This Is Where the World Ends(48)

Dewey is quiet for a while before he asks, “You sure you want to know?”

“What do you mean?” The words feel slow, deliberate. I am learning to talk. I am remembering the existence of certain words.

“I mean,” Dewey says, “I mean—nothing. Never mind.”

“What? I f*cking hate when you do that.”

“Just leave it alone, Micah,” he says. “Just let her be dead. You’ll probably forget right after I tell you anyway, so it doesn’t even matter.”

He reaches for the bottle, and I hand it to him. “Fuck,” he says. Oh, right. Empty. “You *,” he says, and then he throws the bottle over the edge. “Look, Micah. The night of the bonfire, you—I mean, we—”

“You punched me,” I say. “You broke my head open.”

He goes quiet. He clears his throat. “Look, Micah, you’re a suspect because you were with her. You guys were alone, which was f*cking stupid of both of you, because no one knows that you’re on, like, speaking terms. No one knows what you were doing. Are you listening? Dude.”

I want to look over the edge. I want to see if it was the bottle that shattered or the ice, or the world. Or my head. It might be my head, honestly. But the world is tilting or spinning or falling or all three

and suddenly the air is colder and stuck in my chest and—

But then Dewey’s hand is on my collar and choking me back, and I grin at him and say, “Hey. Thanks. You just saved my life. Again.”

He’s gasping and telling me to f*ck myself, and he’s so close and Janie’s back again, finally back, her voice in my ear and her breath tickling my neck, whispering.

“I keep trying to tell you,” she says. “I told you he was in love with you.”

Dewey’s eyes are blue. Very, very blue.

And then I’m kissing him, and all I can think is that I must be very, very drunk, and that he tastes like cigarettes and shitty wine.

On the night of the bonfire, I was walking to my car, and Dewey caught my arm. I wobbled and almost fell, and then shook him off.

“What the hell, man? Are you following me?”

Dewey doesn’t pull his cigarette out to answer. “Jesus, Micah. How much have you had? Do you not remember texting me? Give me the keys.”

He tries to reach into my pocket, and I almost swing at him.

I remember the cold and the dark, and the way Dewey was lit by the tip of his cigarette. I remember this, the anger; the pounding, pressing fury at the spot where my brain stem met my spine.

But not why.

“Dammit, Micah, just get in the car. I want to go to bed.”

His hand is on my arm again and I think about what Janie said, how Dewey was in love with me the way I was in love with her, and how shitty that was. How shitty it all was.

“Get off me,” I snap. “Stop hitting on me, Dewey. I’m not f*cking interested.”

He is frozen. His hand is still on my arm, but it’s starting to hurt.

“What did you say?”

“I said, stop f*cking hitting on me—”

Then he punched me.

My head breaks open. It f*cking bursts.

“Fuck you,” he spits. His eyes are eclipsed. “Just—f*ck you, Micah.”

I squint, and the universe lurches before it focuses on his face.

“She said you were in love with me,” I mumble. The fire is too hot. The lights are too bright. The world is melting.

“She’s a goddamn f*cking bitch, Micah!”

I am cracking. I am already falling apart.

“She’s psychotic, she can’t stand the idea of sharing you, and you just keep going back to her. You always go back. Why do you think she pulls you away every time I ask you to hang out? God, Micah. Just because—god, like I could see you panting after her and love you, like I could see the f*cking toxic way you treat each other and—f*ck it. Fuck you.”

It’s the last thing I remember. I wake up in the hospital.

The sun is huge and everywhere and burning my eyes out of their sockets.

“Oh, hell no. No. We’re not doing this shit again.”

But we do. Dewey pushes me, I fall, and this time, he lets me because he’s already leaving. Gone. My head hits the ground and the sun explodes, and I know what will happen next. Or maybe what already happened.

The fire and the girl. I know what happened.



THE JOURNAL OF JANIE VIVIAN

Once upon a time, a little girl cried Woolf.

Down in the village, people heard, but no one went to help.

“The wolves around here are nice wolves,” said one of the villagers. “They wouldn’t hurt a soul.”

“She just wants attention,” said another. “There probably isn’t a wolf at all.”

“Maybe she was wearing a red hood,” offered another. “Red attracts wolves. Everyone knows that. If she was wearing red, she was just asking for it.”

“She was probably flirting with the wolf,” yelled another from the back. “She flirts with all the wolves!”

And so the villagers ignored her and went on with their lives.

From then on, the little girl held her breath and her tongue. She carried matches in her pockets, so that if the villagers didn’t come the next time she cried wolf, maybe they’d show up for the fire.