That had been less than twenty-four hours earlier.
Somehow Franklyn knew what we’d done. When we reached him, he took my arm and whispered in my ear so Zephyr couldn’t hear: “Now it’s my turn,” he said. “Then Buzzy, then Mike, then Ryder, right? That’s how it works, just so you know. You don’t think Zeph actually likes you, do you?” That’s exactly what I’d thought. I had to wipe Franklyn’s words off my ear because they were covered in spit, and after I did that, I spun out of his grip, hollering, “No!” finally finding the godforsaken word, way too late, and in front of everyone, I kneed Franklyn Fry in the balls, hard, like Dad taught me in case of an emergency.
Then the mad dash home, with tears biting my cheeks, my skin crawling, my stomach in shambles, heading straight for Mom. I’d made the biggest mistake of my life.
I needed my mother.
I needed my mother.
There’s been an accident, that’s what Dad told me the moment I burst into the house.
There’d been an accident.
That’s when I threw my hands over Noah’s ears.
Dad took them off and held them in his.
So even as the police officer told us these unimaginable, world-breaking things, I was still crawling around in the wrongness of what I’d just done. It was caked along with sand in every pore of my body. The horrible wrong scent of it was still in my hair, on my skin, inside my nose, so every inhalation carried it deeper inside me. For weeks afterward, no matter how many times I showered, no matter how hard I scrubbed, no matter what kind of soap I used—I tried lavender and grapefruit and honeysuckle and rose—I couldn’t get it off me, couldn’t get Zephyr off me. Once, I went to a department store and used every single tester perfume on the counter, but it was still there. It’s always there. It’s still there. The smell of that afternoon with Zephyr, the smell of my mother’s death, one and the same.
Zephyr steps out of the glare of Franklyn’s headlights. This is how I think of him: like his namesake, the raven, a harbinger of death and doom. He’s a human hex, a tall blond column of darkness. Zephyr Ravens is an eclipse.
“So Noah went home?” I ask. “How long ago?”
He shakes his head. “No. Not home. He took off up there, Jude.” He points to the very top of the bluff to a ledge that doesn’t even have a name, because who would dare it? The hang-gliders use it occasionally, but that’s it. It’s too high to jump, probably double Dead Man’s, and below it there’s a shelf that juts out so if you don’t leap far enough and clear it, you slam into that before you ever hit water. I’ve only heard of one kid who’s ever jumped it. He didn’t make it.
My internal organs are failing, falling, one by one.
Zephyr says, “Got a text. They’re playing some drinking game. Loser jumps and apparently your brother’s losing on purpose. I was heading up there to try and stop it.”
Next thing, I’m diving through the crowd, knocking over drinks, people, not caring about anything except getting to the cliff path, the quickest way up the bluff. I hear Grandma’s voice blowing like wind at my back. She’s right behind me on the trail. Branches are cracking, her heavy footsteps hitting the path moments after mine, then I remember she doesn’t have footsteps. I stop and Zephyr barrels into me, grabbing my shoulders so I don’t careen face forward into the ground.
“Jesus,” I say, jumping quickly out of his grip, away from the smell of him, again so close.
“Oh man, sorry.”
“Stop following me, Zephyr. Go back, please.” I sound as desperate as I feel. The last thing I need in this moment is him.
“I’m on this trail every day. I know it so—”
“Like I don’t.”
“You’re going to need help.”
This is true. However, not from him. Anyone but him. Except it’s too late, he’s already brushed past me and is forging ahead into the moonlit dark.
After Mom died, he came over a few times, tried to get me back on my board, but the ocean had dried up as far as I was concerned. He also tried to be with me again in the guise of comforting me. Two words: as if. And not just him. So did Fry and Ryder and Buzzy and the rest of them, but not in the guise of anything except harassment. Incessantly. They’d all become jerks overnight, especially Franklyn, who was pissed and posted obscene things about me on the Hideaway message board and graffitied Slutever Sweetwine in the beach bathroom, rewriting it every time someone—Noah?—crossed it out.
Do you really want to be that girl? Mom had asked me over and over that summer and fall as my skirts got shorter, my heels higher, my lipstick darker, my heart angrier and angrier at her. Do you really want to be that girl? she asked me the night before she died—the last words she ever said to me—when she saw what I was wearing to go to the party with Zephyr (not that she knew I was going to a party with Zephyr).
Then she was dead and I was really and truly that girl.
Zephyr’s setting a fast pace. My breath’s tumbling around in my chest as we climb and climb and climb in silence.
Until he says, “I still got his back like I promised you.”
Once, long before we did what we did, I asked Zephyr to look out for Noah. Hideaway Hill can be very Lord of the Flies and in my seventh-grade mind, Zephyr was like the sheriff, so I asked for his help.
“Got your back too, Jude.”
I ignore this, then can’t. The words come out shrill and accusatory, sharp as darts. “I was too young!”
I think I hear him suck in air, but it’s hard to know because of the waves, loud and relentless, crashing into the rocks, eroding the continent.
As am I, kicking up dirt, kicking the shit out of the continent, driving my feet into the ground with every step. I was in eighth grade, he in eleventh—a whole year older than I even am now. Not that he should treat any girl at any age like that, like a dishrag. And then in the lightning bolt to the head kind of way, it occurs to me that Zephyr Ravens is not a harbinger of anything at all. He’s not bad luck—he’s a terminal burnout dimwit loser asshole, offense intended.
And what we did didn’t cause bad luck either—it caused endless inner-ick and regret and anger and—
I spit on him. Not metaphorically. I hit his jacket, his ass, then bean one right in the back of his mongrel head. That one he feels, but thinks it’s some kind of bug he can shoo off with his hand. I nail him again. He turns around.
“What the—? Are you spitting at me?” he asks, incredulous, his fingers in his hair.
“Don’t do it again,” I say. “To anyone.”
“Jude, I always thought you—”
“I don’t care what you thought then or what you think now,” I say. “Just don’t do it again.”
I blow past him and double our speed. Now I feel like a badass, thank you very much.
Maybe Mom was wrong about that girl after all. Because that girl spits on guys who treat her badly. Maybe it’s that girl who’s been missing. Maybe it’s that girl breaking her way out of that rock at Guillermo’s. Maybe it’s that girl who can see it’s not my fault that a car with my mother in it lost control no matter what I did with this jerkoff beforehand. I didn’t bring the bad luck to us, no matter how much it felt that way. It brought itself. It brings itself.
And maybe it’s that girl who’s now brave enough to admit to Noah what I did.
If he doesn’t die first.
As we get closer to the ledge, I begin to hear something strange. At first I think it’s the wind howling spookily in the trees, then realize it’s a human sound. Singing maybe? Or chanting? A moment later I realize what’s being chanted is my last name and my heart catapults out of my body. I think Zephyr realizes it at the same moment because we’ve both broken into a sprint.
Sweetwine, Sweetwine, Sweetwine.
Please, please, please, I think as we crest the last hill and reach the flat sandy area, where
a bunch of people are in a semicircle like they’re at a sporting event. Zephyr and I elbow our way through, parting the curtain of bodies, until we have a front-row seat for the suicidal game that’s being played. On one side of a raging bonfire is a noodly guy with a bottle of tequila in his hand, swaying back and forth like a reed. He’s about twenty feet from the edge of the cliff. On the other side of the fire is Noah, ten feet from the edge, the crowd favorite to end his life. A half-empty bottle is on its side at his feet. He has his arms out like wings and is turning around and around, the wind rippling his clothes, the glow of the fire lighting him up like a phoenix.
I can feel his desire to jump as if it were in my own body.
A kid on a rock nearby shouts, “Okay, Round Five! Let’s roll!” He’s the master of ceremonies, and, it appears, as drunk as the contestants.
“You grab Noah,” Zephyr says, his voice all business now. At least he’s good for something. “I’ll get Jared. They’re so wasted, it’ll be easy.”
“On three,” I say.
We plunge forward, emerging in the center of the circle. From on top of the rock, the announcer slurs, “Hey, there appears to be some kind of interruption in The Death Match.”
My rage is meteoric. “Sorry to ruin the show,” I shout up at him. “But I have a really great idea. Next time why don’t you have your brother jump dead drunk off this cliff instead of mine?” Oh wow. That girl has many uses. I think I underutilized her in the past. I will not make that mistake again.
I grab Noah’s arm, hard, expecting a fight, but he melts into me, saying, “Hey, don’t cry. I wasn’t gonna jump.” Am I crying?
“I don’t believe you,” I say, looking into the open blooming face of the old Noah. So much love is filling my chest, it may explode.
“You’re right,” he laughs, then hiccups. “I’m totally gonna jump. Sorry, Jude.”
In a sudden swift movement that seems impossible considering how drunk he is, he spins out of my arms, casting me backward in slow, torturous motion. “No!” I reach for him as he dashes to the edge, raising his arms again.
It’s the last image I see before my head hits the ground and the crowd collectively gasps.
• • •
The ledge is now empty. But no one’s racing down the cliff path, the quickest way to the beach. No one’s even looking over the edge to see if Noah survived. The crowd’s in a mass exodus toward the street.
And I need to stop hallucinating.
I must’ve suffered some kind of brain trauma, because no matter how many times I blink or shake my head, they’re still there.
Belly-flopped on my brother not two feet from me is Oscar.
Oscar, who came out of absolutely nowhere to tackle Noah before he reached the edge.
“Hey, it’s you,” Noah says in wonderment as Oscar rolls off him and onto his back. Oscar’s panting like he just raced up Everest, and in motorcycle boots, I note. His arms are outspread, his hair wet with sweat. Thanks to the moon and the bonfire, my hallucination’s practically in high def. Noah’s sitting up now, gazing down at him.
“Picasso?” I hear Oscar say, still trying to catch his breath. It’s been ages since I’ve heard anyone call Noah that. “All grown up I see, and with a buzz cut.”
Now they’re fist-bumping. Yes, Noah and Oscar. The two I vote least likely to fist-bump. I have to be imagining this. Oscar’s sitting up now and has put a hand on Noah’s shoulder. “What the hell, mate?” He’s reprimanding Noah? “And what’s with the drinking? Following in my footsteps? This isn’t you, Picasso.”
How does Oscar know who Noah is to know who Noah isn’t?
“It isn’t me,” Noah slurs. “I’m not me anymore.”
“Know the feeling,” Oscar replies. Still seated, he holds out a hand to me.
I ask, “How are you here—”
But Noah interrupts, garbles at me, “You kept texting me, so I kept drinking ’cause I thought you knew . . .”
“Knew what?” I ask him. “This is all because of my texts?” I try to recall what I wrote, just that I had to speak with him and it was urgent. What did he think I wanted to talk about? What did he think I knew? There is definitely something he’s been keeping from me. “Knew what?” I ask him again.
He smiles stupidly at me, swiping the air with his hand. “Knew what,” he repeats like an imbecile. Okay, he’s drunk out of his gourd. I don’t think he ever has more than a beer or two. “My sister,” he says to Oscar. “She used to have hair that followed us around like a river of light, remember?” At least that’s what I believe he said. He’s speaking Swahili.
“Your sister!” Oscar cries. He falls onto his back again. Noah flops happily down next to him, a loony smile on his face. “That’s brilliant,” Oscar says. “Who’s Dad? Archangel Gabriel? And hair like a river of light, huh?” He lifts his head so he can see me. “You sure you’re okay? You seem a bit stunned. And you look great without your hat and that giant vegetable-stuffed sweatshirt. Great, but like you might be cold. You know what? I’d offer you my leather jacket, but someone stole it.” He’s back in fighting form, I see, recovered from this morning. Except I sort of feel like I’ve read his diary.
Still. “Don’t flirt with me,” I say. “I’m immune to your charms. I’ve been inoculated by one not-girlfriend too many.” For the record, that girl rocks.
I’m expecting a snappy retort but instead he looks at me in a completely unguarded way and says, “I’m so sorry about yesterday. I can’t tell you how sorry.”
I’m taken aback, have no idea how to respond. I’m not sure what he’s apologizing for either. For me seeing what I saw or for him doing what he did?
“Thank you for saving my brother’s life,” I say, ignoring the apology for now, and really, I’m just brimming with gratitude because: What in the world? “No clue how you appeared like this, like some superhero. Or how you two know each other . . .”
Oscar gets up on his elbows. “Proud to say, I’ve taken off my clothes for the both of you.”
This is strange. When would Oscar have modeled for Noah? Noah gets up on his elbows too because it appears he’s playing Follow the Leader with Oscar. His face is flushing. “I remember your eyes,” he says to Oscar. “But not those scars. They’re new.”
“Yeah, well, you should see the other guy, as they say. Or in this case the pavement along Highway 5.”
They’re chattering to each other, both flat on their backs again, batting words back and forth, English and Swahili, gazing up at the glowing night sky. It makes me smile; I can’t help it. It’s like when Oscar and I were on the floor of the jail cell room. I remember that sticky note: She said you would feel like family. Why does he? And what about that apology? What was that? He sounded earnest, real. So not full of it.
I smell weed and turn around. Zephyr and the noodly kid named Jared and a handful of others are smoking up as they leave, all walking in the direction of the street, probably on their way back to The Spot. Some help he was. If Oscar hadn’t dropped out of the sky, Noah would be dead. A loud bomb of a wave crashes into the shore below as if to confirm this. It’s some kind of miracle, I think, it has to be. Maybe Grandma’s right: You have to see the miracles for there to be miracles. Maybe I’ve been looking at the world, living in the world, in too much of a stingy cowardly way to see much at all.
“Do you realize Oscar saved your life?” I say to Noah. “Do you have any idea how high this cliff is?”
“Oscar,” Noah repeats, then wobbles to a sitting position and points at me, saying, “He didn’t save my life and it doesn’t matter how high it is.” He’s getting drunker by the minute, talking with two tongues now. “It’s Mom who keeps me up. It’s like I have a parachute on. Like I can practically fly.” He makes a slow swoosh with his hand through the air. “I sail all the way down so incredibly slowly. Every time.”
My
mouth falls open. Yes, he does. I’ve seen it.
This is why he keeps jumping then, so Mom will break his fall? Isn’t that what I always think when I get The Poor Motherless Girl Look? Like I’ve been shoved out of the airplane without a parachute because mothers are the parachutes. I’m remembering the last time I watched him jump Devil’s. How he seemed to stay up forever. He could’ve had his nails done.
Oscar sits up. “That’s completely daft,” he says to Noah, his voice distressed. “Are you mad? You jump off that cliff in your present condition, you die. I don’t care who you have in your pocket on the other side.” He combs a hand through his hair. “You know, Picasso, I bet your mother would prefer it if you lived your life rather than risked it.” I’m surprised to hear these words out of Oscar’s mouth, wonder if they might’ve come out of Guillermo’s this morning.
Noah looks down at the ground, says quietly, “But it’s the only time she forgives me.”
Forgives him? “For what?” I ask.
He’s grown grave. “It’s all a big lie,” he says.
“What is?” I ask. Is he talking about liking girls? Or not doing art? Or wearing flame retardant? Or something else? Something that would make him jump off a cliff at night while drunk because he thought from my texts I might know what it is?
He looks up stunned like he realized he’s been talking, not thinking. I wish I could tell him the truth about CSA right now, but I can’t. He needs to be sober for that conversation. “You’re going to be okay,” I tell him. “I promise. Everything’s about to get better.”
He shakes his head. “No, it’s about to get worse. You just don’t know it yet.” A chill runs through me. What does he mean? I’m about to press him further when he rises to his feet and immediately falls over.
“Let’s get you home,” Oscar says, securing an arm around him. “So where’s home? I’d offer to ride him, but I’m on foot. G. stole my motorcycle in case I ended up like this tonight. We got in a big row this morning.” So that’s why the motorcycle was in the yard. I feel like maybe I should tell him I heard some of that row, but now’s not the time.