Alive (9 page)

I rest my chin on my fist.

“It wasn’t that bad,” adds Henry. “And also, who cares what he thinks?” Probably every girl in the senior class, I could tell him, but that would be like telling a
five-year-old not to believe in Santa Claus.

“I’ve heard he’s a trust-fund kid,” Brynn says, making me feel as though the entire school had been involved in a game of telephone.

“You know, he can probably hear you,” I hiss. But in truth, he probably doesn’t, because Tess and Caroline are on their way over to his table right now in that hip-swinging way
that screams
Look at me
, and, to my deep disappointment, it seems to be totally, completely working.

“Incoming,” says Brynn.

Since last period, Tess has undergone a miraculous makeover. The lingering signs of her hangover have been replaced by pink lips, sparkly blush, and a fresh layer of gold-flecked eye shadow. At
the next table over, she’s so close to me I can smell the floral perfume wafting off her skin.

From where I’m sitting, I can only hear Tess and Caroline clearly. They exchange pleasantries, with Tess acting like she’s the cruise ship director of the school.

“Ten bucks one of them sleeps with him before the end of the week.” Brynn pops another Dorito into her mouth and licks the orange dust off her fingers.

I whip my head around. “What? Why? Why would you say that?”

She jerks her chin back. “Um, have you seen the welcoming committee over there? Here’s your student-body handbook, a plate of fresh-baked cookies, and a box of condoms.”

“My money’s on Tess,” Henry says.

I feel a spike in my temperature. “Well, you would know.”

Henry freezes mid-bite into a cheeseburger. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I’d never asked whether Henry slept with Tess when they were dating and he’d never volunteered it, so if I had to guess, it would be a firm yes, that totally happened. And now the
sight of her falling over Levi is enough to make me need a Xanax.

Maybe the better question is, Why do I care so much? It was almost imperceptible, something I could only notice in the absence of a thing rather than in its presence, but as soon as Levi sat
near us, I felt a weight lifting from my chest.

The constant ache that has been gnawing at me for weeks slipped away and I felt a peace in my bones that had gone missing.

Henry and Brynn are talking, but I’m barely listening. I nod. Henry’s annoyed with me. I try to care, but is it just me or is Levi sneaking glances this way?

“Why don’t you just pee on him, Stella? That would be less obvious.”

“Shut. Up,” I say, and without meaning to, I slam my fist on the table. I should apologize, but I still can’t focus enough to do it.

Brynn slides her books off the table into her bag. “Come on, Henry. Stella’s clearly having some issues of the feminine variety.”

I scowl at her with no worthy comeback. Henry pushes his chair back and fixes me with a look that seems more pitying than angry. “Stella, we’re all willing to give you a bit of a
pass, but—”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t give me a free pass. I’m fine.” Then, in a lower voice. “Look, I’m sorry. Brynn, are we still on for after school?”

She peers down her nose at me. “Yeah, just leave the attitude at home, where it belongs, okay?”

I attempt a feeble smile, but when I return my attention to Levi, certain that now that I’m alone, he’ll perhaps venture a smile or a wave or come over to chat, I see that he’s
already following Tess out the door. My heart butts painfully against my rib cage in protest.

Whoever said child labor was banned in the first world forgot to tell my parents.

I hoist a top-of-the-line stroller, aka baby tank, out the side of my Jetta. The wheel crashes into my big toe and I hop around the parking lot on one foot. “Ouch! Jesus Christ!”

Elsie giggles and slaps her hands on the sides of her car seat. “Uh-oh!”

I scowl at her through the open window.

“If you spit up on my leather, I swear I’ll leave you here to rot,” I warn my sister, who throws her sippy cup onto the car floor in response.

I study the stroller. Who are these designed for, rocket scientists? Peering underneath the carriage, I think I spot the problem and kick at its back to try to unlock the folding mechanism.
Eventually, it comes loose and the stroller snaps open.

“You make that look so easy,” comes a sarcastic voice from behind me. “Didn’t know you were bringing a friend.”

I wipe my forehead, pushing the stroller around to the other side of the car. Brynn sips a Frappuccino.

“My parents have an interview at some fancy preschool they’re trying to get Elsie on the waiting list for. Good thing they have a free babysitter on speed dial.” I unhook Elsie
from her car seat and straddle her over my hip. She’s sporting a newly laundered ladybug dress, given that she managed to slobber all over the jumper Mom had her in beforehand. Elsie’s
the reason we’re running late. Brynn better keep this quick.

Brynn shudders. “Thank God
my
parents never get it on anymore.”

I lower Elsie into the stroller. “I’m sure you’re all the birth control they need.”

The streets are crowded as Brynn and I start to trudge up the steep hill toward the giant golden hog statue with red lettering that reads
PIKE PLACE MARKET
. A salty
breeze carries the smell of the ocean off Elliott Bay.

“You know where we’re going?” I ask. The wheels of the stroller bounce off burgundy bricks.

“We have to make a stop here every year before my mom’s birthday. She goes crazy for these pistachio macarons at Le Panier. Seriously, it’s like soccer mom crack.” Brynn
smirks.

Poor Mrs. McDaniel. She’s got all the components of a grade-A soccer mom. The cream cable-knit, the pearls, the perfectly symmetrical orange slices. Only problem? Her daughter is
Brynn.

I chase after Brynn, who’s walking too fast. A group of tourists snap photos outside the market, and all around, vendors dart in and out of the covered arcades selling fresh produce,
pencil sketches, and
I ♥ SEATTLE
T-shirts. We thread our way through the crowd and I try not to mow over the backs of anyone’s heels with the Elsie Mobile.

“One year my dad couldn’t get off work in time to get them and, no joke, she almost bit his entire head off,” Brynn explains.

“Well, she didn’t have a macaron,” I point out.

“Apparently, the South Beach Diet has a very narrow exception for small, ridiculous-looking cookies.”

She guides us past the seafood stalls where tattooed men in grimy aprons sling fish over the counters, and I narrowly miss getting slapped across the face by a flying silver-finned tuna.

I’m relieved when we find ourselves walking alongside the glassy storefronts. We pass a half dozen or so before Brynn spots the black-and-yellow sign marking Le Panier Very French
Bakery.

A tiny bell jingles above the door as we enter. Turns out we’re not the only ones with this idea—the tiny bakery’s stuffed fuller than a jelly doughnut. And no wonder. The
aroma’s nothing short of heavenly, a mixture of the scent of freshly baked croissants, sugar glaze, and a wood-burning oven.

Brynn wedges her way in between a fat man in a suit and a woman yelling into a cell phone on her way up to the counter, while I wield the stroller as a bumper car. Brynn waves her arm
erratically, trying to get the clerk’s attention. “McDaniel,” she shouts over the bakery’s hustle and bustle. “Order for McDaniel. Over here!” I maneuver next to
her. “I called ahead,” she says. “Shouldn’t take long.”

“Cookie,” Elsie says, pointing up from her stroller at the broad assortment of pastries and, yes, cookies in the display case. Her fingers smudge the glass over a waistline-busting
moon pie.

“No, Elsie,” I tell her firmly, pushing down her chubby arm. “Not before dinner.” The thought of a one-year-old on a sugar rush is enough to make me want to grab Brynn
and hightail it out of here.

Not to mention—I check my watch—it’s already four thirty.

“Hello!” Brynn jumps up and down, flailing her arms. “McDaniel for pickup. Anybody?” She pushes to the cashier and leans over to talk to a girl with flour dashed over her
cheeks and a matching white cap on. The girl disappears into the back but returns shaking her head.

Brynn turns to me, throwing her hands up in the air. “They lost my order.”

A woman in high heels balancing a cake box bumps into me, nearly tripping over one of the stroller wheels. I catch her elbow right before she topples over. “Sorry about that,” I
mutter. She casts me a dirty look over her Le Panier box. “I think I better wait over there,” I tell Brynn, retreating to the front of the store with the stroller.

With luck, I manage to find a chair and try my best to stay out of the way. Elsie’s still demanding that cookie and seems to think that she can ask anyone and everyone who passes by with a
bakery bag, “Cookie?” Of course, she knows all of ten words, and
cookie
has to be one of them. The girl has her priorities straight.

I watch Brynn gesticulate at the cashier and then prop herself up on the counter and peer over it. Typical Brynn.

“Hi!” I’m startled by Elsie’s increase in volume. “Hi,” she squeals again. Her hand stretches out and I follow her reach.

In the crowd of people all pushing toward the counter, I spot a single eye peeking out from behind two teenagers murmuring into one another’s ears. The eye blinks, then disappears behind
the young couple. I lean for a better view and think I spot a swatch of dark brown hair. That was…I think, biting my lip. But, no, it can’t be.

“Got them.” Brynn appears, brandishing a red bag. “Must have mixed up the names. You’d have thought I was trying to leave with a national treasure. Shall we?”

I chance one last glance at the wall of customers and follow Brynn outside. “Let’s shop fast,” I tell her. “I need to get home.”

“Before you turn into a pumpkin?”

“Something like that.”

Elsie cries only a little once the bakery is out of sight, at which point she realizes there won’t be any cookie today. After that she seems to forget—one of the big pluses of being
one.

I take deep breaths in the open air as I follow Brynn. There’s no place better for people watching than Pike Place. When I was younger, my dad would take me to the market. I remember
he’d lift me up and let me touch all the fruit and veggies until I found the ripest ones. We’d watch the show at City Fish Co. and he’d let me get ice cream—a
vanilla/chocolate swirl cone. Then we’d bring our finds back to Mom, most of which we didn’t really need, and she’d concoct some sort of creative dish for dinner. I, of course,
had the most important part, since I’d done all the finding.

I know it’s been years, but somehow you never expect your family to change.

Brynn and I amble past the produce and all the other fresh-food stands to the section of the market where vendors sell handcrafted jewelry. I can’t help but sneak glimpses over my
shoulder, but after a few quick scans, I join Brynn’s hunt, slipping on a few bauble rings with fake gems and a leopard-print scarf for good measure.

Nothing’s catching my eye. Except for the time. How did it get away from me? My phone reads five o’clock.

“Are you ready?” I ask, tapping my toe to let Brynn know she’s taking forever.

She holds up two barbs, one blue and one hot pink. “Which one?” She holds each up to her ear.

I huff. “Who cares? They’re rods you stick through your flesh, Brynn.”

“I can’t decide.” She ducks so that she can better see her reflection. The number of people is starting to feel overwhelming. I check the time again, and my knuckles go white
around the handles of the baby stroller.

“Brynn?” I try to say as evenly as possible. “Do you mind watching Elsie for a sec? I need to find a restroom.”

She nods, tilting her face one direction then the other to study her reflection. I can feel the seconds tick by.

“Watch her, please!” I call over my shoulder. I hate to trust Brynn with my sister, if only because my parents would kill me if something happened.

Stepping outside, I follow a path along the bricks toward the waterfront. Maybe the breeze will help. I’m already flushed. I spot the bay through a gap in the shops. My neck’s sticky
and I stagger to the railing that separates the market from the sea below. I take a deep breath of ocean air and slump onto a stone bench. Why does this happen to me? And why won’t it
stop?

Salt sticks to my cheeks. The breeze sweeps across the water, whipping my ponytail into my face. I peel it back and pull out my cell. I watch as the digital lines on my clock arrange themselves
into different numbers. A one becomes a four that becomes a six. My muscles are tense and alert, as if being ready will change anything. I’m alone out here. Away from the human traffic of
Pike Place.

Five oh eight.

I shut my eyes. Maybe today it won’t come. Maybe today it’s different.

But I’m only halfway through the thought when it begins. Small at first. I wonder, for an instant, if I can ignore it. But it grows.