15

WHEN I OPEN MY EYES, I expect to see Caleb because that’s who I saw after I got out of Madison’s car that day. I went into school, sat in my assigned seat in Mrs. Wirlkee’s class, read Caleb’s paper-airplane note, and talked to him for the first time in three years. Did I set my death into motion that day, three weeks before it happened? Was opening Caleb’s note and talking to him some test of character that I failed? Did fate send him to the bridge the night of my birthday party with schnapps and an angry heart as punishment?

I’ve always believed in fate, but in a meant-to-be kind of way. Like the way I was fated to be with Ethan forever. I still believe that—even more now—but I don’t understand how cheating with Caleb and dying fit into any sort of logical plan that fate might have for me. Right now it doesn’t feel like fate is watching out for me one bit. I feel as alone as I did that day in Madison’s car.

A distant light flickers beyond the darkened woods, past the end of the covered bridge. As the towering form of the Coutiers’ home slowly emerges, I place the light; it’s coming from the third-floor window. Relief rises in me. I close my eyes and think of nine-year-old Aimée dressed in gold sequins, strutting around the playroom while Madison and I laughed into our matching feather boas. “Dress-up,” I whisper to myself, hoping the memory will take me to her.

Instantly, I’m standing next to the rack that used to hold rows of Mrs. Coutier’s discarded dresses and my and Madison’s old dance costumes. Aimée’s standing right next to me, hanging her royal-blue peacoat on the rack.

Her dark hair is windblown but still in the tight French braid she wore to school today. She sighs heavily when her cell phone echoes an insultingly cheerful tune through the room.

“You really should change that ring tone,” I tell her.

She drops her keys and kneels, dumping the contents of her messenger bag onto the floor. I expect to see her patchwork makeup bag and red leather planner, some notebooks and folders, but none of the typical stuff falls out. It’s full of random throwaways like dull pencils and old folded notes, probably from me or Madison, and an empty water bottle. The contents of her bag are the one thing she’s let take on the state of mind I imagine she must be in: confused and overloaded.

She unzips the front pocket of her bag, releasing the full volume of pep her phone is delivering.

“Hi,” I hear Madison say through the speaker before Aimée has a chance to talk.

Aimée replies with a hi so short it makes Madison’s seem like a full paragraph.

“How was the rest of the day at school?” Madison’s usual sugary voice sounds strained and tired on the other end of the line.

I can’t help feeling responsible. She found Joules on the bridge with me—or alone, as she would’ve seen it—and drove her home, which probably ended in a conversation with my parents. I can imagine how that went: Dad squeezing her in an awkward hug while Mom asked a bazillion accusing questions. I lean toward the phone and thank her for putting up with them. She hasn’t mentioned to Aimée being here earlier or finding Joules on the bridge. Probably to save her the worry of knowing Joules was out at night by herself.

“I’m not mad that you went home early,” Aimée says to Madison.

“I didn’t think you were.” The long silence that follows tells me they’re both lying.

Finally, Madison asks, “So did you talk to him?”

I lean in close so I don’t miss who they’re talking about.

“He didn’t answer his phone. I’m going to stop by his house tomorrow after school if he doesn’t call me back. Do you want to come?”

“No,” Madison replies firmly. “He must be completely destroyed. I can’t see him like that.”

“If Caleb would sober up I could at least talk to him at school.”

“Good luck with that,” Madison says with a verbal eye roll. “I’m telling you, it’s a waste of time trying to get information out of him. Even if he saw something Saturday night, he probably wouldn’t remember it. Did you find out anything else? Any new leads?”

“Maybe.” Aimée thinks a minute. “I might have another angle to explore.”

Madison’s voice is a mix of eagerness and nerves. “What is it?”

“Mica Torrez. He practically begged to walk me to class today.”

“Sounds pretty standard to me.”

“Exactly. Everyone else tiptoed around me like I was explosive lava. Mica jumped right in.”

I look at Aimée and say, “So that’s why you softened up on him.”

“Keep your friends close,” Aimée says.

“And your enemies closer,” Madison finishes for her. “Do you really think he saw something at the party?”

“I’m not sure yet, but I’m going to find out.”

“So you didn’t turn up anything else today?”

Aimée grumbles a quiet no. Then she clears her throat and asks Madison if she’s coming back to school tomorrow.

“Doctor Daddy thinks I won’t be able to function in society anytime soon—side effects of the ’scrips.” Madison’s voice cuts short at the end, and I imagine her clamping her hand over her mouth for revealing too much.

“Mads, you’re not … you’re medicating?”

“It’s only to help me sleep,” Madison says dismissively. “I keep having these dreams…”

Aimée slumps against the mattress. Her whole demeanor changes. So does mine. “How long do you plan on being out? I need you back at school with me.”

“I don’t know, Aims.” The line goes quiet. “I kind of think it might be a good idea for me to stay away from … things right now. My dad’s full of BS most of the time, but I think he’s right on this one. I need to grieve in my own way—and you should in yours.”

During the long pause that hangs on the line, Aimée lets silent tears fall. She thinks there’s no one here to see them. I’d give anything for the ability to wipe her cheeks dry. Sadness rolls over me, knowing that I’ll never again be the person she turns to for comfort.

“I’ll call you in the morning if I decide to go back.”

“Bye, Mads,” Aimée and I say in the same distant tone.

After she hangs up, Aimée reaches across the floor and pulls her bag onto her lap. She digs out a handful of notes, her pad of stationery jumbled in with them. I’m sure that’s what she was digging for, but she sets it aside, studying the notes instead. One in particular: a yellow one folded into the shape of a star. It reminds me of the notes everyone used to pass in middle school. Her forehead creases with tense lines and her green eyes look darker somehow as she carefully unfolds it.

Her eyes grow to the size of dinner plates as she reads what’s printed inside.

I cross the room and stand behind her so I can read over her shoulder. There’s only one sentence, written on an upward slant across the middle of the page in those irritatingly large Sharpied letters that psycho killers always use to taunt their next victim in horror movies. Nobody actually writes like that unless they’re trying to hide their penmanship.

I reread the sentence, hoping it will say something different this time. No such luck. It glares back at me screaming its all-caps truth: IT’S EASY TO JUMP WHEN YOU GET A PUSH.