We All Looked Up (25 page)

“It's just me,” Anita said.

But Misery didn't let her arm drop. “You here to finish the job?” Peter put his hand on his sister's elbow, forcing her to lower the bottle.

“She's a friend, Miz.”

Anita launched straight into it. “Peter, Andy was never dating Eliza. He lied. I went along with it because . . . well, it doesn't matter now. Anyway, this is the truth. She likes you. And she's waiting for you on the second floor. The stairway's just outside the dormitory.”

Nobody spoke for a good fifteen seconds. Then, imperceptibly at first, Peter began to smile. He stood up, and almost fell right back down.

“You're not going in there again,” Misery said. “It's not safe.”

Peter took the bottle of tequila out of her hand and began to walk back toward the barracks.

Misery looked to Anita. “I hope you're happy.”

“Don't worry. I'm not.”

But at least it was done. Eliza and Peter would get what they wanted—for all the good it would do them.

Anita left the navy base through the open front gate, then got in her car and drove as far as she could before she lost sight of the road entirely between the rain and her tears. She pulled over and dropped the seat back. Why not sleep here? There was no place in the world to call home anymore.

The rain was slowing. In a couple of hours, the sun would rise again. Less than two weeks left now, but Anita wouldn't have minded if Ardor came crashing down onto her car that very moment. What reason did she have to go on living? Andy would never forgive her for giving him away, even if he'd always known deep down that his stupid quest had been doomed from the start. It was the end of the first real friendship she'd ever had, and any possibility of something more than friendship. And beyond that, it was the end of the music they'd made together, which had lent some meaning to these last few desperate weeks.

Anita wouldn't ask the universe for a second chance, any more than she'd ask it for a second act. She knew now that no one was entitled to either one.

P
eter

PETER WAS DROWNING. HE TRIED
to push the water away, but it kept coming, heavy as stone. And now something had grabbed hold of his wrists, pulling him down even deeper. He was going to die here . . .

“Peter!”

His eyes opened. Not drowning, then: just the rain. “Samantha,” he said, and let his rigid muscles relax. His head was resting in his sister's lap. “I got tased, didn't I?”

“Yeah.”

“My head hurts.”

“That's because you landed on it. Hold up.” Misery stiffened. “Who the fuck is this?”

Someone was coming across the tarmac from the direction of the barracks. It looked like a soldier. Misery reached for the only weapon near at hand—a bottle of tequila—and held it by the neck like a hammer.

“You're gonna throw tequila at them?” Peter asked,

“Why not? I've got a good arm.”

The soldier, blurred by the rain, finally came close enough for them to make out her face—Anita Graves, dressed head to toe in camouflage.

“It's just me,” she said.

“You here to finish the job?” Misery asked.

Peter gently forced her to lower the bottle. “She's a friend, Miz.”

Anita took a deep breath, as if she were about to try to lift up a refrigerator. “Peter, Andy was never dating Eliza. He lied.”

Peter only vaguely listened to the rest of Anita's speech. If not for the throbbing pain in his forehead, he would've smacked himself. Of course Andy and Eliza weren't together! The little punk had only said that to get Peter out of the picture. It was a devious move, one that Peter should have been pretty pissed off about (to say nothing of the whole tasing thing). But how could he be angry now, when the path was finally clear?

He grabbed the bottle of tequila and swallowed a mouthful, both to numb the pain and to bolster his courage. Misery was trying to warn him away from the barracks, but nothing in the world could hold him back now. It took everything in his power not to sprint through the middle of the dormitory. Though most of the partygoers were so drunk they wouldn't have recognized their own parents, Peter played it safe, slinking slowly around the shadowy outskirts of the room. He suffered a bit of a dizzy spell on the stairs but managed to make it to the top without passing out.

On the upper floor, some kind of staticky 1920s music was playing. Peter took a final slug from the bottle and let it fall to the floor.

“Eliza?”

She was barely visible in the glow from the moon-suffused clouds—just a few silvery lines limning her cheeks and arms.

“Peter.”

“That music . . . is someone else up here?”

“Just Captain Morgan. He's cool.”

“Can he hear us?”

“Maybe. Come this way.”

He followed her through a doorway and into an empty office, closing the door behind him.

“Eliza, I'm sorry about before. Andy told me you two were a couple.”

“I don't care.” She stepped toward him.

“But that's why I was such an asshole.”

“Okay.” Another step.

“Because I thought you had a boyfriend.”

“Okay.” Another step.

They were close now. Next to her, he felt gigantic and clumsy. He reached out and touched her face.

“I haven't been good tonight,” Eliza said. “I've messed some things up.” He leaned down to kiss her. “I'm serious, Peter.”

“There's nothing you could have done that would matter to me now.”

“That's a big statement.”

“You want a big statement? I've been in love with you for a year.”

She laughed. “Don't throw that word around. You don't even know me. We'll probably be dead in a few days.”

“That's why I'm saying it now.”

“This is the cheesiest shit I've ever heard,” she said, but he could feel the smile against his palm, and then against his lips—warm and familiar, inevitable and profound: the sweetest collision he would ever know.

“The way I like to think of the universe, everything's an event. You, Peter Roeslin, are just an event. And so am I. And you and me, right here, is another one. On the right scale, a mountain is just an event. It's not a thing. It's a way that time manifests itself.”

“Is that supposed to be comforting?”

“It is for me.”

“More comforting than this?”

“Mmm. That's nice. But kissing's just an event too.”

“So is this event over? Should we get up?”

“Not yet.”

“But it's morning. The music's stopped. I think everybody's gone.”

“Ten more minutes and I'll be able to handle all that. Just talk to me. Tell me something. About yourself.”

“Like what?”

“The most horrible thing that's ever happened to you. Before all this, I mean.”

“Seriously? That's what you want to know? Horrible things?”

“We don't have time to take it slow, Peter. How many more long conversations are we going to get? Twenty? Thirty? We gotta get to the deep stuff right away.”

“I guess that's true. But I don't know what to tell you.”

“Sure you do.”

“I guess that's true too.”

“So?”

“My brother, my older brother.”

“What about him?”

“You know. He, uh, died.”

“How?”

“A car accident. His best friend was driving. He went through the windshield.”

“He was older than you?”

“Six years. What about you? What's your horrible thing?”

“My dad's dying.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Yeah.”

“Your parents are still together?”

“No. My mom lives in Hawaii with some other dude. We don't talk. We, uh—shit, I'm sorry.”

“Hey. It's okay.”

“I don't know why I'm losing it now. It's just—she kept trying to reach me, before the phones went down. I didn't listen to her messages. There were, like, a hundred of them.”

“I'm sure she understands. And you've still got time.”

“No, I don't.”

“You might.”

“Let's change the subject, okay? Worst thing you've ever
done
.”

“The worst thing?”

“You've ever done, yeah.”

“Hmm.”

“You can't even think of anything, can you? Mr. Goody-Goody—”

“Of course I can. It's just weird to say.”

“Go on.”

“It's you.”

“Me? You mean what happened in the photo lab last year? That's the worst thing you've ever done?”

“It's the most dishonest I've ever been. How are you laughing right now?”

“I'm sorry. It's just so sweet.”

“Stacy didn't seem to think so.”

“I'm sure. So are you going to ask me now?”

“I'm not sure I want to know.”

“I kissed Andy, Peter. Last night. I was so drunk, and you'd just shut me down. And I knew he wanted it so much, you know? He's actually a good guy, just kinda fucked up. Like all of us.”

“Yeah. I probably would have done the same as he did. I mean, if I loved you and you didn't love me back.”

“You know what, though? You wouldn't have. I think you may be the only good person in the whole karass. Or maybe you and Anita. I'm still not sure about her.”

“Karass?”

“Oh, it's Andy's thing. Well, Kurt Vonnegut's thing. It's a group of people who are connected, but, like, spiritually. Andy thinks we're all in a big karass together.”

“Even me? That's kinda sweet, actually.”

“Yeah, he's a little angel, that one. Anyway, I'm just glad you're not mad.”

“Nah.”

“Then I guess I also wanna tell you one other thing. I hooked up with somebody else, here in the detention center. I didn't have anyone to talk to, and I didn't know if I'd ever see you again, and it wasn't like we had sex or anything, but I feel really bad because—”

“Eliza?”

“Yeah?”

“You're here with me now, right?”

“Yeah.”

“That's all I care about.”

“Really? Are you sure? Because I'm describing some pretty serious sluttery right here.”

“Don't say that. We all do what we have to do to get by, right?”

“I guess.”

“The only thing I'll say is that you might feel better if you apologize.”

“I thought I did. You want it in writing?”

“Not to me.”

“Then to who? To Andy?”

“Yeah.”

“You want me to apologize to the guy who lied to you? The guy who
tased
you?”

“You kissed him. You led him on. I know how I'd feel if you did that to me and then ended up with somebody else. Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You're just so fucking nice. It's a little hard to believe.”

“I'm not that nice. I have all kinds of terrible thoughts.”

“Just thoughts, though. The rest of us have more than thoughts. Peter, are you religious?”

“Yeah.”

“Like, a Christian?”

“Like a Christian.”

“Seriously? That's nuts!”

“Why?”

“I don't know. It just is.”

“Okay.”

“You're offended.”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I'm not. But do you want to hear
why
I believe, or don't you care?”

“Let's hear it, Reverend Roeslin.”

“You sure? I might convince you, and then you'll have to start going to church and praying before all your meals and everything. It'll ruin your Saturday nights.”

“I'm willing to take that risk.”

“Okay. So, like, way before Jesus, there were all these different gods that people worshipped, and you had to do stuff for them—like burn baby lambs or whatever—or they wouldn't make your crops grow. And then all those gods became the one God, which made things simpler, but he still had all these rules—like you weren't supposed to love anyone else as much you loved him. But then Jesus comes along, and he's just a dude, but you were allowed to love him. You see?”

“Not really.”

“Jesus made it okay to love
people
. So it's not really religion at all. It's just—”

“Humanism.”

“What's humanism?”

“It's what you're talking about.”

“Oh. Cool.”

“All right, fine. You convinced me. I mean, I'm not giving up my Sunday morning cartoons or anything, but I
will
allow you to continue believing what you believe.”

“How generous of you.”

“You're welcome.”

“We should probably go.”

“Just a little longer. Just a little more of this . . .”

“Wait. I have a question for you now.”

“So ask it while I'm kissing you. . . .”

“It's an important question! Stop doing that!”

“Making out and important questions are not mutually exclusive, Peter.”

“Just listen for a second. This philosophy of yours, that everything is just an event, does that mean Ardor is just an event too?”

“Yep.”

“Death?”

“Yep.”

“Love?”

“Yep.”

“I'm not sure I like that. It makes this all feel kinda meaningless.”

“Well, let's be realistic. If Ardor lands, that's the end of you and me right there. And if not, then I'm going to New York in a few months, and you're going to Stanford. And you don't know me at all if you think a long-distance relationship is in our future. So yeah, this is just an event.”

“Great. That's fucking great.”

“Peter? Peter, lie back down. There's no reason to get worked up about it.”

“So then what's the point? Do I even matter to you?”

“Of course! I'm not saying this event matters any less than any other event.”

“Which just means you don't think any of it matters at all. It matters to me!”

“Okay, think of it another way. It also means you and me together, here, in this office, is every bit as important as a mountain. It's as important as the end of the fucking world.”

“Yeah?”

“So come back to bed.”

“You mean floor?”

“Bed, floor—what's the difference? Come back to me.”

“Fine.”

“Now kiss me one more time, Peter.”

“Okay.”

“One more.”

“Okay.”

“One more.”