Elizabeth Miles: Eternity

And now everyone was watching Em, inching away from her as though she were contaminated, contagious.

She couldn’t keep Crow’s warning from thundering back into her mind.

You’re becoming one of them.

Without thinking, she turned and ran—away from the crowd, away from what she had done and the violent power that had overtaken her. She cut across the wet grass and felt the cold seep into the tips of her sneakers. If she could have run away from herself, she would have. . . .

Was this the darkness taking over? Was it inside her already, burning her up?

“Destruction! They call me crazy, like a fortune-teller. A poor, starved beggar-woman . . . and now the prophet undoing his prophetess has brought me to this final darkness. . . . ”

Even in rehearsal, Skylar had nailed her monologue. It was only a reading; she and the other actors sat in a circle in the middle of the stage—but still, it gave JD chills.

This Cassandra play was actually going to be pretty cool, JD reflected as he left the techie meeting on Monday afternoon. Cassandra was a classic tragic figure, with the ability to predict a future that nobody believed. Her prophecies were a curse: ultimate power paired with ultimate hopelessness.

Ned had some good ideas for the production, which would kick off AHS’s Spring Week—a student play, a music assembly, an art show, and a lacrosse game. They were going to use muffled sound cues and displaced voices to contribute to the sense of insanity in the theater. And Ned had decided to cast Skylar McVoy in the leading role just from hearing her read a passage in class. While JD was somewhat skeptical about working with a girl who had more than one screw loose, he trusted Ned’s directorial instinct.

Rehearsal ended late. Driving home, JD passed by the Dungeon, Drea’s favorite coffee shop. It was the first time he’d been by the place in more than a week, and just seeing it opened the floodgates in JD’s mind—everything he’d been trying to tamp down for days. He thought of how Drea had survived on Red Bull and ramen noodles, and how she’d been able to name every Best Actress winner back to 1976. How she’d flicked at her fingernails when she was thinking hard. How her eyes were so dark they looked almost purple—like her hair, or at least the half of it that wasn’t buzzed.

Admittedly, JD had been avoiding the Dungeon. He had his subconscious to thank for that. Pain was supposed to ease in time—but it seemed that with every passing day her death became more difficult to process. His throat tightened and his chest felt heavy. He was shocked and devastated by one crippling thought: that he’d never see Drea again.

In the months before she died, JD had become increasingly suspicious that Drea was developing a crush on him. There were the late-night study sessions, and the flirty anonymous texts that he suspected were her weird, secretive way of confessing her feelings. She’d once hinted as much. His cheeks got hot remembering how close they’d come to kissing the night before their AP Physics midterm . . . She’d been leaning over his leg, pointing to a diagram in his textbook, wearing his yellow buffalo-plaid flannel because it was cold. It was big on her, and falling slightly off her shoulder. He’d bent closer to grab his highlighter and she’d looked into his eyes, questioning him, daring him. But then, just when he decided to go for it—JD Fount was going to kiss Drea Feiffer—she’d put her hand on his chest and said a single word: “Em.”

And he figured it out then that Drea might like him, but somehow knew he was in love with Em, that she would only be a substitute. His chest swelled like someone was inflating a balloon in there—thinking of Drea, how smart she was, and how sweet, under all that metal and that big, fierce mouth that got her into so much trouble.

He missed her. Maybe he should have kissed her that night. Because she was funny and brilliant and because of his own dumb luck, a girl like her had liked him.

Stopped at a red light near the shopping plaza, he spotted a familiar flop of dark hair . . . it was Crow, with his guitar case slung across his back, standing in the parking lot, deep in conversation with the same girl whom JD had sat next to at Drea’s funeral service—the one with the honey-blond hair and the ribbon around her neck (it was still there, he noticed). Meg. That was her name. If she was one of Drea’s friends from another nearby town, it would make sense that Crow knew her too. And he definitely seemed to know her. They were talking so intensely that their faces were just inches apart. JD watched as Crow grabbed her arm with one hand and gesticulated madly with his other one. They appeared to be . . . close. Boyfriend-girlfriend close.

He felt a flash of anger, wondering whether Em knew about this girl. Why did she always fall for these two-faced guys? First Zach McCord, who gave “shithead” a new definition; and now Crow, who was more consumed with his image and his stupid guitar than with Em’s happiness. And now, apparently, he’d found a distraction with this other, ribbon-wearing chick . . .

JD couldn’t understand what seemed to be willful blindness on Em’s part, at least where her heart was concerned. She deserved better. She deserved someone who understood her, who knew how to care for her and what flavor ice cream she liked best (rum raisin), what her favorite movie was ( Dirty Dancing ), and how to make her laugh until she spit soda from her nose (tickle her ankles). JD knew that he was jumping to a whole lot of conclusions—and being slightly judgmental, which was Em’s long-standing criticism of him, but he couldn’t help it.

His phone beeped, and he reached over to grab it from the passenger seat. The text was from Jenny, one of Melissa’s best friends.

Melissa got hurt. Someone’s taking her home.

“Terrific,” he muttered. “Now what?”

As the light changed from red to green, JD glanced in the rearview mirror just in time to see Crow getting into his red-and-silver pickup truck. Red Ribbon Girl was nowhere to be seen—it was like she’d disappeared completely in the few seconds JD wasn’t looking. Strange. The click-clack of his turn signal seemed louder than usual.

He stepped on the gas, only to see a flash of white just in front of his tires, directly in his path. JD sucked in his breath and swerved to the right, slamming on the brakes right in the middle of the intersection. Cars going the other way honked and moved around him. As the car skidded to a stop, JD’s heart still pounding, he made momentary eye contact with a thin white cat, mangy and mean, standing right in the middle of all the traffic, just staring back at him. It appeared to have something hanging from its mouth. Something red. For a second, he was almost sure it was the red ribbon he’d seen the girl wearing just minutes before. Christ. Was he hallucinating now? The cat’s eyes shone black in the quickening dusk.

Cats had always unsettled him; they gave the impression that they knew so much more than they let on—and this one was no exception. JD beeped his horn and the cat paused for another second before turning and moving off languidly into the shrubs on the side of the road.

He drove the rest of the way home with his hands white-knuckled around the steering wheel, then burst in the front door calling his sister’s name.

“Mel? Melly? What’s up? Where—” He stopped short when he saw her sprawled on the living room couch, her right ankle wrapped in sports tape and propped up on a million pillows. She looked at JD with the wide-eyed excitement of someone who has just discovered a new toy—or in her case, social-networking platform.