He's dead then.
That's it.
He's really and truly dead.
Some part of me hoped that, like in a good book, his death was just a cliffhanger, some tease from the author that would resolve itself in due time. But this isn't a book, it's real life, and nothing is the way it's supposed to be. I don't get to reset the things I don't like, start over as if I'm living in a video game. No. I have to accept it.
I have to accept that he's never coming back.
Plugging in my headphones, I curl up on my bed and blast the saddest music I can find, as if listening to other people's problems will make mine go away. But no matter how much I cry, I can't seem to shed the sick melancholy inside of me. No matter how many sweaters and blankets I pile on top of myself, I can't seem to chase away the cold.
The boys stop by, but their moods aren't much better. We end up sitting together in my room with some dumb movie playing. Tobias cracks the window and lights up a joint—probably one of Spencer's—and we all take turns exhaling through the screen so my dad won't smell it. Well, everyone but Church.
He just sits quiet and contemplative in the rocking chair near the closet, but he doesn't rock. He sits still as the statue he looks so much like, his amber eyes gazing at nothing while he sips a coffee.
“I'm guessing there'll be announcement on Monday?” Micah asks quietly, lounging on my bed. The twins have made themselves at home in a way that would be charming if I weren't so deep in mourning I feel like I might drown. They're sitting on either side of me, ankles crossed, hands steepled on their chests, identically posed. I wonder if it's just force of habit, like they had to practice their twin routine, or if they do it without even meaning to.
“An announcement?” Tobias asks, scoffing, his red-orange hair disheveled, big purple circles under his eyes. He clearly hasn't been sleeping. Sleeping's the only thing that's gotten me through all this shit in the first place. “About the 'suicide'?” He makes quotes with his fingers. “It's not Spencer, I'm telling you.”
“If it's not Spencer, then where is he, and why has he disappeared from social media completely? He's not answering texts or phone calls, and his parents won't respond to any of my messages.” Micah spits this back with a caustic bite to his voice that makes me cringe.
“That doesn't mean anything. Spencer's Mom is impossible to get a hold of on the best of days, and his dad …” Ranger trails off and shrugs his shoulders. I don't know much about Spencer's father except that he owns a pharmaceutical company. Shit, I don't know much about Spencer himself, let alone his family. “And we all know Jack is a total waste of time.”
Jack, huh? I’m guessing they’re talking about Spencer’s older brother, the infamous drug dealer of Adamson Academy fame. Sounds like a real stand-up guy.
“I asked my mother to look into it,” Church begins with a sigh, “but she's in some sort of feud with Sheena, and can't get a hold of her. She did admit that there's some hush-hush gossip about the suicide, but she didn't catch a name. The parents want their child's identity withheld, so they can mourn.”
I glance between Church and Ranger. I’m pretty sure Sheena is Spencer’s mom, but what do I know? That’s how little I actually knew … know the guy.
“Not a lot of people would want their supposedly suicidal child's name dragged through the mud.” Ranger's voice is low, and a bit growly, like gravel rolling down a hill. He's understandably sensitive about the whole thing. His dark hair isn't as shiny as usual, sticking up at strange angles, like he hasn't showered in days. I can't blame him. Neither have I. Pretty sure I smell like B.O., but I don't care. It doesn't matter.
“Mm.” Just one sound from Church, and then he stands up to refill his water glass from the pitcher on my desk. Dad brought it in here for us, and then he tried to leave the door cracked which just pissed me off. Like I'd be doing anything sexual after my friend just died. Asshole. Also, note to parents: cracking the door doesn't actually stop teenagers from having sex. We have sex. Get over it. Well, most of us do … I have yet to cross that threshold, but it's not because Dad is breathing down my neck. I made that decision for myself.
“I can't believe tomorrow's Sunday,” I mumble, hating that the vacation's coming to such an abrupt end. Spring break is supposed to be fun. It's supposed to be spent surfing and lying in the hot sun, drinking and smoking and dancing, hooking up, going to concerts on the beach. How did I end up here, spending it in a dreary old academy while it poured rain outside, and I cried my eyes out every night?
