The Astonishing Color of After(89)

“No,” I told him. “I haven’t.”

I guess I knew what was coming. His face loomed close, his lips first finding the edges of mine before sliding in toward the center. He was eager with his tongue, and he didn’t taste great. There was a filminess in his mouth and an unpleasant tang that must’ve been the alcohol.

He was a little breathless as he pulled away. “You’re so beautiful, you know? You’re, like, exotic.”

Every muscle in my body went taut. “I’m not,” I said flatly. “I’m American. That’s not exotic.”

He raised his hands. “Didn’t mean to offend. I’m just saying, you’re gorgeous.”

Weston leaned in again, but I moved aside before he could make contact. I handed his jacket back to him and turned away.

Axel was standing right next to the door when I stepped back into the gym, like he’d known that that was where I would be. Had he seen me with Weston? Every inch of me filled with rhodamine red.

“I’m ready to go whenever you are,” he said, not meeting my eyes.

“Oh, sure,” I said. “We can go now.”

If I’d thought the ride to the formal was weird, the ride back was worse. Axel said nothing at all to me until he pulled into my driveway, at which point the only words he spoke were “See ya.”

Upstairs, I shed Cheslin’s dress and fell back on my bed spread eagle. I ran my fingers over my lips and felt my stomach curling tighter and tighter. There was some strange misery twisting inside me, and it took me a long time to figure out what it was.

For the last five years, I’d been convinced that Axel would be my first kiss.





89





Sleep.

Heavy, empty, clear, dark sleep. Buttery and soft and gentle and delicious sleep.

Melting into the blackest black. Thank goodness.

First comes the laughter. It’s a bright and melodic sound. Happy as a fresh bouquet.

It echoes.

Echoes.

Echoes.

And somewhere in the echoing it begins to change. The melody warps. The laughter stumbles and chokes and slips into a sob. The quietest sob. But it gets louder, turns hoarse and gasping.

“Leigh,” the voice cries.

And the blackest black begins to fade. It starts to glisten. The color shifting and turning until it’s the deepest red. The slick, wet, pulsing red of an artery letting go.





90





The sun rises. Forty-eight days.

Dad hasn’t responded to the email. I wonder if his phone is dead. I wonder if he got so caught up talking with a colleague or working on some project that he’s lost track of time.

When I slide out of bed, everything blackens and blurs; the floor shakes just the tiniest bit. Soft morning light casts my shadow onto the wall, and I see my silhouette morph into a winged beast. The wings stretch wide, and just as suddenly they fold in again. My shadow shrivels back down to the shape of myself.

I can still smell the blood. I can still hear the sobbing.

Only a dream only a dream only a dream.

“Leigh.”

My eyes sting and my head hurts. I need more sleep—

No, I’ll sleep after I’ve found my mother.

Open the door and a weird smell hits me in the face, dark and earthy and aged. I step slowly into the hall. That scent gathers in the corners, trying to stick my attention. It’s got me—I have to find the source. The smell reels me in, down the hallway and toward the bathroom, where it’s the strongest. Someone left the door open, and I can hear a waterfall roar before I even step inside.

The water is crashing and steam rises above the shower curtain, which has been pulled all the way across the bathtub.

“Hello?”

Nobody answers me. What am I going to find back there?

Mucky dread pools in my stomach. I count to three, and yank the curtain aside.

Water… and blood.

No, not blood. What my eyes are seeing is not liquid. It’s not puddling or congealing. There in the bottom of the tub is a thick layer of feathers, dark and drenched, sticky and shining red. The water drums them flat with hard splats that make me cringe. I wonder if there are enough feathers down there to coat an entire bird.

“Waipo,” I call over my shoulder. “Waipo!” I hear her shuffling down the hall as fast as she can.

My grandmother’s still in her pajamas. “Shenme?” She blinks the sleep out of her eyes, looks down at the tub and back at me. Her forehead knits tightly together.

I remind myself: It’s not blood. Just feathers. But the image of blood is still there in my mind, stuck like gunky residue. The tub still looks grisly.

My grandmother places her hands on my shoulders; she can see the panic in my face.

I don’t understand the meaning of a bathtub full of feathers. I don’t want this to be some kind of goodbye message. An ending to the note my mother never finished.

Where the hell is the bird?

“Lai chi zaocan,” says my grandmother. Come eat breakfast.

Doesn’t she see all the feathers? She smiles at me uncertainly, gesturing in the direction of the dining table.

“Wo bu e,” I tell her. I’m not hungry.

I pull on my sneakers and let myself out of the apartment. Is this what it’s like to go crazy? Why can’t Waipo see the feathers?