

“You do?” I ask.

“Of course,” she says. “But stop worrying about things like that. You didn’t give Audrey cancer, and you couldn’t make it go away, either. Audrey knew you loved her, and you guys were good. There’s no way you could have predicted when it would happen. It’s not your fault.”

When Megan says those last four words, my heart implodes. Not until this moment have I realized that I’ve been blaming myself. I mean, sure, Audrey had cancer, which was totally out of my control. But in a way, I thought—I hoped—that my friendship was helping her to stay strong.

“You’re right,” I say quietly. “It’s not my fault.”

“I’ll tell you what is your fault, though,” Megan says, a little tinge of teasing in her voice.

“Oh, really?” I say, okay with thinking about something besides death for a while.

“It’s totally your fault that our blog is lopsided right now because of a serious lack of coverage out of Middle America.”

“I might be able to solve that problem,” I say.

“I can’t wait to see what Flower Girl has to say.”

Feeling lighter after my call with Megan, I reach Victory with a little time to spare. As I walk through the doors, an idea pops into my head. Before classes start, I go to the computer lab and print out the lyrics to “The Way I Am.” It’s the song Audrey sang to Matt and me when she was joking around about our crush. But I realize that it sums up our friendship, too.

With a bunch of curious students watching, I tape the lyrics to the front of Audrey’s locker, then, smiling, head to English alone. Matt’s chair is still empty, but I know he’ll come back soon.

When I visit my locker again before lunch, there are more lyrics taped to Audrey’s. By the end of the day, her locker is completely covered by handwritten and printed scraps of songs tacked on in Audrey’s honor. As I read through the lyrics, I finally understand.

Everyone misses Audrey; they weren’t faking it.

I’m not alone.