Before I Fall Part 21

"Science-project thing," I say quickly, and then add, "she'll know what I'm talking about."

"Okay." Marian's beaming at me. I start to turn away, but she calls me back. "Sam!"

I turn around, and she claps her hand over her mouth and giggles, like she can't believe she had the courage to say my name.

"I'll have to tell her tomorrow," she says. "Juliet's going out tonight." She says it like she's saying, Juliet's going to be valedictorian Juliet's going to be valedictorian. I can just picture the scene. Mom and dad and sister downstairs, Juliet locked in her bedroom as usual, blasting music, alone. And then-miracle of miracles-she descends, hair swept back, confident, cool, announcing she is headed to a party. They must have been so happy, so proud. Their lonely little girl making good at the end of senior year.

To Kent's party. To find Lindsay-to find me. To be pushed and tripped and soaked with beer.

The sus.h.i.+'s not sitting so well with me all of a sudden. If they had any idea...

"I'll definitely tell her tomorrow, though." Marian beams at me, a headlight bearing down at me through the dark.

All the way home I'm trying to forget Marian Sykes. When my dad wishes me good night-he's always ready to pa.s.s out after a beer, and tonight he had (gasp!) two-I'm trying to forget Marian Sykes. When Izzy comes in half an hour later, showered and clean-smelling in her ratty Dora pj's, and plants a sloppy wet kiss on my cheek, I'm trying to forget her; and an hour after that, when my mother stands at my door and says, "I'm proud of you, Sam," I'm still thinking of her.

My mother goes to bed. Silence fills the house. Somewhere in the deep darkness a clock is ticking, and when I close my eyes I picture Juliet Sykes coming toward me calmly, her shoes tapping against a wood floor, blood flowing from her eyes....

I sit up in bed, heart pounding. Then I get up, find my North Face in the dark.

This morning I swore that there was nothing in the world that could make me go back to Kent's party, but here I am, tiptoeing down the stairs, edging along in the dark hallways, sneaking my mom's keys off the shelf in the mudroom. She's been amazingly human today, but the last thing I need to deal with is some big conversation of the what-makes-me-think-I-can-cut-school-and-then-go-out variety.

I try to tell myself that Juliet Sykes isn't really my problem, but I keep imagining how horrible it would be if this were her day. If she had to live it over and over again. I think pretty much everybody-even Juliet Sykes-deserves to die on a better day than that.

The hinges on the back and front door squawk so loudly they might as well be alarm clocks (sometimes I think my parents have engineered this deliberately). In the kitchen I carefully spill some olive oil on a paper towel, and I rub this onto the hinges on the back door. Lindsay taught me this trick. She's always developing new, better ways to sneak out, even though she has no curfew, and it doesn't matter one way or the other when she leaves and when she comes home. I think she misses that, actually. I think that's why she's always meticulous about the details-she likes to pretend that she has to be.

The door with its Italian-seasoned hinges swings open with barely a whisper, and I'm out.

I haven't really thought through why I'm heading to Kent's, or what I'm going to do once I'm there, and instead of driving there directly, I find myself turning on random streets and dead-end cul-de-sacs, circling up and down. The houses are mostly set back from the street, and lit windows appear magically in the dark like hanging lanterns. It's amazing how different everything looks at night-almost unrecognizable, especially in the rain. Houses sit hulking back on their lawns, brooding and alive. It looks so different from the Ridgeview of the day, when everything is clean and polished and trimmed neatly, when everything unfolds in an orderly way, husbands heading to their cars with coffee mugs, wives following soon after, dressed in pilates gear, tiny girls in Baby Gap dresses and car seats and Lexus SUVs and Starbucks cups and normalcy normalcy. I wonder which one is the true version.

There are hardly any cars on the road. I keep crawling along at fifteen miles per hour. I'm looking for something, but I don't know what. I pa.s.s Elody's street and keep going. Each streetlamp casts a neat funnel of light downward, illuminating the inside of the car briefly, before I'm left again in darkness.

My headlights sweep over a crooked green street sign fifty feet ahead: Serenity Place. I suddenly remember sitting in Ally's kitchen freshman year while her mom chattered on the phone endlessly, pacing back and forth on the deck in bare feet and yoga pants. "She's getting her daily dose of gossip," Ally had said, rolling her eyes. "Mindy Sachs is better than Us Weekly Us Weekly." And Lindsay had put in how ironic it was that Mrs. Sachs lived on Serenity Place-like she doesn't bring the noise with her-and it was the first time I really understood the meaning of the word ironic.

I yank my wheel at the last second and brake, rolling down Serenity Place. It's not a long street-there are no more than two dozen houses on it-and like many streets in Ridgeview, ends in a cul-de-sac. My heart leaps when I see a silver Saab parked neatly in one of the driveways. The license plate reads: MOM OF MOM OF4. That's Mrs. Sachs's car. I must be close.

The next house down is number fifty-nine. It is marked with a tin mailbox in the shape of a rooster, which stretches up from a flowerbed that is at this point in the year no more than a long patch of black dirt. SYKES SYKES is printed along the rooster's wing, in letters so small you have to be looking before you can see them. is printed along the rooster's wing, in letters so small you have to be looking before you can see them.

I can't really explain it, but I feel like I would have known the house anyway. There's nothing wrong wrong with it-it's no different from any other house, not the biggest, not the smallest, decently taken care of, white paint, dark shutters, a single light burning downstairs. But there's something else, some quality I can't really identify that makes it look like the house is too big for itself, like something inside is straining to get out, like the whole place is about to bust its seams. It's a desperate house, somehow. with it-it's no different from any other house, not the biggest, not the smallest, decently taken care of, white paint, dark shutters, a single light burning downstairs. But there's something else, some quality I can't really identify that makes it look like the house is too big for itself, like something inside is straining to get out, like the whole place is about to bust its seams. It's a desperate house, somehow.

I turn into the driveway. I have no business being here, I know that, but I can't help it. It's like something's tugging me inside. The rain is coming down hard, and I grab an old sweats.h.i.+rt from the backseat-Izzy's, probably-and use it to s.h.i.+eld my head as I sprint from the car to the front porch, my breath clouding in front of me. Before I can think too much about what I'm doing, I ring the doorbell.

It takes a long time for someone to answer the door, and I do a little jog, my breath steaming out in front of me, trying to stay warm. Finally there's a shuffling sound from inside, and then a sc.r.a.ping of hinges. The door swings open, and a woman stands there, blinking at me confusedly: Juliet's mother. She is wearing a bathrobe, which she holds closed with one hand. She is as thin as Juliet and has the same clear blue eyes and pale skin as both of her daughters. Looking at her, I am reminded of a wisp of smoke curling up into the dark.

"Can I help you?" Her voice is very soft.

I'm kind of thrown. For some reason I expected Marian would be the one to come to the door. "My name is Sam-Samantha Kingston. I'm looking for Juliet." Because it worked the first time I add, "She's my lab partner."

From inside, a man-Juliet's father, I guess-shouts, "Who is it?" The voice is barking and loud, and so different from Mrs. Sykes's voice I unconsciously shuffle backward.

Mrs. Sykes jumps a little, and turns her head quickly, inadvertently swinging the door open an extra couple of inches. The hallway behind her is dark. Swampy blue and green shadows dance up one wall, images projected from a television in a room I can't see. "It's no one," she says quickly, her voice directed into the darkness behind her. "It's for Juliet."

"Juliet? Someone's here for Juliet?" He sounds exactly like a dog. Bark, bark, bark, bark. Bark, bark, bark, bark. I fight a wild, nervous urge to laugh. I fight a wild, nervous urge to laugh.

"I'll take care of it." Mrs. Sykes turns back to me. Again, the door swings closed with her movement, as though she is leaning on it for support. Her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Juliet's not home right now. Is there something I can help you with?"

"I, um, missed school today. We had this big a.s.signment...." I trail off helplessly, starting to regret having come. Despite my North Face, I'm s.h.i.+vering like a maniac. I must look look like a maniac too, hopping from foot to foot, holding a sweats.h.i.+rt over my head for an umbrella. like a maniac too, hopping from foot to foot, holding a sweats.h.i.+rt over my head for an umbrella.

Mrs. Sykes seems to notice, finally, that I'm standing in the rain. "Why don't you come in," she says, and steps backward into the hall. I follow her inside.

An open door to the left leads directly off the hall: that's where the television is. I can just make out an armchair and the silhouette of someone sitting there, the edge of an enormous jaw touched with blue from the screen. I remember what Lindsay said then, about Juliet's dad being an alcoholic. I vaguely remember hearing that same rumor, and something else too-that there'd been an accident, something about semi-paralysis or pills or something. I wish I'd paid more attention.

Mrs. Sykes catches me looking and walks quickly over to the door, pulling it shut. It is now so dark I can barely see, and I realize I'm still cold. If the heat is on in the house, I can't feel it. From the TV room I hear the sounds of a horror-film scream, and the steady syncopated rhythm of machine gun fire.

Now I'm definitely definitely regretting coming. For a second I have this wild fantasy that Juliet comes from a whole family of crazy serial killers, and that at any second Mrs. Sykes is going to go regretting coming. For a second I have this wild fantasy that Juliet comes from a whole family of crazy serial killers, and that at any second Mrs. Sykes is going to go Silence of the Lambs Silence of the Lambs on me. on me. The whole family's wacked The whole family's wacked, that's what Lindsay had said. The darkness is pressing all around me, stifling, and I almost cry out with grat.i.tude when Mrs. Sykes switches on a light and the hall appears lit up and normal, and not full of dead human trophies or something. There's a dried flower arrangement on a side table decorated with lace, next to a framed family photo. I wish I could look at it more closely.

"Was it important, this a.s.signment?" Mrs. Sykes asks, almost in a whisper. She shoots a nervous glance in the direction of the TV room, and I wonder if she thinks she's being too loud.

"I just...I kind of promised Juliet I would pick up some stuff for our makeup presentation on Monday." I try to lower my voice, but she still winces. "I thought Juliet said she would be home tonight."

"Juliet went out," she says, and then, as if she's unused to saying the words and is testing them on her tongue, repeats, "She went out. But maybe she left it for you?"

"I could look for it," I say. I want to see her room, I realize: that's why I'm here. I need to see it. "She probably just dumped it on her bed or something." I try to sound casual, like Juliet and I are on really good terms with each other-like it's not weird for me to waltz into her house at ten thirty on a Friday night and try to weasel my way into her bedroom.

Mrs. Sykes hesitates. "Maybe I can call her cell phone," she says, and then adds apologetically, "Juliet hates to have anyone in her room."

"You don't have to call her," I say quickly. Juliet will probably tell her mom to sic the cops on me. "It's not that important. I'll pick it up tomorrow."

"No, no. I'll call her. It will just take a second." Juliet's mom is already disappearing into the kitchen. It's amazing how quickly and soundlessly she moves, like an animal slipping in and out of the shadows.

I consider jetting out while she's in the kitchen. I think about going home, crawling into bed, watching old movies on my computer. Maybe I'll make a pot of coffee and sit up all night long. If I never go to sleep, maybe today will have have to turn into tomorrow. I wonder idly how long I can go without sleep before I flip my s.h.i.+t and start running down the street in my underwear, hallucinating purple spiders. to turn into tomorrow. I wonder idly how long I can go without sleep before I flip my s.h.i.+t and start running down the street in my underwear, hallucinating purple spiders.

But instead I just stand there, waiting. There's nothing else to do, so I take a few steps forward and bend down to look at the photograph on the table. For a second I'm confused: it's a picture of an unfamiliar woman, probably twenty-five or thirty, with her arms wrapped around a good-looking guy in a flannel s.h.i.+rt. The colors are all saturated and Technicolor-bright, and the couple looks perfect, sparkling, all white teeth and dazzling smiles and beautiful brown hair. Then I see the words printed in the lower bottom corner of the picture-ShadowCast Images, Inc.-and realize that this isn't even a real family photo. It's one of the generic pictures that gets sold along with the picture frame, a s.h.i.+ny, happy advertis.e.m.e.nt for all the s.h.i.+ny, happy moments you can capture forever inside the 5" 7" sterling silver frame with b.u.t.terfly detail 5" 7" sterling silver frame with b.u.t.terfly detail. No one has bothered to replace it.

Or maybe the Sykes family doesn't have too many s.h.i.+ny, happy moments to remember.

I pull away quickly, wis.h.i.+ng I hadn't looked. Even though it's just a picture of two models, I feel, weirdly, like I've seen something way too too personal, like I've accidentally caught a glimpse of someone's inner thigh or nose hairs or something. personal, like I've accidentally caught a glimpse of someone's inner thigh or nose hairs or something.

Mrs. Sykes still isn't back so I wander out of the hall into the living room on the right. It is mostly dark, and it's all plaids and lace and dried flowers. It looks as though it hasn't been redecorated since the fifties.

There's a single, dull light s.h.i.+ning near the window, casting a circular reflection on the black pane of gla.s.s, a version of the room appearing in miniature there.

And a face.

A screaming face pressed up against the window.

I let out a squeak of fear before I realize that this, too, is a reflection. There's a mask mounted on a table just in front of the window, facing outward. I go over to it and lift it carefully from its perch. It's a woman's face crafted from newspaper and red st.i.tching, which is crisscrossed over the skin like horrible scars. Words run up the bridge of the nose and across the forehead, certain headlines visible or halfway visible, like BEAUTY REMEDY BEAUTY REMEDY and and TRAGEDY STRIKES TRAGEDY STRIKES, and little sc.r.a.ps of paper are unfurling from various places on her face, like she's molting. The mouth and the eyes are cut completely away, and when I lift the mask to my face, it fits well. The reflection in the window is awful; I look like something diseased, or a monster from a horror movie. I can't look away.

"Juliet made that."

The voice behind me makes me jump. Mrs. Sykes has reappeared and is leaning against the door, frowning at me.

I pop the mask off, return it quickly to its perch. "I'm so sorry. I saw it and...I just wanted to try it on," I finish lamely.

Mrs. Sykes comes over and rearranges the mask, straightening it, making sure it's aligned correctly. "When Juliet was younger she was always drawing, always sketching or painting something or sewing her own dresses." Mrs. Sykes shrugs, flutters a hand. "I don't think she's very interested in that stuff now."

"Did you talk to Juliet?" I ask nervously, waiting for her to kick me out.

Mrs. Sykes blinks at me several times, as though trying to squeeze me into focus. "Juliet..." she repeats, and then shakes her head. "I called her phone a couple of times. She didn't answer. She doesn't usually go out on the weekends...." Mrs. Sykes looks at me helplessly.

"I'm sure she's fine," I say as cheerfully as I can, feeling like each word is a knife going down into my stomach. "She probably didn't hear her phone."

Suddenly the thing I want most of all is to get out of there. I can't stand to lie to Mrs. Sykes. She looks so sad, standing in her nightgown, ready for bed-as though she's already asleep, sort of. That's what the whole house feels like, as though it's wrapped up in a heavy sleep, the kind that stifles you, won't let you wake, drags you back into the sheets, drowning, even when you fight it.

I imagine Juliet sneaking up to her room in the dark, and the silence, through the atmosphere of sleep so thick it feels solid, the lullaby of creaking floorboards and quietly hissing radiators, the slow revolutions of people orbiting wordlessly around one another.... And then...

Bang.

Mrs. Sykes walks me back to the front hall. "You can come by tomorrow," she says. "I'm sure Juliet will have everything ready by then. She's usually very responsible. A good girl."

"Sure. Tomorrow." I don't even like to say the word, and I wave a quick good-bye before das.h.i.+ng once again through the dark to my car.

It's even colder than it was earlier. The rain, half ice, pings off the hood of my car as I sit there waiting for the engine to warm up, blowing on my hands and s.h.i.+vering, grateful to be out of there. As soon as I'm out of the house, a weight eases up off my chest, like the atmosphere and pressure inside is different, heavier. My first impression was right: it really is a desperate house. I see Juliet's mom silhouetted by the window. I wonder if she's waiting for me to leave or for her daughter to come home.

That's when I make a decision. I know what I'll do. I'll go to Kent's house and I'll catch Juliet, and if I have to, I will will hit her in the face. I'll make her see how stupid the whole death idea is. (It's certainly no picnic for me.) If it comes down to it, I'll tie her up in the back of my car so she hit her in the face. I'll make her see how stupid the whole death idea is. (It's certainly no picnic for me.) If it comes down to it, I'll tie her up in the back of my car so she can't can't get her hands on the gun. get her hands on the gun.

I realize I've never really really done something good for someone else, at least not for a while. I volunteer sometimes for Meals on Wheels, but that's because colleges like that kind of thing; BU especially mentioned charity on the application portion of their website. And obviously I'm nice to my friends, and I give done something good for someone else, at least not for a while. I volunteer sometimes for Meals on Wheels, but that's because colleges like that kind of thing; BU especially mentioned charity on the application portion of their website. And obviously I'm nice to my friends, and I give great great birthday gifts (I once spent a month and a half collecting cow-shaped saltshakers to give to Ally, because she loves cows and salt). But I don't usually do good things just for the h.e.l.l of it. This will be my good thing. birthday gifts (I once spent a month and a half collecting cow-shaped saltshakers to give to Ally, because she loves cows and salt). But I don't usually do good things just for the h.e.l.l of it. This will be my good thing.

Then I have a glimmer of an idea. I remember when we were studying Dante in English, and Ben Gowan kept asking if the souls in purgatory ever got cast down into h.e.l.l (Ben Gowan once got suspended for three days for drawing a picture of a bomb blowing up our cafeteria and all of these decapitated heads flying everywhere, so for him the question was normal), and Mrs. Harbor went off on one of her tangents and said that no, that wasn't possible, but that some modern Christian thinkers believed you could go up up from purgatory into heaven once you'd done enough time there. I've never really believed in heaven. It always sounded like a crazy idea: everybody happy and reunited, Fred Astaire and Einstein doing a tango on the clouds, that kind of stuff. from purgatory into heaven once you'd done enough time there. I've never really believed in heaven. It always sounded like a crazy idea: everybody happy and reunited, Fred Astaire and Einstein doing a tango on the clouds, that kind of stuff.

But then again, I never really believed I'd have to relive one day forever, either. It's no crazier than what's already happened to me. Maybe the whole point is I have to prove that I'm a good person. Maybe I have to prove that I deserve to move on.

Maybe Juliet Sykes is the only thing between me and an eternity of chocolate fountains and perfect love and guys who always call when they say they will and banana sundaes that actually help you burn calories.

Maybe she's my ticket out.

UNFAs.h.i.+ONABLY LATE.

I don't even bother pulling into Kent's driveway. I'm not planning on being here long, and I don't want to get blocked in. Besides, something about tramping through the woods in the rain appeals to me. It's a trial, another way I can sacrifice myself. And from my very limited memories of Sunday school (my mom gave up the fight after I threw a tremendous tantrum when I was seven and threatened to convert to voodoo, even though I wasn't sure exactly what that was), I know that that's how it works: you have to sacrifice something.

I pull over onto the shoulder of Route 9, grabbing Izzy's sweats.h.i.+rt again, which is now soaking wet. Still, it's better than nothing. I drape it over my head and get out of the car, pausing for just a second. The road is empty, stretches of black interspersed with weak pools of yellow light from the streetlamps. I try to locate the exact spot where Lindsay's car went spiraling off the road that first night, but it all looks the same. It could have been anywhere. I reach back once more for some memory of life beyond the collision, beyond the blackness, but I get nothing.

I grab a flashlight from the trunk and set off through the woods.

It's a longer walk than I would have thought, and the ground alternates between a thin coat of hard ice and slurpy gloop that sucks at my purple New Balances like quicksand. After a few minutes I can hear the faint throb of music from the party, pulsing through the darkness like it belongs there, like its rhythm is part of the night. It's another ten minutes before I see the faint twinkle of lights flas.h.i.+ng sporadically beyond the trees-thank G.o.d, since I was beginning to think I was walking in circles-and another five before the woods thin out and I can see the house, a big pile of ice-cream cake sitting on that lawn, s.h.i.+mmering in and out as the rain bends and splits the lights from the porch. I'm totally freezing, and 100 percent regretting my decision to come on foot. That's the whole problem with sacrifice. It's a pain, literally.

As soon as I walk through the door, two girls giggle and a whole group of juniors goes totally gape-jawed. I don't blame them. I know I must look like s.h.i.+t. Before leaving the house, I didn't even bother to change out of my lounge pants-a pair of way oversized velour sweats my mom gave me back when they were still in.

I don't waste any time on the juniors, though. I'm already worried I may have arrived too late.

Tara is coming down the stairs as I'm pus.h.i.+ng my way up, and I grab her, leaning into her ear. "Juliet Sykes!" I have to yell it.

"What?" she yells back, smiling.

"Juliet Sykes! Is she here?"

Tara taps her ear to show she can't hear me. "You're looking for Lindsay?"

Courtney is behind Tara and leans forward, flopping her chin on Tara's shoulder. "We found the secret stash-rum and stuff. Tara broke a vase." She giggles. "You want some?"

I shake my head. I've never been this sober around people this wasted, and I say a brief prayer that I'm not half as annoying as they are when I'm drunk. I continue up the stairs as Tara yells, "Lindsay's in the back."

Before I'm totally out of earshot I hear Courtney shriek, "Did you see what she's wearing?"

I take a deep breath and tell myself it doesn't matter. What matters is finding Juliet. I can at least do that one thing.

But with every step I'm losing hope. The upstairs hallway is totally packed, and unless she hasn't come to the party at all-which seems like too much to hope-it seems unlikely that she hasn't already left.

Still, I push on, finally making it to the very back room. Lindsay catapults on me as soon as I get into the room-she actually leaps over five people-and for a second I'm so grateful to see her, happy and drunk and my best friend, and to get treated to one of her famous super-squish hugs, that I forget why I'm here.

"Bad girl." She slaps my hand as she pulls away. "You cut school but come out to party? Naughty, naughty."

"I'm looking for someone," I say. I scan the room: Juliet's not here. Not that I expected her to be, I don't know, sitting on the couch and chatting it up with Jake Somers, but it's instinct-and wishful thinking-to look.

"Rob's downstairs." Lindsay steps back and holds up her hand, framing me in the angle between her thumb and forefinger. "You look like the homeless man who stole Wal-Mart. Are you trying not not to get laid or something?" to get laid or something?"

Irritation flares up again. Lindsay, who always has something to say.

"Have you seen Juliet Sykes?" I ask.

Lindsay stares at me for a split second and then bursts out laughing. "Are you serious?"

A feeling of enormous relief washes over me. Maybe she never showed. Maybe she had car trouble, or lost her nerve, or- "She called me a b.i.t.c.h." In that moment Lindsay shatters me. She did come. "Can you believe it?" Lindsay's still cracking up. She loops one arm around my shoulder and calls out, "Elody! Ally! Sammy's here! And she's looking for her best friend, Juliet!"

Elody doesn't even turn around; she's too busy with Steve Dough. But Ally swings in my direction, smiles, yells, "Hi, sweetie!" and then holds up the empty bottle of vodka.

"If you see Juliet," she calls out, "ask her what she did with the rest of my drink!" She and Lindsay think this is hilarious, and Lindsay calls back, "Psychotini!"

I am am too late. The realization makes me feel sick, and my anger at Lindsay comes rus.h.i.+ng back. too late. The realization makes me feel sick, and my anger at Lindsay comes rus.h.i.+ng back.

"My best friend?" I repeat. "That's funny. I thought you you were the one who was buddy-buddy with Juliet." were the one who was buddy-buddy with Juliet."