Where the Staircase Ends(22)

A few times I tried to trick the stairs. The first time, I raised my foot and acted like I was going to keep moving forward, and at the last second I tried to jerk it back and turn around. Then I attempted to walk backwards, thinking maybe I could make it back down to the bottom and away from the steps that way. But no matter how hard I tried, I simply couldn’t do it. I was stuck facing forward with only two choices: climb the stairs or stand still, and I was too ramped up about everything that had happened to stand still.

It was hard not to think about where the steps might really be taking me. I joked about the hell thing, but I had to admit it was a real possibility. Not that I was some terrible person—I hadn’t killed anybody or anything. But I wasn’t exactly perfect, either.

Like church. I only went to church on the big holidays or when my grandmother came to visit and insisted the whole family attend mass with her. I grumbled about it the whole time, complaining that I didn’t even think I was Catholic and it wasn’t fair to make me go against my will. It just seemed like if God really wanted us to all go to church, he would have found a way to make it more entertaining instead of all sad and somber. Or at least picked some better music or something, right? But what if I was wrong? What if God was mad at me for not going to church?

Then there was the other stuff you’re not supposed to do, like coveting. I totally coveted. Like the time Sunny got two pairs of those amazing jeans that make everyone’s butt look fantastic, or when her dad caved and bought her the black bag we’d both drooled over for months. I was so jealous I could’ve spit green right then and there.

And I lied from time to time, and I had improper thoughts and what not, although anyone would after seeing Justin Cobb. If that kind of thing sent people to the boiling flames of Hades, then the entire female population of Morris High would have been right there next to me walking up the stairs to hell.

But mostly what I thought about was Alana James. I hadn’t forgiven myself for that one, so how could I expect God to?

Alana ranked right up there with Sunny on the list of things I wanted to forget, but her ghost kept popping up in front of me on the stairs, forcing the memories forward no matter how hard I tried to push them back. And I wanted to push them back more than anything—they were the kind of memories that deserved body bags and cement feet.

This time she stood smack in the middle of the steps, making it nearly impossible for me to pretend she wasn’t there. Her eyes were somber, boring into me.

Remember, her eyes said. Remember what you did to me.

I opened my mouth to shout her away, but nothing came out. The sight of her unsmiling face knocked the wind out of me, replacing the air in my lungs with the thick feeling of regret.

Her chubby cheeks glistened in the afternoon light, but she didn’t bother to reach a hand up and wipe the wetness away. Instead she stood there watching me, still as a statue, her dark hair tangling around her in a gusting wind I could not feel. Her hands clutched a birthday present, wrapped carefully in pink-and-purple lined paper and topped with a glittering silver bow.

She held it out to me. My guilty hands reached for it, and I felt the slickness of the paper beneath my fingers. It was clear a lot of time had gone into wrapping the gift—the stripes were lined up perfectly so that you had to lean in close to find where the paper had been cut, and the tape was trimmed into tiny, barely visible strips.

I knew what it was Alana wanted to show me. I knew what she wanted me to relive, and no matter how hard I tried to fight it, I knew she would make me remember. The present was an unwanted souvenir.

History was my least favorite subject but my most favorite class, because Sunny was always in full entertainment mode. We spent class time passing notes back and forth with crazy games and drawings scrawled across them. Sunny’s favorite class-time activity was hangman. I’d show up to history and a note would be sitting on my desk, folded meticulously into one of Sunny’s signature origami flowers or cranes. I’d keep it hidden under my desk so Mr. Montgomery couldn’t see what I was doing. Not that it mattered; between his coke-bottle glasses and general lack of interest in his classroom we were usually in the clear. She loved to design lengthy, complex puzzles that would take most of class to work through. The notebook page would be filled with blank spaces, and I’d pass my guesses back and forth to her while we fought to cover up our laughter. Alana James was one of her favorite puzzle subjects.

Like this one:

_ _ _ _ _ / .

Which meant: Alana is a butt monkey who belongs in a circus.

Or this one:

_/ _ / _ ?

/ . / .

Which meant: What’s better than Alana James? Anything. Even cancer.

They were a little juvenile, but that was what made them so funny. Plus they made the droning sound of Mr. Montgomery’s voice more palatable. If I had to sit through that class without Sunny’s notes to get me through the hour-and-fifteen-minute period, I would have impaled myself on Mr. Montgomery’s laser pointer, he was that boring.

One day I showed up to class as usual and found one of Sunny’s paper cranes waiting for me. I grinned the way I always did when I saw a note sitting on my desk and raised my eyebrow when I saw Sunny bouncing up and down in her chair, biting her lip to suppress a smirk.

I took my time opening it, dramatizing each movement because it drove her crazy. She almost fell out of her seat trying to get me to open it faster, her red head bobbing up and down with excitement as she motioned for me to hurry up.