I hope so. I need more for that scholarship, and so far, my portfolio is severely limited. If I don’t get picked, a college degree will be next to impossible. I can’t afford it without help. Mom and Dad didn’t leave much money after they died in a car wreck, and Grandma has never made a whole lot as a librarian. That’s the reason she downsized from her three-bedroom home to this two-bedroom apartment after she received custody of me. I know she’s tucking some money away and has social security benefits, but it won’t be nearly enough to get me into the college I want. It probably won’t even be enough to get me into the community college for more than a year. My own position at the local library isn’t incredibly lucrative, and I somehow don’t qualify for enough student loans to cover tuition.
Though that’s not currently my biggest concern.
“Dinner will be ready in an hour,” she says. “I’m making meatloaf.”
This would normally thrill me. No one makes meatloaf like Grandma Ruth. It could win an award, it’s that good. But anxiety has made a home within my rib cage, and not even award-winning food can get rid of it.
I nod at her, keeping the false smile on my face. I look away and pull my hair up and off my neck—a distraction from the way my skin tingles, the way my arms and legs are leaden from adrenaline.
Before my grandmother can continue a conversation or get a closer look at my puffy eyes, I slip into my bedroom, then shut the door behind me.
Collapsing onto my blue bedspread, I shut my eyes for a few minutes, hoping for a moment of peace, but it doesn’t work. When I open my eyes, I flop over and observe the collection of my photographs hanging on the wall. They’re all taped to a giant board that’s nearly as wide as my ancient black dresser, with that one drawer that won’t shut all the way. The photos depict a variety of subjects. Some friends, some strangers. A few buildings, a handful of landscapes. Some black-and-white, some bright, shining colors. If I squint, the collection becomes a blur of shapes and colors. Contemplating my photo board usually brings a sense of calm, but not today.
I lie there for a long while, trying to force the frightening images out of my head, but all I can see is blood streaming onto the muddy ground, Griffin’s cold hand in mine.
I try closing my eyes, but open or closed, I still see him die.
My gut roils. A distraction. I need one. Badly. I can’t bear the thought of touching my camera or editing any of the photos waiting for me on my laptop. Books are out of the question, too. I so don’t have the focus to read words right now. And movies? My collection is mostly chick flicks, and that’s absolutely not happening.
After a five-minute pity party, I text Olivia, my best friend. Thirty minutes later, there’s a knock on my door right before it swings open.
“Quinn!” she says, drawing out the vowel in my name, a smile brightening her expression. She throws her arms out. “I think I’m in love! He is so dreamy.”
Olivia speeds over to my bed and plops down before I can fully process what she said.
A perfect distraction.
“Whoa, wait.” I raise one brow. “When did you get a boyfriend? I didn’t even know you liked anyone right now.”
Her brown eyes widen behind black-framed glasses while she holds out for dramatic pause. Since we’ve been friends, I’ve learned a thing or two about Olivia. One being her undying love of drama. But more importantly, our end doesn’t happen until we’re old and gray. She won’t disappear after college. Won’t break my heart. Won’t abandon me. She’s the only person I know of so far who won’t leave me.
Finally, she says, “We’re not dating yet.”
“I’m…so confused.” When Olivia giggles but doesn’t explain, I add, “Get on with it,” and I shift closer.
“I met a guy. A hot guy. A totally hot, older guy. Oh! And he’s sweet.”
“And you think you’re in love?”
“I so could be.”
Despite my emotional state, I laugh. She’s always crushing over someone new. Crushing and gushing.
She laughs, too, and my despair is lifted a little, like a flower warmed by the sun. Olivia transferred to Vermont High two years ago, and the only reason we became friends was because I tried out for the school production of The Wizard of Oz—upon Grandma’s insistence. And when I—holy crap—actually got a part and attended the first rehearsal, I realized I knew no one. Olivia knew no one, either. So we, the outliers, naturally drifted toward each other. And we stuck.
“Don’t go raining on my parade now,” she says. “His name is Jack. He’s a sophomore at WSU. He’s, like I said, a total hottie. He’s gonna be the next guy I fall in love with.” Her sigh is dreamy, and she’s got an expression to match.
Olivia has always been interested in guys. Always fawning over this one or that one. I tried to join in. Wished I could join in. But by the time we met, I already knew there’d be no happy ending for me.
I’ve known that since Billy, the first boy I kissed, when I was fourteen. The time a kiss sparked my visions of the end. It was in a game of spin the bottle, and I’d been crushing on him for a while even though we’d never touched before. When his lips met mine, they were wet and warm, and the kiss wasn’t all that great, but I saw a five-second snippet of what would happen. He was going to tell me he didn’t feel the same way about me that I did for him.
Three weeks later, that’s exactly what happened.
Love is sometimes a giant disappointment. Olivia, however, loves love. The idea of love, anyway. I’m not convinced she knows what love really is, though. I sure as hell don’t.
But I got a taste of it tonight in that vision.
Don’t think about that now. “Where’d you meet this guy?” I ask, crossing my legs and leaning back against my mass of pillows.
“This is the best part… I met him at a poetry slam. Last night. At Therapy Café.” She gives me an eager look, waiting for my explosion of excitement.
I’m having a hard time matching her level of enthusiasm, but I do my best to appease her. She deserves an explosion of excitement, and I’m a crap friend for not being able to give it to her. “That’s really cool. So, did you finally face your fear and get behind the mic this time?”
She frowns, her pink lips tightening. “Er, no. But he did. And oh, his poetry was like magic. Pure magic.”
“Is that so?”
“As close as you can get to it.” Olivia scoots farther onto the bed, that dreamy, glazed look still in her eyes. “He’s so adorable. Thin and tall, beautifully dark hair, and his voice—it’s amazing to listen to.”
I nod, ensuring my lips don’t downturn. Even though my best friend always brightens up my day, it’s hard to smile when everything she’s saying, and the way she’s saying it, is everything I will never have, and it won’t be long before she sees through my facade. It’s in these moments I wish I could tell her the truth. Wish I didn’t have to lie about this part of me. Amazing as she is, she’d never believe me. She thinks superpowers are overrated and won’t entertain the idea of ghosts. I’d say psychic visions fit into her “do not exist” category.