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I’m not alone long. Trace comes back.
“What did you see?” he asks.
He heads straight for the stage, for the tray of leftover food. He picks through it before settling on what Grace first offered him—an apple. He tears into it and I watch the ecstasy of that first bite on his face, taste it with my lips as his mouth makes its way around the fruit.
When he’s finished, he sets the core back on the tray.
“What did you see?” he asks again. I press my lips together. “What, you’re not go
“It doesn’t matter what I saw.”
“It does to me.”
Trace is Grace’s twin, but there’s nothing of his sister in him, not really. She’s curvy and soft—kind of vintage pretty—and he’s solid in a way that comes from playing one sport too many. His brown eyes are hard, but they can be warm and teasing, like that time I slept over. They’re not like that now. He looks away from me.
“Think they’re dead?”
“I don’t know.”
I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about Mr. and Mrs. Casper disappearing into a horde of infected. Even as they were being pulled away from us, they were reaching for their children and Trace and Grace reached back because they didn’t want to be left. And then they were gone. It’s wrong. The Caspers are the only real family I’ve ever known and they were torn apart through no choice of their own. They wanted to be together.
I think that’s enough reason for them to still be together.
It’s stupid, how it works out sometimes.
“They were totally outnumbered,” Trace says.
“I know.”
So was I, for a minute. Hands, faces, open mouths, milky white eyes. All that disease free-flowing under their skin, trying to force its way into mine. I hold my arms out, look at the skin that’s exposed, that was exposed, and wonder how much of them is still on me. I rub my hands over my arms, slowly at first, and then fast, faster. I itch. A word I forgot existed enters my head: shower. I can smell myself. I smell all of the dirt, the sweat, going to the bathroom when there was no place to go, the blood I got on me that’s dried now—
Trace stares. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
I pull at my shirt. The cotton plaid is stained red and brown. Rhys’s voice is in my head, from yesterday, taunting me: Still here still here still here still here.
“God, look at us,” I say. “It’s all over us—”
* * *
The locker rooms are on the other side of the school.
I have to pass Rhys at the back doors to get to them. He’s adding a storage cupboard from Mrs. Lafferty’s room to a mountain of other furniture and he doesn’t notice me slip by. I find a spare set of clothes in my locker. I hold them to my face and inhale, hoping for the scent of something familiar and comforting—like how I used to just stand in Lily’s room after she left and breathe her in—but they only smell like school.
I take my suicide note out of my pocket and set it carefully on the top shelf, fighting the urge to shove it in my mouth so I’ll feel less empty. I don’t know how I’m going to do this, move through the hours like someone who wants to still be breathing when I had so firmly made up my mind to stop. I’m not supposed to be here and the world has ended and it’s too stupid and sad for words and it’s changed time; a second is a minute, a minute is an hour, an hour is a day, a day is a month, a month is a year, and a year—
I can’t be here that long.
When I step into the locker rooms, I hear myself move twice, like I’m made of echoes. The light is better in here. The sun spills in from the transoms and makes everything seem peaceful. I walk over to them and get on my tiptoes but I can’t see anything except sky and then I start thinking about people in space, astronauts, and if they’re just stuck up there forever trying to reach everyone here on earth, getting no answer and not knowing why and I think that would be horrible, but good—the not knowing. I wouldn’t want to know. I stay like that for a long time when the door opens. Grace steps inside and I hear a bell somewhere, I swear. Post-PE, time to shower. But it’s not those days anymore, so the second thing my mind reaches for is something’s wrong.
“Trace told me about your idea.” She’s hugging a bundle of clothes to her chest. “I told everyone else. Cary said ten minutes tops with the water.”
Grace is all good words. Nice, generous, great listener. The kind of student government president the student body votes in for all the right reasons. She unfolds the clothes in her arms and holds up a dress. I recognize it from the school’s production of West Side Story.
“The drama department provides.” She eyes my clothes jealously. “I didn’t have anything of my own.”
For a second, neither of us says anything. Grace and me, I don’t know what we are. Almost friends? But then we stopped talking and looking at each other in the halls. It had to happen, I guess, but I always wondered why she was the one who started it when it should have been me. I always secretly wanted to ask her why.
We head to the showers. I don’t change out of my clothes until I’m in a stall behind a cheap plastic curtain and then I peel them off slow. Shirt, jeans. I let them stay under my feet. They need to be clean too. I look down at myself. Patches of bruises, scrapes, scratches. I turn the water on. The showerhead sputters once, twice, and then sprays water all over me.
It’s freezing.
“Shit!” Grace shrieks from the stall beside mine. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!”
I twist the hot water knob desperately. Nothing happens. No hot water. None. It seems obvious now but Jesus. I run my hands over my body quickly, trying to get as much of the dirt and grime and blood off as possible in the least amount of time. I take measured breaths in and out and pretend the water’s warm. Soak my hair. This is awful.
As soon as I feel clean, I turn the water off and lean against the wall, dripping and shivering. I don’t think that was ten minutes. Grace is still under the water, so I sprint out naked, grab my clothes, and pull them on. They cling to my damp body. I sit on the bench and wait for her. She takes a while, longer than she should, and when she finally does come out, she’s naked. Of course she’s naked but she’s so—confident. She was like that at our sleepover too. At the end of the night, she changed in front of me and I remember wondering what it would be like to have a body like hers. I wonder it now. She’s fleshy and beautiful and I’m so much the opposite of that. I don’t have a body that’s nice to hold. She slips the dress over her head and runs her fingers through her wet hair. She looks especially vintage now, perfect and untouched.
“Trace thinks maybe they’re still alive,” she says casually, like she’s talking about the weather, clothes, I don’t know. I’d almost believe it meant as little to her as any of those things if her face didn’t dissolve directly after she said it. She brings her arm to her eyes and cries.
I don’t know what to do.
“I can get him if you want,” I offer awkwardly.
“No. God, I don’t want him to see me like this.” She lowers her arm and takes short breaths in and out. “I think they’re dead. I think they’re dead. I have to say it. They’re dead. But I don’t want Trace to know I think that. I want him to hope.”
I bet Lily’s safe wherever she is. I bet she found a soldier who took her away to some camp, some survivor camp, and she’s in some bunker right now, eating rations. Flirting.
I bet this is all a relief to her.
“You’re a good sister,” I tell Grace, but I feel very far away when I do.
“Thanks.” She wipes at her face. “Uhm, could you just … give me a minute?”
“Sure.”
We stare at each other.
“… Alone?”
“Oh. Yeah, sure. Of course.”
Before I leave, I want to ask her if she remembers the sleepover in sophomore year. I want to tell her that I was thinking of her when the world ended but I don’t.