The Catastrophic History of You And Me (5 page)

I looked down. There, between tomato sauce and grease stains, and in messy, totally boy-handwriting, Patrick had jotted down a list of five words:

Denial

Anger

Bargaining

Sadness

Acceptance

He reached over and slowly circled
denial
with his pen. “See that?”

I glared at him, officially sick of our conversation.

Don’t talk to me
.

“That’s you.”

I turned my head as hot, angry tears began spilling down my cheeks. I wiped them away with the back of my hand.

“You’ll understand, Angel,” he said. “One of these days.” He grabbed the napkin, folded it up, and slipped it into his pocket. “I’ll just hold on to this for safekeeping.”

We sat together in silence for a couple of minutes. I continued to chew on my straw, fixing my eyes on the ocean.

Patrick got the hint and changed the subject. “So. Almost sixteen, huh?”

I nodded, still not looking at him. “Almost.”

“And you’ve been here a week?”

I nodded again, even though I couldn’t be sure. Time was weird now. I could feel it passing all around me. I watched the sun rise and fall just like always, but the minutes seemed to stretch on forever. Not in a boring way, like when I used to sit in European History drooling on my notebook waiting for the bell to ring. This place was like fast-forward and slow motion all at the same time.

“So what’s the word, hummingbird?” He gave me a hopeful smile. “Are we having fun yet?”

“Fun?” I snapped. “Is this supposed to be
fun
?”

“Why not?” He glanced over at the door. “It’s like I said. You know we can get out of here whenever we want, right?”

“And go where?”

He chuckled. “What do you think, String Cheese? That you’ve gotta sit here shoving pizza in your face all day every day until the end of time?”

“None of you people ever leave,” I grumbled, looking over at Crossword Lady. “It’s annoying that she’s in charge.”

He gave me a funny look. “Who said she was in charge?”

I didn’t get it. We were all just a bunch of kids. Somebody had to be in charge. Didn’t they?

“But if she’s not,” I said slowly, “then who?”

He leaned in real close and smiled like he had a secret he couldn’t wait to spill.

“You are, Cheeto,” Patrick said.
“You
are.”

CHAPTER 9

i was walking with a ghost

M
y mom would have one hundred percent murdered me if she knew I was flying down the Pacific Coast Highway on the back of a motorcycle with my arms wrapped around some kid I’d just met. Like real, live, actual murder.

But she didn’t know. And, in a weird sort of way, I didn’t care. It felt good to forget about everything that had happened to me, and it felt good to take a break from crying. It wasn’t like there was anything I could do about it now anyway. That’s one thing I learned real quick. You can obsess and obsess over how things ended—what you did wrong or could have done differently—but there’s not much of a point. It’s not like it’ll change anything. So really, why worry?

Plus, life after death was kind of, well,
fun
. It felt like that weird but awesome in-between place where you totally know you’re dreaming, but you also know there are still ten perfect minutes left before your alarm’s going to go off. (But in my case, the alarm is locked on eternal snooze. And the dream lasts forever.)

Patrick hadn’t wanted to let me on the bike with him, at first.

“Um, I don’t think so.”

“Come on.”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not your chauffer, that’s why.”

“Please?”

He looked me dead in the eye and grew quiet. I got the sense he wasn’t playing around. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea, okay?”

“That’s funny, because I think it’s a
great
idea.”

Little did he know, I was terrified with a capital
T
of motorcycles and always had been. They were loud and dangerous and Dad had so many stories about the awful bike injuries he’d seen in the ER. But my real fear—my true fear—came from somewhere else. Somewhere deeper.

I wasn’t about to tell Patrick, but the reason I was so scared of motorcycles was because, for as long as I could remember, I’d had a horrible recurring nightmare where I’d be riding on the back of a bike—my face and arms lifted up toward the bluest, calmest sky imaginable—and then
CRASH,
everything would go wrong. The sky would darken. The wind would pick up. I’d feel the driver begin to lose control. And then I’d hear the sound of screeching tires and crushing metal. I’d feel myself being ripped from the back of the bike, flying through billowing smoke and heat until suddenly, always at the last possible second, my eyes would fly open and I’d wake up, gasping for air.

Just like that.

Every time, always the same dream. Always the same feeling of zero control, zero gravity, zero chance of survival. Besides the fact that I’d never even touched a motorcycle, the weirdest part was that I always seemed to have the nightmare on the exact same day of the year: the Fourth of July.

And sometimes, the smell of smoke and burning fuel would stay with me all day, even through the fireworks.

But my stupid phobia didn’t matter anymore. Because no matter how you spin it, a girl can’t die twice.

In other words, I had nothing left to lose.

“Please?” I said. “Just one little ride.”

“What is it about
no
that you don’t understand?”

“What is it about
no
that your mom doesn’t understand?”

“Hold on. Did you just Your Mom Joke me?”

“Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t.”

He cracked a smile right then and I knew I had won.

“You’re sure you’re not afraid?”

I nodded.

Lies, lies, lies.

He gazed at me, his eyes full of concern. “And you’ll speak to me again even if you hate it?”

“I won’t.”

“You won’t speak to me?”

“No. I won’t hate it.”

In the end, I turned out to be wrong. I didn’t hate it. I
loved
it.

It was the most incredible feeling ever. Even better than the simultaneous rush of total calm and total exhilaration I always felt in the first millisecond of leaping from the high dive. The moment you realize you’re free.

It turned out there was an entire world waiting for me beyond those familiar pizzeria doors—just like Patrick promised—a world made up of old memories and dreams, some of which belonged to me and some of which did not. Smells were smellier. Colors were brighter. Chocolate was chocolatier. Days were longer, and nights were draped in starlight like I’d never even imagined.

The whole place was one big
Choose Your Own Adventure
novel. I slept when I felt tired (pizza booths are pretty comfortable, actually) and ate when I felt hungry and skipped when I felt like skipping. There was a theater down the road from Slice that only played my favorite movies, like
When Harry Met Sally
and
Sleepless in Seattle
and
You’ve Got Mail
and
Across the Universe
and (come on, don’t judge me)
Beauty and the Beast
. There was even a water park nearby with tons of different slides and a giant wave pool and the most amazing lazy river where I could nap in my inner tube all day, floating and drifting along in the sunshine.

But the real fun started when I learned how to make wishes. I mean
real
wishes. The kind where you squeeze your eyes shut and imagine the most insanely perfect beach and the most insanely perfect hammock, and then when you open your eyes, it’s all right there in front of you. I wished for a potbellied pig. I wished to horseback ride through green, grassy meadows and fall asleep under the stars. I even wished for Patrick to teach me how to surf—hilarious, considering he’s the least surfer-boy type of person ever and wouldn’t even take his bomber jacket off in the water.

“You’re weird, you know that?” I called to him from my board.

“So what?” he called back. “It helps me stay afloat!”

We sat on our boards until dawn, making fun of each other until the sun rose, all golden and perfect and peaceful.

The best part was, every single wish came true. Every single wish was better than the one before it. There were no worries. There were no problems or nightmares or troubles or fears. It wasn’t real life.

It was
better
.

Then one morning in the middle of breakfast—which in this case happened to be an Oreo milk shake—Patrick asked me a question that changed everything.

“So, do you want to get back at him?”

I paused, mid-slurp. Looked up. “What do you mean? Get back at who?”

He groaned and fell over on the table. “Seriously, Cleopatra? You’ve seriously already forgotten?”

Huh? What am I supposed to be remembering? And why’s he calling me Cleopatra?

He smacked his head when I didn’t answer. “My dear, you continue to amaze me.”

“Why?”

He reached over and grabbed my shake. “You’ve got Phase One
bad,
kid. Real bad. Luckily, you’re sort of cute when you’re in denial.” He took a slurp from the straw. “Oh, that is GOOD.”

“Hey!” I swatted at him. “Get your own!” My eyes wandered to his outfit, as they did from time to time, and I found myself cracking a smile.

He caught me staring. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.” I shook my head. “Never mind.”

“No.” He was suddenly interested. “Say it.”

I bit my lip. “It’s just that, um, jacket.”

He looked down. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Oh, nothing.” I stifled a giggle. “I mean, if you’re a fighter pilot. And it’s 1982.”

His mouth fell open. “I resent that. And anyway, like I’m about to take advice from a girl named after a big hunk of cheese.” He shook his head. “So as I was about to say before you went all Fashion Police on me: Does the word
payback
mean anything to you?”

I paused. “What, like revenge?”

“Sharp as a tack today, aren’t you, Cheeseball?”

“All right, enough with all the cheese jokes,” I said. “What about revenge?”

“Well,” he said, grinning. “I just thought, maybe you’d like to have a little fun is all.”

“And who, may I ask, are we revenging upon?”

“Oh, you know, Snuggle Pants,” said Patrick. “Schmoopity-Woopity. What’s-his-name.” His tone was mocking. Teasing. Annoying.

“Huh?” I said, making a face. “Who?”

“Wait a sec, I’ve got it,” he said. “Jason?”

What?

“Shoot, that’s not it,” he mumbled. “Was it Jonah?”

Wait.

“Jeremy?”

Ohmigod.

“Well shoot, this is going to drive me—”

“Jacob,” I whispered. My throat closed up and an old familiar ache—an ache I’d almost completely forgotten—slowly crept back into my chest.

“
That’s
it!” Patrick snapped his fingers and leaned back against the booth. “Thank heavens you remembered, Brie. That definitely would’ve kept me up all night.”

I was too stunned to notice his sarcasm.

Jacob
.

I hadn’t thought of him in what felt like forever. I put my hand over my heart. Perfectly still.

“He kinda deserves a little payback, don’t you think?” Patrick said.

Jacob’s face flashed through my mind. His eyes. His arms. His lips. His kisses. His words.
The last words I’d ever heard.

I.

DON’T.

LOVE.

YOU.

A chill shot up my spine.

“Hey.” Patrick leaned over and poked my arm. “You okay?”

“How long . . . ?” I stumbled over the words as reality sunk in. “How long have I been here?”

He held up his hands and counted silently on his fingers. “By my extremely scientific calculations . . . seventeen days.”

That’s ALL?

Patrick read the look on my face. “Feels longer, right?” He ran his hands through his dark hair. “That’s how I used to feel too. When I first got here.”

My stomach suddenly felt queasy.

Seventeen days.

“Which reminds me, since I did the math”—he grabbed an old cowboy hat from the shelf above us and threw it over his head—“Happy Halloween! Yee-haw!”

Halloween?

“But if that’s true,” I whispered, “then tomorrow’s my—”

“Birthday?” Patrick finished my sentence. “I know. Happy almost Sweet Sixteen.”

Unbelievable. Somehow, I’d completely lost track of time. I’d lost track of my family. My friends. My world.

How could I have forgotten my whole world?

A prickling sensation began to burn quietly at my fingertips. A weird buzzing; the slightest spark of electricity snapping at the back of my neck, just underneath my hair.

Jacob
.

He was the reason. HE had done this to me. It was his fault. All of it. Everything. More than everything.

An old forgotten feeling slowly crept in. Something I hadn’t felt in a while.

I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t lonely. I was
mad.

“Well?” Patrick said.

I locked eyes with the scruffy boy-angel sitting across from me, and for the first time, gave him a wicked little grin of my own.

“He’s going down.”