Page 84 of Flickerstate

I’m not sureanybodywould, but I’m also not picking a fight about the average human’s moral fiber after he agreed to save my life. “Thank you,” I say, even though it’s totally inadequate. “Um. Now I think I need to collapse again.”

He bites his lip reluctantly. “The orientation for new Archive assistants is the Monday after break. I won’t get access till then. We can meet up that evening to talk about what I’ve found, but in the meantime, I’ll start reading Highwall’s scientific publications. Lucasson’s and Miura’s too. Anything in the public domain. Maybe that’ll orient me in the Archive—help me find what I need to find.”

I nod. “I’ll look too. Text you if I notice anything.”

“All right. See you after break.” He looks frustrated, as if this casual goodbye grates on him. “Sleep well. Don’t—don’t dream.”

***

After he leaves, I stare at the bare wall where he was standing, next to the Caravaggio poster I brought from home. I should feel grateful that he’s helped me find a path forward. And I am grateful, hopeful. But hope is always also torture. If hope keeps glimmering in front of me, I have to keep chasing it: struggling, sweating, bleeding, maybe failing again.

And I’ve dragged Vik headfirst into my mess.

I turn off the light, crawl into bed, and pull the sheets over myface. Maybe my ceiling will collapse and kill me, but it’ll collapse whether I stare at it or not.

***

Vik’s parting wish is good luck. I sleep for sixteen hours straight. No nightmares. A warm, dark blank.

The next day, when I shuffle gummy-eyed into the common room, Bree and Candace have already left. Probably for the best. I suspect they won’t talk to me anymore, but I’d rather not stumble into full-on, 360, IMAX proof of that suspicion.

Thanksgiving break passes, slow and surreal. The November weather is dull gray, air cool and thick, like oatmeal left too long on the counter. I wake up late every morning and wade through fog to the dining hall, catching the tail end of break’s reduced breakfast hours. Until lunch, I read ahead in my textbooks and work on college applications. It feels like playacting, like I’m pretending to be a girl with a future. But the last time I called Dad, he mustered the energy to scold me for missing most early-decision deadlines. So I make a list of colleges, reaches and safeties, and I send Mom emails about the FAFSA. I write supplemental essays about challenges I’ve overcome and try to suppress morbid giggles, thinking about the challenge that might kill me. Sometimes I fail and laughter escapes me, hollow and echoing, like I’m my own jolly hangman.

After lunch, I wander campus until I find a new place to do research. On Monday I discover a trapdoor to Lucasson’s roof, aflat expanse bounded by turrets and intricate cresting, lacy iron contorted into fanned peacock tails. Some adventurous students before me left three camp chairs and a half dozen empty beer cans up here. I kick the cans aside and nestle down in the middle camp chair. Pull my laptop from my backpack. TypeVictoria Highwallinto Google Scholar.

She published 166 peer-reviewed articles before she died. Good thing I read fast.

On Tuesday, it rains. I take shelter in the fine arts building’s black box theater, cocooned in dark warmth as water roars from the sky. On Wednesday, I spread a towel on the damp tennis courts and read belly-down with my feet kicking air. Why not.

On Thursday, Thanksgiving proper, I walk to the edge of campus, wet mashed leaves sticking to my tennis shoes, and call my family. I’m half hoping the forest will block my cell-phone signal.Oops, you’re breaking up! Can’t hear you! Bye!

But no.

So I put on my brave face, my game face. When Jo asks me how it’s going so meaningfully that I know (a) she wants to hear about the Archive and (b) Mom’s in earshot, I tell her, “Don’t worry. My plan’s in motion.”

She tells me about life at Saint Cat’s and then passes me to Dad.

Dad quizzes me about my college applications with a hoarse, cracked voice. I can’t help but wonder: How bad are his dreams now? Did he mess up his throat screaming himself awake? I don’t ask, though. I fake a cocky attitude, betting him every college will accept me, trying to make him laugh. And he does laugh—whichstarts him coughing, hacking wetly.

Phlegm?Blood?

The moist tearing noises fade into the background. Someone’s grabbed the phone.

“Norah,” Mom says.

Before I know what’s happening, I start to sob.

I can’t see. I can’t talk.

Dimly, as if down a long tunnel, Mom speaks, pauses, speaks. Faking a normal conversation so Dad and Jo don’t realize I’ve lost it. I don’t know whether she’s doing it for them or me. Either way, I’m grateful. She hates lying, and this comes close. She’s bending her own rules to protect us.

When my sobs peter out, she asks, falsely casual, “Can you say hi to Kev and Irene, or do you need to work now?”

I swallow till I’m sure my voice won’t shake. “I’ve got it. I can talk to them. Thanks.”

“Yeah.” She sighs. She sounds so old, so tired. “Happy Thanksgiving, Norah.”

***