This Is Not a Test (10 page)

“Stop it.”

“But you went out there to die, didn’t you? So who cares.”

I turn my face away from him. He’s right. Who cares. Maybe I’m infected. I try to listen to what’s happening inside me. If there’s any part of me that’s dying and becoming something rotten but more purposeful than what I am now.

“You went out there to die, didn’t you.”

I close my eyes.

“Sloane.”

I open them.

“Yes.”

He moves away from me like I
am
infected, and then he kicks his chair. Hard. It rattles into the wall and I flinch and he whirls around so fast, my hands automatically fly up to my face.
Don’t hit me.
It’s such a bad thing to do. He knows I think he’d hurt me and his eyes widen and he steps back.

“You let me go out there with you,” he says. “You
risked
my
life
—”

“I wasn’t going to let you die—”

“Oh, fuck you, Sloane—”

“I
wasn’t
! I didn’t—”

“Well, it came just a little too close for my comfort—”

“
You
wouldn’t let me go! I wanted to go and you wouldn’t let me—”

“If you want to die, do it like a normal person—slit your wrists or something! Jesus!” Too much. I press my fingers into my temples and fight the urge to puke. He grabs pills from the table beside me and holds them out to me. I eye him warily. “It’s Tylenol. Just take it.”

I take the pills, swallow them dry.

“That man out there,” he says. I pick at my blanket. Maybe if I act disinterested enough he’ll stop talking. “He’s dead because of you. Think he wanted to live?”

“It could’ve been me,” I say. “But you wouldn’t go back inside without me.”

“Because I couldn’t believe what I was hearing—”

“
Why?
Why couldn’t you? Have you
seen
it out there, Rhys? There’s nothing out there anymore, there’s
nothing
—”

“That’s such bullshit, Sloane! And even if it wasn’t, you don’t get to decide that for me—”

“And
you
don’t get to decide that for
me
!”

Stalemate. He knows I’m right. He digs his hands into his pockets and tosses a crumpled piece of paper at me and then he leaves. I open it up. It’s water-stained, the handwriting mostly melted, save for a few words here and there. My suicide note to Lily.

I’m struggling to stay awake when Grace comes in. I don’t want to close my eyes because every time I do I see the man, I see the dead girl, I see Rhys kicking the chair against the wall. But mostly it’s the man, staggering around the parking lot calling out for his friend? Lover? Brother? Father? It cuts through me. Did he want to live? Was he fit to live? Was that my call to make? I have to push what I’ve done all the way to my toes, as far from my head as it can get, otherwise, I’ll never be able to let it go.
Murderer.
That’s what Grace and Trace call Cary, but it’s not Cary, is it. It’s me. That’s what I’m thinking when I hear Grace’s footsteps and then she’s standing in the door. She makes a concentrated effort not to look directly at me.

“Rhys said you might not want to see anyone.” I’m trying to figure out what else Rhys might have said when she continues. “But I wanted to see you.”

I try to guess what’s coming next.
He said you went out there to die. He said you’re crazy. He said you’re a risk to the rest of us. He said you’re a murderer.

“He said the man was hurt. Dying.” She pauses. “He said it wasn’t my dad.”

So he didn’t out me.

“It wasn’t your dad,” I say.

She exhales like now she can believe it. She crosses the room and sits on the edge of my cot. She picks at her fingernails for a while before saying, “I don’t understand you.”

“What’s there to understand?”

“You didn’t … you didn’t do it because of what I said to you, did you? Because you wanted to make it up to me?”

“Does it matter?”

“I didn’t want it on me if you’d died.”

“I made the choice. It wouldn’t have been on you,” I say. “Like your parents.”

“Shut up.”

“They offered to go first.”

“Shut up, Sloane.”

“We both saw it happen.”

“Oh, so you think because you went out there you can say this shit to me,” she says, collecting herself. “It doesn’t work that way.”

I shrug and close my eyes again. I want to sleep. I want her to leave so I can do it. I let myself doze, feel my breathing even out.

After a while, she moves from the cot.

“You know what I hate?” she asks, and I surface enough to ask her. “The way everyone talks about it. How my parents
chose
to go into that alley, like they were aware of the fact they might die. But they wouldn’t have done it if they thought there was the remotest chance. No one thinks about that.”

“But they did do it,” I say.

“Because they thought it was
clear,
” she says, and then she pushes my hair away from my face and it’s such a tender gesture, it confuses me. It’s so at odds with the harshness of the words coming out of her mouth. “There was
no way
they would have gone into that alley first if they thought it was too dangerous because they had
us.
Why do you think they let Cary lead the way that whole time when they were the adults? They did it so if anything happened, he died.
Not
them. They went in that alley because he told them it was clear and he was wrong.”

“He’s sorry.”

“If he was sorry, he would’ve gone out there tonight. Oh, and Trace wants to thank you.” Her voice breaks. She exhales. “I think you made him finally understand that they’re dead.”

I curl up onto my side and stay as still as possible until she finally leaves and then I breathe so quietly, I can’t hear myself. I pretend I’m dead. Eventually everything disappears.

But when it comes back, it comes back as strange, uneven footsteps.

Someone entering the room. A rough, calloused hand against my cheek. It doesn’t belong to anyone in this building I can think of. Fingertips trace my face and I think I must still be asleep and dreaming, but I don’t want this dream, whatever it is, so I turn my face away from the touch and then the footsteps retreat and I realize I
am
awake. I sit up fast, bleary-eyed, and stare at the open door to the nurse’s office. From here, the hall seems empty, seems cold. Was I awake? I get up slowly, my body groaning, and pad out of the office. I stand in the hall, unsure of my next steps. It’s dark and I feel exposed and I want to know who touched me because the more awake I get the more awake I’m sure I was when it happened and I can’t deny the familiarity of the touch but I need to deny its reality.

I walk past the administration office, guiding myself by shadows. I stand at the barricades against the front entrance and try to remember what it felt like to come through the doors every day when this was just a school. I can’t.

And then my whole body goes rigid.

The charged feeling of another presence in the air. I step forward, my eyes traveling over nothing. I bring my hand to my face and move back down the hall, the way I came, when I get another weird feeling, like I’m being watched. And then a musky scent coats the inside of my throat. My chest tightens. It feels like I’m being wrapped in plastic. I wonder if I’ll remember him forever, if nothing will disappear the feel of his hands, his scent.

“Dad,” I say.

The hall crackles with my voice, breaking the spell. I fumble back to the nurse’s office and sit on the edge of my cot, waiting for the invisible hand that’s squeezing my heart to let it go. I grab the flashlight and turn it on its lowest setting and it catches my note to Lily on the table. I unfold it and smooth it out over and over until I calm down.

I wonder if she hears him where she is now, if she hears his voice and his footsteps in her dreams. I wonder if she hears him when she’s awake or if she stopped hearing him as soon as she left, if everything got more okay the more distance she put between us. Or maybe the voice and the footsteps she hears are mine. I hope they are. I hope I’m the ghost that belongs to her.

“Ready to join the land of the living?”

I wince. Even Cary cringes as soon as it’s out of his mouth.

“I guess,” I say.

He brought me clothes from the drama department. A plaid men’s shirt and a pair of jeans that don’t fit. I look rural. The buttons of the jeans dig uncomfortably into my abdomen. I changed into them in the little bathroom across the room and when I came out, he was still there, waiting to ask me that. Am I ready.

“What’s it like out there?” I ask. “I mean … outside.”

“There are a few stragglers, but they’re mostly in the streets. They haven’t gone back to the doors, which is good,” he tells me. “We covered the windows again, just in case. Do you feel okay? You were pretty out of it when we brought you in here.”

The bandage on my head itches. It also looks stupid, but it would be ungrateful to say so. The side of my face is scratched, red. My cheek is bruised. Lots of bruises have exploded all over my body in the last twenty-four hours. I feel like I was in a minor car accident but I tell him I’m fine and he says, “I’ll bet,” and then we both stand there uncertainly. He stares at me for so long, it makes me prickly and hot.

“What?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I was just surprised you were the one who went out there.”

“Everyone was.”

“Yeah, but it probably should’ve been me.”

“Why would you even say that?”

“Because that’s what Grace and Trace keep telling me. I don’t know. Now Trace is saying I almost had your blood on my hands too.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

He exhales slowly. “You mean that?”

“It wasn’t about you, Cary.”

“What was it about?” I look away from him. And then he says, “Rhys told me.”

“Rhys told you what?”

“About the man out there. What you did. Rhys said he was half crazy and that he would’ve jeopardized us if you brought him in. Now he’s—he’s one of the stragglers…”

So the man turned. My eyes burn. I don’t want to talk about it with Cary, though, so I twist the topic back around to Grace and Trace.

“They’re in mourning. They just need to get through it…”

“
Everyone
’s in mourning,” he says. “There’s a whole
world
out there to mourn. The only difference between them and us is they got their parents a little longer and the only reason they survived as long as they did was because of
me
and—” He struggles to force the next words out. “I apologized to them and they never once thanked me for getting them this far.”

“They’re probably not going to.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not holding my breath.”

It’s quiet for a minute and then I kind of lie. It’s not a bad lie, though. Maybe it will make him feel better. I look him in the eyes and I say, “Thank you.”

It doesn’t have the desired result. It doesn’t make him feel better. Instead, Cary seems to get sadder. He forces a half smile at me, but I see through it.

“Let’s go back,” he says.

When I get to the auditorium, everyone looks at me and that makes it feel more like high school than anything. Before anyone can speak, Trace crosses the room and hugs me. It hurts. He doesn’t speak, just holds me until Rhys finally says, “I went out there too.”

“And you got your pat on the back.” Trace releases me and when he looks at me, his eyes are all warmth. “Thank you for what you did for us, Sloane.”

“Forget it.” I want everyone to forget it.

“I want you to know it means something to me that you tried.” He looks past me and the warmth disappears from his eyes. “Unlike some people.”

“Fuck you,” Cary says tiredly.

“Who’s got breakfast?” Rhys asks. “I did it yesterday. Not doing it today.”

“I do,” Trace says.

Surprising. I don’t think Trace has gotten breakfast once since we got here, and it’s not like there’s anything to prepare. Grab packaged food, an assortment of drinks, toss on tray. He jogs over to the stage and hoists himself up, disappearing behind the curtain.

“Kitchen’s the other way,” Rhys calls. No sooner is it out of his mouth than Trace reappears with—the whiskey. “That’s not exactly what I had in mind when I said breakfast.”

“Why didn’t we get drunk on this the day we found it?” Trace hops offstage. “What exactly are we waiting for again? I don’t think we have time to wait on this.”

“All we have is time,” Grace says.

“Yeah, but who knows how long that is? Fuck tomorrow and the day after and the day after that.” He opens the bottle, moves to take a swig, and stops. He holds it out to Rhys and me. “It should be you two first. For what you did.”

“You’re a douchebag,” Cary says.

Trace ignores him and pushes the bottle at us. Rhys takes the whiskey first, brings it to his mouth, and drinks it easily. He hands the bottle to me. I mimic Rhys but unlike him, I nearly choke. It burns all the way down. I hand the bottle back to Trace. He drinks and hands it to Grace, who grudgingly passes it to Cary after she takes her swig. We go in a circle. Harrison has such a hard time with it, he grabs a bottle of juice from the kitchen to cleanse his palate. In that moment, he looks too young to be alive.

“Pussy,” Trace says.

Grace elbows him. “Better than wasting it.”

And then we realize this is it as far as booze goes, at least. A bottle of whiskey. This is all we have. It’s unlikely there will be any more hidden around the school, waiting to be found.

Trace sets the bottle on the floor and we all have this convoluted discussion about how much we should drink, if we should just go for it or if, you know, moderation is the key.

“It should be fair,” Cary says.

“Hey, if life was fair, you wouldn’t be here,” Trace says. Cary doesn’t rise to it. I feel so bad for him today. “Also, fun isn’t always fair.”

“Well, we’re not staying sober while you get wasted,” Rhys says.

“Now
that’s
a good idea,” Trace says, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t rouse the rest of us into agreeing with him. I don’t know who says
drinking games
first but someone does, and that is how we all end up on the floor playing I Never. Trace seems really satisfied about this turn of events, so maybe he’ll have some kind of edge on the rest of us. Maybe he’s done everything or maybe he’ll just lie and say he has. He starts us off, anyway.