Spontaneous (18 page)

W
as it a wild party, the wildest in the annals of teendom? Were kids jumping from the roof into the pool? Were there flames, nudity, pissing on antique furniture?

Not even close. When the guests arrived, Laura greeted them at the door and told them, “Only one person goes in at a time.” Then she texted Dylan the name of whoever was about to enter. Meanwhile, Dylan was down in the basement with his phone queued to MemorEasi.

Now, not all of our classmates were overexposed, but there were at least a few shots of everyone out in the ether. And MemorEasi was equally effective using only a handful of images. It panned and zoomed over faces in slo-mo. It applied smoky filters for an old-timey vibe. When combined with the tickling of ivories, the results were sufficiently tear-jerking.

So that's what our classmates confronted when they entered Laura's house: themselves.

Dylan would check the text from Laura, enter a name into MemorEasi, filter, tap the image, and then, as saccharine sounds wafted from the stereo and the next guest stepped in the house, a slideshow depicting his or her life appeared on a massive TV in the Riggses' candlelit living room.

“Welcome to your own funeral,” it all was meant to say.

While a sign stuck to the basement door promised
REINCARNATI
ON THIS WAY
.

When the slideshow was over, that's where each guest went. Down, down, down, to an even darker room, where the music was best described as aggressively ambient and Dylan was waiting to shush anyone who was audibly weeping and then usher them to a seat on the floor, before shooting off a text to Laura that read:

Next Victim?

In front of the befuddled guests and next to the smoking cauldron, I sat on a stool wearing a brown hooded bathrobe and wielding a large stainless-steel ladle. I did not speak.

“Is this an orgy or something?” Clint Jessup asked when he arrived, and he rubbed his hands together like he was about to get down to business.

“Where the hell did you get that idea?” Dylan replied.

“I don't know,” Clint said. “That chick is wearing a robe. An orgy robe, I figured. My life flashed before my eyes, so this must be heaven.”

Dylan flicked Clint's ear with a finger and said, “Sit down and be quiet. That goes for everyone.”

By nine o'clock, the guests stopped arriving, so Laura locked the front door and came downstairs, bringing the total attendance to about thirty kids scrunched together on a giant rag rug and circling the cauldron like a coven frocked in Anthropologie and Uniqlo. It was enough for me to begin.

“You are all pathetic!” I hollered.

Given the raised eyebrows, this was not what they were expecting, but they were willing to hear the robed weirdo out. Not a peep from the crowd.

“That's right,” I went on. “Pathetic! Think about what you saw upstairs. Is that what you want? Your entire life summed up and declared over? Because that's how you've been acting. You've been bullied into thinking it can't get any better. Meanwhile, this was supposed to be our senior year. Our senior
fucking
year! Our final shot at being young and dumb. Sure, I realize a few of you have applied early decision, but do you think any college will admit us now that we're tarnished goods? They can't discriminate because of race, religion, or gender, but how about combustibility? As far as I know, a can of gasoline has never been admitted to Princeton, let alone Rutgers. Which means this is the last gasp. And what are we doing with it? We're sitting at home and acting like we're already dead. If an asteroid was bearing down on us, we wouldn't be cooped up and alone, would we? No. We'd be spending our last days together. So let's be together, enjoy each other, make a stupid yearbook, and go to prom. Let's reopen the goddamn school!”

Go ahead and shoot a spitball at this uber-nerd if you must, but I'm not ashamed to admit I was demanding a return to academia. And wouldn't you know it? My classmates were on board.

“Huzzah!” Dylan shouted in solidarity, because apparently people shout “huzzah” from time to time.

“Fuck yeah!” Laura seconded, though I think it was mostly because she likes to swear.

While I'd love to say the rest joined in with a chorus of “damn skippy” and “amen,” that isn't exactly the truth. The truth is, they nodded the sounds-a'right-to-me variety of nods, and then Gabe Carlton asked, “What's in the big pot?”

“That, my friends, is the elixir of
let's fucking live again,
” I said, and I dipped the ladle in and took a sip.

“If you want to help us reopen the school, then you drink,” Dylan added as he grabbed the ladle from me and gulped.

I welcomed his enthusiasm, not only because it was the first time in a while that it was directed somewhere other than my body, but also because it was the first time I'd ever seen Dylan taste the forbidden fruit of alcohol. It assured me he was dedicated to my cause, even if it worried me a bit about what sort of drunk he might turn out to be.

“If you want to be reincarnated and join our wasted squad of geeks,” I said as I kissed Dylan's ear, “then you better drink.”

Claire Hanlon raised a hand. “Would it be totally lame of me to ask what exactly is in the elixir of
let's fucking live again
?”

“It would,” Laura said as she snatched the ladle and took her sip. “Trust me. It's delicious. And gluten free.”

Becky Groves, the same girl whose scream still echoed in my ears from our pre-calc and group therapy days, stepped up to the ladle next. She closed her eyes, took a sip, and said, “I will join
you. I think a return to the normalcy of school will give me some well-deserved peace.”

This caused Claire to jump up and seize the ladle. “And this will give me what I deserve,” she said as she dipped it in the cauldron. “I'm graduating. As valedictorian. As was always intended.”

As soon as Claire sipped, a line formed behind her. Imbibing commenced and cowards were reborn as heroes, or at least as kids who were willing to give up their permanent vacation and go back to school.

The rest of the party wasn't as blatantly cultish, but it was blatantly fun. Dylan downed some more ladles of elixir and the sort of drunk he became was a . . . sleepy one. He was goofy and kissy at first—not at all scary like some boys who use numbness as an excuse to paw and punch in equal measure. He said “I love you” almost every time the alcohol touched his lips. But then, halfway through the party, he nodded off on the couch. So I sat there stroking his feet, sipping from the cauldron, and enjoying the company of my once and future classmates.

There were still many other classmates to convince, of course. The party lured mainly the extroverts and overachievers, and even some of those stayed home. Tess, for instance, didn't attend, which puzzled me more than it pissed me off. I texted her as the festivities were coming to a close.

Me: Missed you here.

Her: Sorry. Busy. What happened?

Me: Might've convinced everyone school is cool.

Her: You're kidding. Good for you.

Me: Good for all of us.

Her: I really am sorry I didn't make it. That house though. The things that have gone on there.

Me: Oh. Yeah.

Her: I hope you're not mad at me.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I knew Tess wasn't comfortable with Laura Riggs's place and yet I had totally disregarded it during the frenzied planning stage.

Me: I'm the one who's sorry. I will never be mad at you, Tess McNulty. Never never ever.

A
sking your dad to drive your passed-out-drunk boyfriend home isn't usually the best course of action, so when I couldn't rouse Dylan, I texted Rosetti for a ride. A response arrived seconds later, as the headlights from her Tesla flicked on and shone through Laura's window.

Rosetti: Already here.

I was pretty drunk myself, so I don't remember who carried Dylan to the car, but when we were on our way, with him snoozing in the back and me riding shotgun, I raved about what a success the night had been and I thanked Rosetti for her encouragement.

“I'm sorry I haven't been much help,” I said as I checked once more to make sure Dylan was asleep. “You know, with the whole fightin'-da-man thing.”

“You are helping,” Rosetti replied. “If you get the school open,
that's a big deal. And I will be there. Staying one step ahead of them. Keeping an eye out for you, Tess, and Dylan.”

“Fuck 'im,” I said.

“Dylan?” she asked, her chin shooting up as she checked the rearview.

“No, no, no, of course not,” I replied, and I blew a kiss over my shoulder to the backseat. “I adore my sleepy puppy boy. I'm talking about
da man
. Fuck Uncle Sam.”

“Well. Easier said than done. It will require a lot of legwork. Speaking of which, have you talked to Tess lately?”

“All the time,” I said, though I thought it best not to mention what we'd talked about during our bike ride. “Tess has her own stuff going on and I don't wanna pressure her into helping with this whole school thing, you know?”

“I can understand that. My only concern is that she hasn't called or texted. She said she has some theories and I'd love to hear them, but she's been incommunicado.”

“She'll come around. She's always there when I need her.”

“I'm sure you're right. It takes time to warm up to new social arrangements,” Rosetti responded and she left it at that.

We drove in silence for a while, and the lingering effects of the elixir made me consider all sorts of things to ask Rosetti.
Are you into black licorice? Have you ever been to the Grand Canyon? If the universe is infinite, then—

“Do you think he's dangerous?” I suddenly blurted out.

“Who? Uncle Sam?”

“No, this guy,” I said, motioning with my head to the snoozing fella in the back. “You don't want him to know what we're doing.
You think he'll mess it up? Is that what worries you?”

“He's a boy,” she replied. “All boys are worrisome.”

It reminded me of
All the Feels
. I had never considered the hero, the hunky and yet down-to-earth Xavier Rothman, to be worrisome. Sure, he was afraid of having too many emotions, but who isn't afraid of that? The
truly
worrisome ones, that's who.

“Do you think Dylan did it?” I asked Rosetti. “I mean, did he post that whole ‘burn all you fuckers to the ground' on his brother's wall?”

“You haven't asked him?”

“He said it was to help Warren. That Warren wanted to come home.”

Rosetti shrugged. “Motives are strange things. But they usually make sense when all the evidence presents itself.”

What I may have lacked in evidence, I made up for in imagination. I closed my eyes. I pictured a twelve-year-old Dylan sitting all by himself on a floor scattered with Transformers. I pictured him cross-legged, a laptop resting on his knees as he logged in to Warren's Facebook account and scrolled through the photos, through countless images that didn't include Dylan. I pictured him typing and retyping the post before finally hitting send.

I'm gonna blow . . .
No, no, no, not explosions.

I'm gonna set fire to the office of . . .
No, no, no, too specific.

I'm gonna burn
all you
jerks
 . . . No, no, no, who burns jerks?

Fuckers! Fuckers will work. The world is full of fuckers!

I'm gonna burn all you fuckers to the ground!

Perfect. Done. Send.

Oh shit, what did I just do?

I opened my eyes, turned to Rosetti, and said, “I don't think it was Warren who wanted to come home. I think it was Dylan who was lonely and wanted his brother back.”

Rosetti checked the rearview again and said, “He's not lonely anymore, is he?”

I nodded. “I hope not.”

We sat in silence again, the glow of streetlights splashing across our faces as we passed them. Silence is something I avoid in normal circumstances and absolutely hate when I'm drunk. Which means I opened my stupid mouth again.

“So you never went to prom?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“Better things to do?”

“I thought so. I was young. Sixteen. But already focused on college and career. I was recruited into a government youth program and thought that was a better use of my time.”

“You were too cool for prom,” I said as I gave her a playful punch on the arm. “I know that much.”

She shrugged and said, “You probably would have thought I was the opposite of cool if you had gone to school with me.”

“So you've changed a lot since then?”

“Not much at all actually,” she said, and the car slowed to a stop. We were in my driveway. The clock on the dash told me it was two in the morning and the charge on the Tesla's battery had fifty miles to go. “Go to bed, Mara. I know where Dylan lives. I'll take it from here.”

T
he morning after the party, a group gathered at the high school with assorted tools and cleaning supplies. This was the do-tank I was talking about. Boys and girls pushing mops and swinging hammers, bringing my thoughts to fruition. Malik's parents ran the local chapter of Habitat for Humanity, so they served as the experts and told us what we were capable of fixing. Dylan was a trouper, rolling up his sleeves and doing his part, sweating off what I assumed was his first hangover. Meanwhile, I walked around offering thumbs-up and pats on the back, which was equally essential work, don't you think?

The school wasn't in terrible shape, actually. The water had been shut off after the #ForBilly riot and once we swept up the glass and debris and jerry-rigged a bathroom into working order, it seemed nicer than the sad old Shop City Mall where the youngsters were matriculating. Granted, it was water stained and stinky as hell. Black mold was a certainty, but we only needed the place
for about five months. If our bodies didn't self-destruct during those months, they certainly could endure a few spores.

Next on our agenda was winning over some teachers, which was essential if we were to have any chance of convincing the school board to approve our plan. We opted for email because we figured even if the teachers had left town, they'd be checking their old accounts. Elliot Pressman did his late girlfriend, Cranberry, proud by hacking into the city records and collecting the email addresses of anyone with a teaching license in the county. Then we sent out a short blast written by our political mastermind, Skye Sanchez.

We, the seniors of Covington High School, have seen our classmates perish. We, the seniors of Covington High School, wake up every day wondering if it is our last. We, the seniors of Covington High School, have hurt no one, and yet, everyone has hurt us by denying us the simplest and most fundamental rights and freedoms. We, the seniors of Covington High School, deserve to learn. Teach us.

Four brave souls answered the call. And after Skye presented our proposal to the school board, which had shrunken to three nothing-to-lose members, we got our wish.

“There're still a few bucks in the budget and we appreciate your sticktoitiveness,” loopy octogenarian and School Board President Louise Mender said. “Can't guarantee the state will recognize any of your grades or accomplishments, but you go on and enjoy the rest of your senior year. It's the least we can do.”

It
was
the least they could do. There was enough money to pay those four teachers, as well as a lunch lady and a janitor willing to pitch in. There was one bathroom, two barely refurbished classrooms, a modified cafeteria. Not much, but it would have to suffice, and we tore our way through as much red tape as possible to get things ready for a speedy return.

Not that anyone noticed. As January rolled along, bigger things happened. A jumbo jet went down over Brazil. A tsunami killed thousands in the Philippines. The cast of a new comic-book movie was announced. In other words, as we geared up to go to school, the citizens of the world shifted their attentions. Like some foreign war that people get sick of hearing about because they don't understand the politics, our plight was deemed unwinnable and no one cared about some human interest story starring plucky kids asserting their right to an education. Save that shit for NPR. There was no recent carnage, so there was no reason for most journalists to stay. Sure, a few dedicated professionals remained embedded, but the others chased after stories with fresh entrails and clear endings. As long as we, the cursed ones, stayed put, the world seemed comfortable not thinking about us.

Classes for the underclassmen started at the Shop City Mall right after Martin Luther King Jr. Day, which seemed appropriate considering the man always valued education much more than capitalism. Then, on February 6, amid very little fanfare and nearly three months since we'd last been inside its not-so-hallowed halls, Covington High reopened to welcome back its senior class.