Invincible (19 page)

Uh-oh. “I have a serious answer.”

“Okay,” he says. He is silent for several moments, then says, “That was the dramatic pause. Did you like it?”

“Very nice.”

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

“What three things would you take with you in the apocalypse?”

“Hmm,” I say. For some reason, it seems like a perfectly reasonable question at this moment. “It depends on what kind of apocalypse.”

“Zombie.”

“Sturdy boots. A good backpack. A machete, definitely. To cut off their heads.”

“Biblical.”

“Boots. Backpack. And a Bible? No, probably still a machete.”

“You're very practical.”

I am starting to like this feeling of being nervous and excited all at once. It's like the tingle in my chest when my pain pills kick in. It's the thrill of feeling something different.

“I have a question for you, too,” I say, making my voice sound way braver than I actually feel.

“Hit me.”

I try to act as cool as possible. I don't even look at him. “Do you smoke weed?” I say.

He laughs so hard he nearly spits his coffee out. The tingle in my chest shuts off, squeezes tight. Did I read him wrong? Funky car, ironic T-shirts, misfit attitude—does that not fit the profile of a pot smoker?

“What's so funny?”

“I don't think anyone's ever asked me that before. I guess I'm not used to hanging out with somebody who doesn't already know my reputation.”

“Which is what, exactly?”

“I'm basically considered the school stoner.”

Relief spreads through me. “Is that an accurate assessment?”

“I guess. Though when I think of ‘stoner,' I think of someone who's stoned all the time. I'm only stoned
most
of the time.”

“Are you stoned right now?”

“Nope. Thought it might not be the best way to impress a pretty girl.”

The compliment makes me brave. “Do you want to be?”

“Are you offering?”

I open my purse, find the joint I tucked inside an old breathmint tin, and present it to him in the palm of my hand. It is such a silly little thing, like a white twig, but I am ridiculously proud of it.

“Well, aren't you full of surprises?” Marcus says with a smile. “Ladies first.”

“No, you. I insist. You're my guest.” I hand him my lighter.

“All righty then.”

I watch him as he lights the joint and inhales. He's obviously done this more than a few times. I try to match his confidence and ease when it's my turn. I imagine the ghosts of all these dead people around us, watching us, laughing at me.

“So what's
your
label?” he says, holding in his smoke. He exhales and I'm lost for a moment in a cloud of his breath. “If I'm the school stoner, what are you?”

I cannot tell him I'm a former cheerleader. I cannot tell him that, until a few days ago, I was the girlfriend of the varsity wide receiver. I cannot tell him I sit at the popular table. And I definitely can't tell him about Cancer Girl.

“I'm not really anybody,” I say. “I'm kind of a loner.” I know no one would ever describe me this way, but it's what feels the most true.

“Ah, yes,” he says. “Mysterious, beautiful loner. I bet all the jocks are secretly in love with you.”

You have no idea.

“So where do you go? Berkeley High? North Berkeley?”

“North Berkeley. What about you?”

“You'll never guess.”

“Oakland Tech?”

“Think richer.”

“Skyline?”

“I, my dear, am a Templeton man.”

“What? Are you serious? Don't you wear, like, suits to school? Aren't you supposed to be planning for world domination? Why are you hanging out with a mere mortal like me? I had no idea you were so fancy.”

“You want any more of this?” He holds up the half-finished joint.

“No, I'm done.”

“I'm not fancy,” he says, stubbing it out on a gravestone. “My dad's the fancy one.”

“What's so fancy about your dad?”

“He's the chief judge of the United States District Court for the Northern District of California,” Marcus says in a hoity-toity voice.

“Wow, that is fancy.”

Marcus shrugs.

“That must make it extra hard for you to break the law.”

“Not really.” He hands me the joint. “I'm pretty good at it, actually.”

“You know what I mean. It must be extra bad if you get in trouble, right?”

“Let's just say that as long as I don't get caught, what I do in my spare time is not my father's top concern.”

“My parents either.”

“Yeah? Why's that?”

I have to think about this for a moment. I have to decide just how much I want to let him in. I decide I can tell him the truth while leaving out some of the details. “It's like they have this idea about who I am and they really want to believe it. So they're very selective about the stuff they notice.”

“I wonder if all parents are like that.”

“Some more than others, probably.”

“They can't ever really
see
you,” Marcus says, looking into the distance, his eyes glassy and heavy. “No matter what you do to get their attention. They'll only ever see what they want to see.”

“What doesn't your dad see about you?”

He smiles but it doesn't mask the sadness in his eyes. “This is really good weed.”

“It's medicinal.”

“Where'd you get it?”

“From a friend.”

“Can she get more?”

“She moved away, unfortunately.” For a second, I wonder if I could believe this. If I say it enough times, maybe I can convince myself it's true.

“Too bad. The weed I get is pretty good, but not as good as this.”

“You're not going to answer my question, are you?”

“Tell me about your leg.”

Of course. It had to happen sometime. “It's not that interesting.”

“So tell me.”

Part of me wants to tell him. The weed and the view and his arm touching mine makes me want to tell him a lot of things. But not this. If he can keep his secrets, I can keep mine.

“Car accident,” I say. “Pretty boring.”

“Was it gory?”

“Not really. My mom's car got side-swiped on the freeway, we ran into a barrier, and my leg got knocked around. There wasn't even any blood.” It is way too easy to lie. I could get used to this.

“You act like it's no big deal.”

“It's not, really. It's not like it makes me special or anything. No one will even know in a couple of months when I'm off the cane and have healed completely.”

The sky is turning the orange-pink of almost sunset. There's nowhere I'd rather be than right here, right now, and I can't remember the last time I felt that. I think Marcus is happy too, but there's an edge to his happiness, like he can't quite accept it, like there's some deep residue of an old sadness that won't let him go. I want to touch his sadness. I want to reach inside him and pull it out and tangle it with mine.

“Most people spend all their time trying to convince people they're special,” he says. “But you're trying to convince me you're not.”

I lean against him, his whole side warm touching me. The back of his hand brushes mine. I tilt my head without thinking, resting my cheek on his shoulder. We fit together perfectly.

“You know what, Evie Whinsett?”

“What, Marcus Lyon?”

“I don't like many people, but I like you.”

The sky explodes in color and light.

“I like you, too.”

“Okay, good.”

“Good.”

I don't want to leave. I could stay in the cemetery forever. Marcus and I could live in one of the stone crypts, plant a little vegetable garden out front, steal from people's picnics when they're not looking. We already have a blanket. What more could we need? We could stay here until we get old and die, then we'd already be in the perfect place to get buried. But I promised Mom I'd be home for dinner.

I get Marcus to drop me off in front of a restaurant a couple blocks away from Children's Hospital, where I say I'm meeting a friend. He offers to park and stay with me until she arrives, but I manage to convince him I'm fine on my own.

“You're so tough,” he says before I step out of the car. If only he knew.

I turn to leave, but he reaches out and catches my hand in his as I move to open the door.

“Wait,” he says.

“For what?” I say.

“I don't know. I'm just not ready to let you go.”

We lean in to each other. Our foreheads touch. His musky smell makes me dizzy. “Evie,” he says, and it sounds like the first time my name has ever truly been spoken. His breath gives me life. He names me.

I am wearing Stella's hat. I am fearless. I know how to get what I want.

I tilt the hat up and lean forward. I place my lips on his. His mouth feels perfect on mine. Warm. Soft. Delicious. I could inhale him. I could eat him up.

I leave his car in a daze and float the block to Children's. I can't get the grin off of my face and I don't try. I don't care that Mom's car is already there when I round the corner, that she sees me come from somewhere besides inside the hospital.

“Where were you?” she says as I get in the car.

“I left early. I went for a walk while I was waiting for you.”

“In this neighborhood? At this time of night? Are you sure that's safe, honey?”

“It's not even totally dark yet. Plus, I'm tough,” I say, leaning my seat back and putting my feet up on the dashboard. “God, Mom. Haven't you figured that out by now?”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

KASEY'S COMING TO DINNER TONIGHT. MOM INVITED HER without even telling me. These days, Will can just decide we're not broken up and act like nothing happened, and Mom can decide to invite my friends over for dinner, and I don't get a say in any of it.

I'm in my room, still giddy from a phone conversation I had with Marcus right after school. Unlike everyone else in my life, he talks about real things. He has opinions on issues besides prom dresses and sports teams and school gossip. It's like everyone else I know is in black and white and he's the only person in full color. Everyone else is a robot and we're the only real people with real thoughts and real feelings.

When I get excited, I have to listen to this song from Stella about all the things the establishment wants to do to control us. I turn it up really loud and jump around my room on my good leg hitting things with my pillow.

This is what I'm doing when Mom knocks on the door and says, “Dinner's ready, honey. Kasey's here.” It feels like they're forming an army and Kasey's been recruited for their side. It's four against one in the Whinsett family now.

I need reinforcements. I need strength. So I take Stella's hat from my desk and place it on my head.

“That's interesting music,” Mom says when I open the door. “What do you call that?”

“It's called music, Mom.”

“It's kind of . . . aggressive, don't you think?”

“Assertive is not the same thing as aggressive.” I wish Marcus had heard me say that.

Kasey hugs me when I come to the table. “How long have you been here?” I say, and I realize too late that it probably sounds rude.

“I just got here,” she says. “Like a minute ago.” She smiles a less than sincere smile. “What's with the hat?”

“It was Stella's.”

“I know. But why are you wearing it?”

“She gave it to me.”

I sit down and start serving myself without waiting for the others.

“Evie,” Dad says. “Aren't you going to take your hat off for dinner? I think that's the polite thing to do.”

“Sure.” I hang it off the back of my chair and stuff my mouth with rice pilaf.

I eat as Kasey and Jenica talk about prom, which is rapidly approaching. I don't know when they got so friendly. I guess they're best friends now too.

“I just think it's so neat that your school includes juniors,” Mom says. “At my high school we only had a senior prom.”

“Tell me about it,” Kasey says. “I've been looking forward to this since I was, like, nine. And I can't believe I get to do it again next year, too! I get to go dress shopping twice.”

She is totally serious. Prom will be the highlight of her life.

“Honey, did you call Will back yet?” Mom says to me. “It must be important if he called on the house phone.”

“It means she's not returning his calls to her cell,” Jenica says. “Right, Evie?”

“Why aren't you returning his calls, sweetie?” Mom says.