Dad tilted to the right and ripped one. “Sorry,” he said, but he wasn’t. “You’re really considering community college? I assumed with everything you’ve gone through you’d want to flee Cloud Lake the day after graduation.”
Everything I’d gone through meant Tommy and the plane crash and my parents’ divorce, even if Dad refused to outright say so.
“It’s only one idea. Why waste the money on an expensive school when I have no idea what I want to study?”
“That’s what college is for. I started as a sociology major before I fell in love with literature.” Dad furrowed his brow. “There’s no shame in feeling uncertain about your future. I have faith you’ll find your path.”
“Whatever.” My phone vibrated, and I imagined Lua yelling at the screen. “I’ll be fine. It’s Renny you should worry about. He’ll be lucky to make it out of basic training with his fingers and toes intact.”
Dad’s head slumped forward. He stared at his hairy belly. “I worry about both my boys,” he said. “Why do you think I’m bald?”
• • •
Lua Novak had crawled out of her mother’s womb ass first and already a rock star. We met in sixth grade after she moved to Cloud Lake from Phoenix, AZ. She was bossy, foul-mouthed, a part-time kleptomaniac, and she’d fit in perfectly with me, Tommy, and Dustin.
Back then, Lua was “she” full-time. In ninth grade Lua began occasionally dressing like a boy. She informed us we should use whatever pronoun felt most appropriate for how she’d dressed that day. I’d understood the change wasn’t a phase and had worried how others would treat her, but most people rationalized her behavior as the eccentricities of a future rock star.
I pulled up in front of Lua’s house. He ran down the driveway, opened the back passenger door of my lime-green Chevy hatchback, and threw his bag and guitar across the seat.
“What are you wearing?” I asked.
Lua slammed the back door, opened the front, and slid into the passenger seat. “You don’t like it?”
“It” consisted of a rumpled pin-striped brown suit, a blue dress shirt, and a brown tie. Usually when Lua wore masculine clothes, he bound his chest. But his boobs were practically busting out of his suit.
“Come on,” I said. “We need to hurry if we’re going to stop for coffee.”
Lua buckled his seat belt. Without asking, he jacked his phone into the stereo. “Discovered this band last night. French new wave punk. With violins. You’ll love them.”
I hated them. Aside from not understanding a single word—mostly because I didn’t speak French, but also because the band, Genoux Sanglants, didn’t sing so much as scream—their voices and instruments bled together and sounded like an army of sadistic dental drills and someone vomiting. In French.
We hit up Dixie Cream Donuts—whose donuts, oddly enough, sucked—and waited in the drive-thru after placing our order. I turned down the stereo and watched Lua air drum on the dashboard until he realized I’d killed the music.
“What the hell, Ozzie?”
“Question: You’re wearing a suit, but you didn’t bind your chest? Are you more boy than girl today or more girl than boy?”
It was none of my business, but Lua and I talked about everything. At least, we had before Tommy disappeared.
“A little bit of both,” Lua said.
I rolled forward, paid the cashier, and took the two Styrofoam cups she handed me, passing one to Lua.
Lua waited until I’d pulled onto Heron Road before peeling back the plastic tab on his coffee, inhaling the steam that rose from the surface, and gulping it down. Lua’s tongue was made of heat-dispelling ceramic or something. My own coffee consisted of as much cream and sugar as actual coffee, and I had to let it cool before I could drink it, which usually meant slamming all twelve ounces while walking to first period, because Mr. Blakemore strictly enforced a no-food-or-drink-in-class policy.
“It’s just . . . I want to be supportive. You’ve got it hard enough dealing with Trent and Cody and D’arcy.”
“Like I give a steaming corn-filled pile what those inbred sociopaths say about me, Ozzie. People like them are the reason the gene pool needs a lifeguard.” Once the first caffeine rush hit Lua, he sipped the rest of his coffee. “But, listen: I’m not going to freak out if you call me ‘she’ when I’m feeling more ‘he.’ ”
“I guess,” I said. “But I want you to know I’m here for you.” I didn’t add that I wished my friends had been as accommodating after Tommy disappeared.
“Hey,” Lua said. “Speaking of being there for me. You’re coming to the show at a/s/l Friday night, right?”
“Because you need a ride?”
“For emotional support.” Lua grinned. “But if you’re offering to drive, I accept.”
“I’m working.”
Lua frowned. “The bookstore closes at nine. The show doesn’t start until ten thirty.”
“Maybe,” I said. “Why can’t you use your mom’s car?”
“Dinah? Home on a Friday night?” Lua rolled his eyes. “Get real, Ozzie.”
“Just asking.”
Lua adjusted his seat belt and angled to face me. “Say you’ll come. Who knows, maybe you’ll meet someone.”
“Someone old,” I muttered. “Besides, that new bouncer wouldn’t let me in last time, and I don’t want to wind up sitting in the parking lot waiting for your show to let out. Again.”
Lua pressed his palms together. His short platinum-blond hair made his forehead wide and his brown eyes needy. “Please? You’ll get in, even if I have to fold you up and stuff you in my guitar case.”
I pulled into Cloud Lake High’s student parking lot, which was already packed, and searched for a spot. “Fine. But I don’t need to meet anyone.”
“You do,” Lua said. “If you don’t get laid soon, your dick’s going to shrivel up and fall off. It’s a fact. I read it on the Internet.”
“I have a boyfriend. Just because no one remembers him doesn’t mean he isn’t real.” I couldn’t find an empty space and had no choice but to park in the overflow field, which frequently flooded. Still, better muddy shoes later than a detention now. I grabbed my backpack from the trunk, and we trudged toward campus.
CLH was built like a penitentiary. The various buildings formed a ring around a large open space furnished with benches and palm trees, with gates that shut and locked while school was in session. Once inside, we could only escape through the administration building or fire exits.
Lua and I merged with the hordes of students wandering the quad. When I’d returned to school after Flight 1184, the other kids had treated me like a quasicelebrity. They’d wanted to know what it was like or why I’d gotten off the plane or whether Death was stalking me like in that terrible, not-at-all-scary movie Final Destination. But, like with most instances of dumb-luck fame, they eventually forgot about the crash and remembered I was a nobody, which was how I liked it.
We stopped by Lua’s locker for homework he’d forgotten to complete. He glanced at me while he dialed in his combination. “Look, Ozzie, even if Tommy is real, and I’m not saying he is, he’s been gone five months. It’s time to move on.”
“Like you and Jaime are moving on?”
“That’s different.”
“If the rumors are true and he hooked up with Birdie Johnson,” I said, “then he’s definitely moved on.”
“My relationship with Jaime is complicated,” Lua said. “But at least he’s here. Where’s Tommy, Oz?”
The first warning bell rang. I shook my head. “Whatever. I’ve got to get to class.” I left Lua standing at his locker and headed across campus to the English building.
Lua should have been the one person who believed in me unconditionally. That he didn’t made me question everything.
13,025,000,000 LY
I LOOKED FORWARD TO PHYSICS for two reasons: It was my last class before lunch, and it was the only class I shared with my other best friend, Dustin Smeltzer.
Dustin sat at our lab table near the door, resting his arms and head on top of his backpack. He was a study in contradictions. Southern first name, Jewish last name, Chinese features—epicanthic folds over his eyes, straight black hair. The Smeltzers had adopted him as a baby, and as far as I knew, he’d never tried to locate his birth parents.
“What’s up, Pinks?” He flashed me his stoner grin, which always brightened my day. It seemed impossible that someone who spent as much time high as Dustin could have earned the grades to be class valedictorian, but he’d held the position since freshman year.
“Same old,” I said.
“Yeah.” He slapped his thick textbook and spiral notepad on the desk and stuffed his backpack underneath. “My parents are out of town this weekend, so I’ve got Casa de Smeltzer to myself. You up for some pizza and Battle Gore: Coliseum?”
“Maybe.” I slumped onto my stool next to Dustin.
“Don’t ‘maybe’ me. You’ve been a ghost for months.”
I dug my notebook and a pencil out of my bag and flipped through the pages until I found a blank one. “Been busy working. And I haven’t been in the mood to butcher cyborg goblins.”
“We don’t have to game. We can chill. Me, you, Lua. You can’t say no to pizza; it’ll be like old times.”
“Right,” I said. “Like old times.” Only, Dustin didn’t remember that our “old times” used to include Tommy, and they couldn’t exist without him.
The final bell rang, and Ms. Fuentes clapped her hands to calm us down. She was tall and bulky—thick arms, thick neck, chipmunk cheeks—but graceful. She was by far my toughest teacher, but she never pushed us harder than she thought we could handle.
“I know you’re all eager to begin the chapter on particle-wave duality, but I thought we’d take a break to discuss your end-of-the-year projects.”
The awake half of the class groaned. We’d heard horror stories about Fuentes’s final projects. Not only would it account for a quarter of our grades, but past students had referred to it as “the GPA slayer.”
Dustin kicked me under the table and then rolled his eyes. He probably figured he could complete the project blindfolded, stoned, and with one hand tied behind his back. I lacked his confidence and his perfect test scores.
“Enough griping,” Fuentes said. “You’re going to enjoy this. Not only is it an opportunity for some of you to improve your grades, it’s a chance for you to apply the theories we’ve learned this semester.” She paused and looked around the room, her hawkish eyes seeming to say she’d rip anyone to shreds who disagreed.
“This year,” she said, “you’re going to work in teams of two to build working model roller coasters.”
I perked up. A roller coaster didn’t sound terrible, and teams were even better. Dustin and I could definitely build a sick ride.
“You’ll have until May first to complete your projects, but I’ll expect you to bring them in throughout the semester for me to evaluate your progress.”
Tameka Lourdes raised her hand. Her wriggling fingers danced like surfacing earthworms. “How are you going to grade us?” she asked when Fuentes called on her.
Ms. Fuentes smiled, though it looked painful, like she’d expected the question. “I’ll evaluate your roller coasters based on multiple criteria: the maximum speed your cars achieve, the audacity of your designs, and survivability. I want you to be daring, but to do so without killing your imaginary passengers.”
Ignoring the part where the project could potentially destroy my hard-earned B-plus, it sounded fun.
Tameka raised her hand again, but didn’t wait for Fuentes to call on her before saying, “Can we choose our own partners?”
Ms. Fuentes shook her head. “No.”
It took a moment for her answer to register. Others were already complaining, and Fuentes let them continue a moment before waving us quiet.
“This year, I’m pairing you up based on your test score averages. The highest with the lowest, second highest with second lowest, and so forth.”
I wanted to work with Dustin. Aside from being the smartest person I knew, we were already friends, and we could work without the initial awkwardness of getting to know each other.
Surprisingly, Dustin spoke up. “Don’t you think that’s unfair? I mean, no offense to those at the bottom, but why should I suffer because they don’t study?”
Ms. Fuentes clapped her hands twice. The crack cut through the noise and silenced us. “This isn’t up for debate, Mr. Smeltzer.”
While Ms. Fuentes opened her notebook, the students around me quietly grumbled and shook their heads. No one seemed thrilled with Fuentes’s idea; not even those at the bottom of the grade curve who clearly had the most to gain.
“In addition to working together on your final projects, these will also be your new lab partner assignments for the remainder of the year.” Fuentes flashed a warning look, daring us to complain. No one did. Not out loud anyway.
“Dustin Smeltzer,” Fuentes said. “You’re working with Jake Ortiz.” It surprised no one that Dustin held the highest test average and Jake the lowest.
“That’s so wrong,” Dustin said. “Jake’s not even here. He’s never here.”
Ms. Fuentes shrugged. “Then you’d better make certain he starts attending class regularly.” She smiled before moving on. “Tameka Lourdes, your partner is Martin Burlingame. Ella Boggs, you’re with Caitlin Morrow. Oswald Pinkerton, your partner is Calvin Frye.”
“Ouch,” Dustin whispered. “Sorry about your luck, Pinks.” He clapped me on the back.
Calvin Frye? Really? I glanced over my shoulder at the lab table in the farthest corner where Calvin Frye slept on his desk with his hoodie pulled over his head. Last year he’d captained the school wrestling team and been Coach Reevey’s state-level superstar. He’d also skipped eighth grade, so he was a year younger than the rest of us, had started taking college classes in tenth grade, and was voted class president three years in a row. He’d been popular, athletic, and Dustin’s only serious valedictory rival.
But something had changed between junior and senior year. He’d quit wrestling, had dropped out of student government, his grades had taken a kamikaze dive, and he’d stopped speaking to his friends. The only time anyone saw his face anymore was in the halls, because he spent class time sleeping. No one knew why, but loads of people had theories.
And Ms. Fuentes had just assigned me and Calvin to work together on a project that could destroy my grade.
Fuentes finished reading off the teams, and informed us she expected us to sit with our new partners next class. Then she launched into a lecture about the dynamics of roller coasters, and how she participated in a club that built them for fun, which was both sad and not unexpected.
I stopped paying attention and began trying to figure out how Calvin Frye fit into the puzzle. It couldn’t have been a coincidence that Fuentes had paired us together, but I didn’t understand what role Calvin could possibly have to play in the mysterious shrinking of the universe and Tommy’s disappearance. If Flight 1184 had exploded to send me a message to stay in Cloud Lake, what message was I being sent by having to work with Calvin Frye?
12,066,011,000 LY
MRS. PETRIDIS WOULD’VE BURNED THE BOOKSTORE to the ground if not for her justifiable fear of prison. Mr. Petridis had been the one who’d loved books. When he sank their retirement fund into opening Petridis Books and More, which everyone in Cloud Lake simply called “the bookstore,” he’d promised his wife he would run the store and she could spend her days in the studio he’d constructed for her in the stockroom working on her true passion: building taxidermy dioramas depicting scenes from Alfred Hitchcock movies.
Morbid, yes, but no one could transform a dead squirrel into Norman Bates like Mrs. Petridis.
Except Mr. Petridis had died. He’d suffered a stroke while arranging the books he’d planned to display for National Pizza Month, and had left Mrs. Petridis as the sole owner of a shop she?
??d never wanted but couldn’t bring herself to burn down.
I worked at the bookstore a couple of nights a week and most weekends, giving Mrs. Petridis the opportunity to plug away on her latest project, which at the moment was a scene from Spellbound, created using small birds. Her only rule was that I not bother her, and I never did. She often joked that I ran the bookstore better than Mr. Petridis ever had.
As far as jobs went, I didn’t hate it. Mrs. Petridis paid minimum wage, but so long as I completed my duties—which mostly consisted of shelving books, helping customers, and ringing up sales—I could spend my free time reading or studying. She also let me “borrow” books on the condition that I return them in sellable shape. The bookstore functioned as my research center for Operation Find Tommy and was where I’d formulated many of my ideas about what had happened to him.
The bookstore itself was cozy but not crowded, with posters of classic novels framed and hung on the walls. And it was filled with that wonderful book smell that anyone who’s ever been near a book will recognize. It’s more than the smell of paper; it’s the smell of the high seas and adventure and far-off worlds. It’s the smell of a billion billion words, each a portal to somewhere new.
In a corner of the store, Mr. Petridis had set off a section and decorated it with tables and chairs and comfy single-seater sofas to encourage customers to hang out. Customers like Skip, one of our regulars. To my knowledge, he’d never purchased a single book, but he lugged a Royal Quiet De Luxe typewriter—which, in defiance of its name, wasn’t particularly quiet—into the store most evenings and spent hours pecking at the keys, amassing a stack of pages for his book, which he called The Countless Lives of August J. Ostermeyer: A Secret History of the Immortal Who Ruled the World. Mrs. Petridis frequently complained about the noise of Skip’s typewriter, but I didn’t mind. He was Cloud Lake’s own Henry Darger.