after

DECEMBER 16

The journal I start is not like hers. There are no magazine cutouts and collages and sketches, there are no plans, there are no promises. There are lists. Words. Sounds. Anything I can remember. Anything that might be real.

Most of them make no sense, or not enough of it. Dewey, punching me. Water, rising. Fire, fire, fire.

I’m failing online school. I spend all day sitting at my desk staring at the journal and trying, trying to put it all back in place.

I write everything down, but most of it doesn’t help much.

Rumor is they’re just waiting on the arson analysis to arrest me. No one tells me anything.

I would say that I wish I cared more, but that is false.

In my journal, I write.

Carrie Lang’s yard. Balloons. Caleb Matthers not in school next day—hives. Allergic to latex.

Janie and Ander flirting across the room. Him looking at her journal and her face going cold.

The apocalypse. Music.

Wrestling. Ander pummeled.

The note on my bed that smelled like coffee. Adults in a tiny-ass boat.

Metaphor disappearing.

Janie in my sweatshirt.

Piper running and crying.

The bonfire. More than one?

Janie’s wings.

I had a match.

Why did I have a match?

Water, fire.

What happened to Janie Vivian?

Why.

THE JOURNAL OF JANIE VIVIAN

Once upon a time, a princess was playing with a key near the water. She threw it in the air, caught it, and threw it again, and caught it again, until . . . she didn’t.

It fell into the water, down and down and down, and the princess supposed she would never see it again.

But then—miracle! A frog leaped out of the water and landed in her lap. He made her dress dirty, but he had her key in his mouth.

“Here you go, beautiful,” said the frog. “I’ve done you a favor. Now you owe me.”

“Well, all right,” said the princess. “What do you want?”

“To sleep in your bed,” said the frog.

The princess said no. She held her breath and pushed him away and ran and locked the palace doors tight behind her. But you’ll notice that the frog ended up in her bed anyway.