Silent Alarm (16 page)

I'm
sitting in history class the next morning, stats on WWII filling the dusty chalkboard, when my phone buzzes from the depths of my backpack. I reach down and pull it out when Mrs. Williams turns to write a long list of treaties on the board, my eyes glancing fearfully at the screen, not sure what to expect. Sometimes my phone stays quiet for days, a small, sleeping child lying prostrate on the desk, buried under piles of papers and books, abandoned and forgotten. Riley's name pops up on the screen the minute I unlock it, and I feel my body relax.

Joe's. 12:15. Eat something.

I smile at the screen, my face stretching in a way that feels so awkward and foreign to me now that I almost immediately stop and look around to make sure no one's noticed. Mrs. Williams is still scribbling on the board in her strange, loopy handwriting, and everyone else is bored, staring out the window or surreptitiously checking their phones beneath their desks. Joe's is a diner a few blocks from school where seniors with off-campus privileges eat most days in order to escape the dreaded cafeteria fare, a place juniors like me sneak out to at least once a week, hoping they won't get caught. The food's not exactly gourmet, strictly grilled-cheese-and-burger territory, but if you're really hungry, it's not half bad.

When I walk through the door, the small, tinkling bell overhead signaling my arrival, he's already there, ensconced in a red leather booth at the back, the seat cracked and fading. The strong, meaty reek of burgers and onions sticks to me in an oily film I'll need a shower to erase. The linoleum underfoot is an ivory-and-lettuce-green checkerboard, the walls a yellow that might have been a cheery yellow at one time but now resembles the dirty haze chain smokers leave behind. There are a few seniors I don't really know huddled at tables near the front door, and I walk past them, head down, hoping they don't notice me. At the counter, I stop dead in my tracks for a moment, mesmerized by the zinc surface, the stools lined up neatly as soldiers.

When I was still in grade school, Luke would take me to Joe's for a milk shake sometimes, my feet kicking against the shiny chrome, my legs barely able to touch the ground. It made me feel grown-up to sit at the counter, important. I loved to spin around until Luke reached out one hand to steady me, the room whirling crazily before my eyes. There was something comforting about those milk shakes, the sweet blandness, the red, syrupy cherry perched on top of a cloud of whipped cream. Sometimes, as a joke, Luke would drink all of mine when I went to the bathroom, and when I returned, he'd just order me another, his smile a crooked half grin.

(—don't think about the sound of his laugh, deep, guttural, but still somehow musical—)

“Alys. Over here.”

I blink at the sound of my name, forcing myself to look away from the counter and at the booth where Riley is waiting for me, hunched over the remains of a cheeseburger and fries. The sight of the ketchup smeared across the white plate undoes me entirely, and I have to look away.

“How long have you been here?” I ask, slipping into the booth, which creaks companionably beneath my weight. “Lunch just started.”

“I had a free track before lunch,” he says, swallowing hard, then wiping his mouth with a paper napkin, “so I just walked over. I was fucking starving.”

“So I see.” I raise one eyebrow at his almost-empty plate.

“You should try it.” Riley smirks, glancing at my pitiful frame wrapped in a navy sweater now a size too big. Riley takes a long drink of water, and before I can answer back or protest, he summons the waitress with the raise of his hand. “She'll have a cheeseburger and fries.” He jabs his thumb in my direction as he speaks, but she barely looks up from her pad, her black pen scribbling across the paper with mind-numbing efficiency. When I glance over at him, Riley is busily opening packets of sugar, emptying them into his soda. It reminds me so much of Luke that I am rendered speechless. Luke was forever dumping sugar into just about everything—but especially Cokes—a habit most people found disgusting. “How can you stand things to be so sweet?” I repeatedly asked my brother, shuddering as he added yet another packet to the fizzy drink. “Maybe I'm just that bitter,” he'd say, grimly stirring the dark liquid with a straw. Watching Riley add one packet after another into his glass, I am overcome.

“What is it? Alys?” Riley looks worried, leaning forward, and I am trying to find the words to tell him, but they seem to be stuck somewhere in my solar plexus, images of Riley and Luke swimming before my eyes, clouding everything. I look down at my lap and breathe for a minute before raising my head again to meet his gaze.

“It's just . . .” I begin, knowing how stupid it will sound. “The sugar . . .” Riley's face is still, waiting for me to finish. I wish a hole would open up in the ground and swallow me entirely—which would be totally preferable to having to complete this sentence. “It just reminds me of . . . him. Luke, I mean.”

Riley pushes his plate to the side and leans back in the booth, watching me thoughtfully.

“Huh,” he says after a minute or so. “I mean, we were around each other enough—we were bound to pick up each other's habits and all.” He stares into the muddy surface of his drink, his cheeks flushing a deep crimson. I have never seen Riley flustered or embarrassed.

“I keep remembering the most random things about him,” I say, amazed that the words are actually leaving my mouth. It feels strange to talk about Luke aloud, not just in my head, where no one can judge him. But here with Riley, I feel protected. “Like when he used to take me here after school when I was in fifth grade. Or that time out at the lake when he taught me to swim.”

“I keep remembering how obsessed he was with that damn tree house. That piece of crap took us all summer to build.” Riley laughs, picking up his glass. “And we never did get it right. The thing was always lopsided. Of course,” Riley goes on, shrugging almost apologetically, “that was before we discovered girls.”

He says this without any sense of flirtation, like it's just a random fact, but I blush anyway. I'm grateful for the sudden arrival of the waitress bearing a tray crammed with burgers and fries. She slides a white plate before me, the cheeseburger topped with lettuce, pickles, and red onion. I immediately shove the onion to one side of my plate and busy myself with the saltshaker, dumping it liberally over my fries. I cut the burger into neat halves, figuring that the more manageable I make things the better, and pick up a fry, bringing it to my lips. I know Riley is watching, so I force myself to put it in my mouth and chew slowly.

“I guess you're still having a hard time with that.” Riley gestures at my plate with one hand. “Eating, I mean.”

“Sometimes,” I say, swallowing the untruth along with the fry. It stays lodged in my throat, and I wash it down with water, but it won't budge. “It just feels so . . . pointless.” I push the plate away, crossing my arms over my chest.

Riley reaches over, picking up half of my burger and bringing it to his lips.

“See?” he says, chewing, then swallowing hard. “That's how it's done.” He wipes his hands on a paper napkin and shoves the plate back across the table. “Now you.” He looks expectantly at me, and I hesitate before picking up the other half of the burger and taking a small bite, the flavors of grease, fat, and salt exploding on my tongue. I take another, bigger this time, suddenly ravenous.

Riley watches in silence as I finish my burger, my cheeks bulging like a squirrel's. I still can't deal with the fries, though, so I push the plate to the center of the table and watch Riley pick at them.

“Have you been dreaming at all?”

There are the same dark moons beneath each eye, and in spite of his seemingly unending hunger, he looks worn-out, as if he still hasn't slept since the shooting.

“I try not to,” I say, wiping my hands on a napkin, then balling it up. “I don't sleep much, but when I finally do drift off, I'm out.”

(—don't mention Miranda, the blood running in rivulets down her shattered face, the way your dead brother keeps showing up in your room, the garage, on the stairs, at school. That stink of rotting lilies mixed with ashes—)

“I wish I were so lucky,” he mutters, his face darkening. “It's getting to the point where I'm actually afraid to go to sleep.”

“Do you see Luke?” My heart is beating fast, and all at once I'm sweating.
Maybe they're not dreams, Riley,
a small part of me wonders.
Did you ever think of that?

He nods, his face growing paler still. “It's always the same dream. I'm in the library, back in the stacks, when I hear people start to scream. When I look up, Luke's right there, a gun pointed at my face.”

(—the darkness, the barrel elongating forever—)

“I want to run, but I can't.” Riley hesitates for a minute before starting again. “‘Luke,' I say, ‘what the fuck are you doing?' He just looks at me and winks—you know that look he used to give when he was up to something?”

I nod slowly, mesmerized into a stupor.

“He winks, and then the gun goes off and everything goes dark. Then I wake up. It's the same every night.” Riley sighs heavily, as if merely telling me has lifted some kind of enormous weight. “Always the same. Every time I close my eyes and drift off, he's there with that fucking gun.”

There is a pause in which we say nothing. In this moment, there is no need for words, no need to say a thing.

“I don't get it—I mean, I wasn't even in the library that day.” He runs his hand reflexively through his hair, frustrated. “But you were there.” Riley looks straight at me. “Weren't you?”

I nod, not sure if I can find the strength to talk about it, the gun raised up to eye level, Luke's face peering out from behind. I feel him hovering nearby, that burning heat and restless agitation, a murderous spirit, and then all at once, he appears, sliding into the booth next to me, reaching across the table and popping a French fry into his mouth while chewing menacingly. There is a sound like fire, the smell of charred leaves in the air.

“Don't tell him,” Luke warns, and although he is talking to me, his eyes are locked on Riley's face. “Don't,” Luke repeats again, and I am silenced, the words stunted in my throat before they can be released. He smiles, showing rows of perfectly even teeth, before fading, his body dissipating like smoke, his last word ringing in my ears.

Don't.

“Prom's coming up,” Riley says casually, changing the subject.

“Yeah . . . in
May
,” I say, unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice, wondering how I'm going to fill the days of the month that remain on the calendar. “April is the cruelest month,” my mother used to quip when I'd complain about the unpredictable spring weather, how many weeks there were before school let out in June. Now all I do is tick off the days one by one as they stretch on interminably, waiting for them to pass.

Riley grabs another fry and chews on it thoughtfully. “You going?” he asks when he finally swallows. Prom is mostly for juniors and seniors, although the odd freshmen and sophomores sometimes get asked by upperclassmen.

I fight the urge to bust out laughing. Riley is ridiculous.

“Uh, yeah—I'm just fighting off prospective suitors. Or haven't you heard?”

He laughs, happy to have a joke to distract him, to play off of. “Oh, that's right,” he says, snapping his fingers for emphasis. “I forgot about your—how did you put it again—total social annihilation?”

“Sure, just rub it in,” I mutter grudgingly.

“Hey, it's not like it's been all that much different for me, you know,” he says, his tone almost chiding. “I was thinking,” he goes on, taking a deep breath, “I know we haven't hung out a lot in the past, but I thought that maybe we could go together. If you want,” he adds quickly. An emotion fills Riley's face, something I've never seen before—certainly not where girls are concerned: uncertainty. Maybe a little fear. “Or not.” He looks out the plate-glass window of the diner, watching people pass by. “It was just an idea. I mean”—he turns back to face me—“I always thought you'd go with Ben.”

Ben. Most of the time I try not to think about him at all, push him from my memory, arrange my day into an elaborate maze to effectively avoid his presence. But at moments like these, where the breath is knocked out of me, suddenly, I'm aware of how much I miss him, how much I've lost.

“Don't you think it would be weird?” I say slowly, playing with my fork to have something to occupy my hands.

“For them or for us?”

“For everyone, I guess.”

I cannot imagine it. Me stuffed into some slinky, silly dress, Riley's hair slicked back into submission, the both of us picking at the terrible food that will undoubtedly be served, the eyes that will circle us intently. And Ben. In the same room. Close enough to touch, but miles out of my reach.

“I don't know,” Riley says, exhaling again. “I mean, I feel like I'm on some deserted fucking island most of the time. I don't want to be home, alone and sad, thinking about yet another thing I'm missing, another thing that's been taken away.” He's angry again, agitated, and I want to reach across the table and take his hand in mine. But I don't.

“We don't have to go to prom to hang out, you know. We can probably do that without subjecting ourselves to bad music and social judgment.” I try to smile, to lighten the moment, but Riley only stares out the window as if I haven't said a word.

“I just want one night that's normal,” he says with conviction. “Where I feel like everyone else on the fucking planet graduating from high school. Is that too much to ask?”

I shake my head no, even though I'm not sure of anything at all. When he finally looks into my eyes, I'm surprised at the feeling behind his words, the raw emotion. I can't argue with it—as much as I might want to.