a shaken-awake Sonny Boy perched on my pillow, one front paw pointing straight at the damning evidence of the open window. She must have stuck her head out that window and spied the broken bushes where my ungainly, hurtling body had landed. She must have rushed to the garage and discovered the missing car and realized that her daughter was unaccounted for, possibly dead and certainly a liar.
In my imagination, I watched her as she ran back inside and grabbed the phone and coded my name, seeing it rise ghostlike on the screen . . . DENVER . . . the phone ringing and then connecting to a cheerful voice saying, âThe liar you have reached cannot be located, as her phone is turned off right now so she can talk to the man of her dreams before the tsunami hits and washes them both out to sea. Please leave a message at the sound of the beep.â
At this very moment, she was probably calling police and firemen and relatives and officials and news stations and hospitals and everyone she could possibly think of. And since she had no car to look for me, she might, in her terrorand desperation, be on foot right now, trying to flag down a ride through the chaos of that damaged city, because what choice did a mother of her quality have?
I should have called her. Sheâd still be terrified right now, but at least she would have a lock on my last location. At least she would have the sound of my voice one more time. At least I could tell her I loved her, something I didnât say so often anymore.
I was lying on my back at this point, the roof feeling rough against me, my bare feet cold in the night air, looking up at the stars.
âIâm sorry,â I said to my mother, wherever she was.
I heard Trevorâs drumming stop and felt the roof shift as he settled himself for the rest of the night. Then all was silent but for the sound of breathing and the occasional sniffle or cry as someone woke up and remembered that the world was both a whirling sphere and a cruel inflictor of sudden and staggering loss.
Croix. He had been breathing beside me hours earlier. And then he had died. Just like that.
My eyes welled up as I thought of him. I knew that our time together was short, too short to sit in the front row of his funeral and accept the flag, but that was the worst part of the whole sad tale to meâwe had something. Maybe it had taken him a year or two to get up the nerve to talk tome, but he had, hadnât he? And the way we had connected in that living room with voices and music all around us as a sneaky wave crept up the coastal shelfâthat was real.
His lips so close.
I cursed this wave for undoing what should have been done long before. Because I deserved to have a boyfriend like Croix. I deserved to walk down the hallway holding his hand. I deserved to be popular, and known, and seen, because if popularity was something bestowed on the dipshits at that party, then it was all a game, and I deserved to play.
I HAD ALWAYS been unsure about God, who he was and what form he took. Did God have a beard? On which side did he part his hair? Was his hair white, and would he ever consider using Grecian Formula? That was the problem with God. I couldnât think of him without thinking of a million questions. Like, why did he make the color burnt orange, the ugliest color on Earth? God could have prevented burnt orange, but he just stood by and let it happen.
Sometimes I had said disrespectful things about God and gotten absolutely no reaction from him. Did that mean that God was quietly pissed off and waiting for a chance to get me back? The giant wave may have pointed to option B, though I couldnât see why heâd punished a whole part ofa coastline just to smack one whippersnapper. And didnât God make me that whippersnapper? If God didnât want me to make fun of him, why wouldnât he have made me a saint like Audrey?
I imagined that after all this doubt and sassiness, I would get a
In my imagination, I watched her as she ran back inside and grabbed the phone and coded my name, seeing it rise ghostlike on the screen . . . DENVER . . . the phone ringing and then connecting to a cheerful voice saying, âThe liar you have reached cannot be located, as her phone is turned off right now so she can talk to the man of her dreams before the tsunami hits and washes them both out to sea. Please leave a message at the sound of the beep.â
At this very moment, she was probably calling police and firemen and relatives and officials and news stations and hospitals and everyone she could possibly think of. And since she had no car to look for me, she might, in her terrorand desperation, be on foot right now, trying to flag down a ride through the chaos of that damaged city, because what choice did a mother of her quality have?
I should have called her. Sheâd still be terrified right now, but at least she would have a lock on my last location. At least she would have the sound of my voice one more time. At least I could tell her I loved her, something I didnât say so often anymore.
I was lying on my back at this point, the roof feeling rough against me, my bare feet cold in the night air, looking up at the stars.
âIâm sorry,â I said to my mother, wherever she was.
I heard Trevorâs drumming stop and felt the roof shift as he settled himself for the rest of the night. Then all was silent but for the sound of breathing and the occasional sniffle or cry as someone woke up and remembered that the world was both a whirling sphere and a cruel inflictor of sudden and staggering loss.
Croix. He had been breathing beside me hours earlier. And then he had died. Just like that.
My eyes welled up as I thought of him. I knew that our time together was short, too short to sit in the front row of his funeral and accept the flag, but that was the worst part of the whole sad tale to meâwe had something. Maybe it had taken him a year or two to get up the nerve to talk tome, but he had, hadnât he? And the way we had connected in that living room with voices and music all around us as a sneaky wave crept up the coastal shelfâthat was real.
His lips so close.
I cursed this wave for undoing what should have been done long before. Because I deserved to have a boyfriend like Croix. I deserved to walk down the hallway holding his hand. I deserved to be popular, and known, and seen, because if popularity was something bestowed on the dipshits at that party, then it was all a game, and I deserved to play.
I HAD ALWAYS been unsure about God, who he was and what form he took. Did God have a beard? On which side did he part his hair? Was his hair white, and would he ever consider using Grecian Formula? That was the problem with God. I couldnât think of him without thinking of a million questions. Like, why did he make the color burnt orange, the ugliest color on Earth? God could have prevented burnt orange, but he just stood by and let it happen.
Sometimes I had said disrespectful things about God and gotten absolutely no reaction from him. Did that mean that God was quietly pissed off and waiting for a chance to get me back? The giant wave may have pointed to option B, though I couldnât see why heâd punished a whole part ofa coastline just to smack one whippersnapper. And didnât God make me that whippersnapper? If God didnât want me to make fun of him, why wouldnât he have made me a saint like Audrey?
I imagined that after all this doubt and sassiness, I would get a
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