When We Were Magic by Sarah Gailey (novels to read txt) š
- Author: Sarah Gailey
Book online Ā«When We Were Magic by Sarah Gailey (novels to read txt) šĀ». Author Sarah Gailey
The lie is as obvious as Handsomeās dog-smell. Marcelina is quiet, waiting for me to tell the truth. Giving me a chance. I keep picking pine needles out of Handsomeās fur. After a long timeālong enough that I start to feel guilt creeping up the back of my neckāMarcelina stands up and brushes grass off her butt.
āItās gonna be okay,ā she says. āI know it doesnāt feel like itās gonna be okay, but it is.ā
āBut what if itās not?ā I ask, burying my face in Handsomeās fur. He smells like pine and dog and wind. I feel Marcelinaās footsteps behind me, soft and patient in the grass.
āThen you wonāt be alone with it,ā she says. āWeāll all be not-okay with you.ā
I stand up and Handsome stands with me, his tail already wagging. He looks back toward the house.
āCome on,ā Marcelina says. āThe rest of it will still be there in the morning. Weāll do the liver another day.ā
We walk back to the house together, me and Marcelina and Handsome, and for the time it takes us to get there, I believe her. Maybe things will be okay.
4.
WHEN I WAKE UP ON the floor of Marcelinaās bedroom, I donāt remember right away. I lie in the early-morning grayness under a pile of lap blankets stolen from the living room. My mouth is dry and my shoulders ache a little, but I donāt have that sense of oh-shit-where-am-I that happens sometimes when I wake up someplace that isnāt my own bed. Iām not hungover, because honestly, I was too nervous to drink at the party. I just feel sleepy. Thatās all. Just sleepy.
I reach up a hand to rub my face, and a flicker of something crosses my brain. You should be feeling bad about something.
Then I remember.
Josh. Blood everywhereāon my cheeks and burning and coppery in my mouth and sprayed across posters of cars. Maryam leaving. Royaās incredulous glare. My fault. My fault. My fault.
Before I can think about it, my hand shoots out. My fingertips find canvas, a zipper, a solid lump. My stomach turns.
It was all real.
There is no part of me that thinks, Maybe this is all a terrible dream. It hurts to realize that Josh exploding is just a nightmare was a safe psychological harbor I passed by without docking.
āMarcelina?ā I whisper. She doesnāt answer. I poke my head up and can see the small hill that is her and her million tangled blankets. Sheās motionless in the bed, sleeping so soundly that Iād be worried she was dead if I hadnāt seen her sleep a hundred times before. Still, I wait to see the slow rise of her breathing before I trust that sheās really just asleep. I get up as quietly as I can, gathering my own nest of blankets in one arm and slinging the backpack across my shoulder with the other. I close her bedroom door behind me, holding the latch back with my thumb until the last possible second.
I dump the blankets into the basket next to her parentsā couch. I sneak into her kitchen and grab a roll of duct tape from the junk drawer. I rip off a five-inch strip and slap it over the place on Joshās backpack where his name is scrawled in Sharpie. For good measure, I put another piece on top of that one. Itās bad enough that Iām coming home from prom with no dress and a strange bag; I canāt have a boyās name on the bag. A dead boyās name. No, I remind myself, a missing boyās name. As far as everyone else knows, Josh is missing. Nothing more.
I ease the bag open just a little and reach in, my fingertips finding the smooth, glassy surface of the heart. It feels a little warmer than it did last nightāstill hard, still wrong, but just a tiny bit warm. I press gently with my fingers, trying to figure out if itās softened, if itās really warmer or if Iām just imagining things. Why would it be different?
āHow was prom?ā The voice comes from right behind me. I jump a mile and whip around to glare at himāUncle Trev is there, and he holds two hands up, lifting his shoulders in a whoa-donāt-kill-me stance. āSorry,ā he says, aiming an awkward grin at me. āDidnāt mean to scare you.ā
āWell, you did,ā I say, breathless, my heart pounding. I adjust the backpack onto both of my shoulders. Oh god, Iām talking to Trev and thereās a head in my bag. āProm was fine. What are you doing awake?ā
āIāve got a workout this morning,ā he says. āJust āfineā?ā he asks, leaning a shoulder against the wall and crossing his arms. His biceps swell a little with the motion. Trev took up weightlifting after he lost his job, and Iām never sure if heās showing off his muscles on purpose or if thatās just what happens when you train for three hours a day. He looks like what I imagine Josh would look like if he grew up, stayed sober, got divorced, and did a lot of CrossFit. Tall, blond, trying a little too hard but not in an irritating way. āDid something happen?ā he asks.
Iāve always liked Uncle Trev, but right now I really hate how interested and engaged he is all the time. āUm, nothing big,ā I say. āJust some drama.ā Thatās normally a foolproof way to get adults to mind their own businessāexplanations of drama are usually drawn-out, expansive diagrams of high school social politics. The only people who hate high school social politics more than actual high schoolers are adults who are pretending to be interested.
āDid you and Roya have a fight?ā he asks, tipping his head to one side.
āWhat? No. What? We didnātāwhy would you think that?ā Iām talking too fast and my ears feel hot. Trev laughs.
āOkay, well, if you ever want to talk about it, you know where to find me,ā he says.
āThanks, Trev,ā I say
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