Alive (12 page)

The first thing I see is his chest. That little V shape of tanned skin peeking out, where the muscles and collarbone converge to form a keyhole right at the bottom of his
throat. He’s wearing a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up and dark jeans that sit low on his hips. At the sight of him standing there, the strange, hollow ache in my chest vanishes,
replaced by pure longing. As if I’ve been missing him all these years and still can’t quite reach him. I wonder if it’s the same feeling that Eve had as she watched that juicy red
piece of forbidden fruit dangling right in front of her on the Tree of Knowledge.

“Hey, we match,” I hear him say, all bright teeth and perfect lips, forearm resting on the doorframe to my house. His voice startles me out of my reverie, and it takes me a second to
register what he means.

I look down at my outfit, selected with painstaking care yesterday afternoon. A fitted black cashmere sweater, skinny jeans, and a pair of black Tory Burch flats. My heart sinks. “Shoot,
we do.” I look up at him nervously. “We look kinda dorky, don’t we?” My fingers tug at the bottom of my sweater.

Levi laughs. “Impossible. I prefer to believe we both have impeccable taste.” I notice the bottom of his jeans are soaked and I wonder briefly if he traipsed through our lawn instead
of coming up the walkway. “Shall we?”

I begged my parents not to come to the door to meet Levi. Not this time. I’d imagined the whole disaster in my head. My dad would be chummy and try to pretend he actually cared about
sports. My mom would fuss with my hair. And then Elsie—Elsie would of course bawl and snot while we all tried to yell over her. They said no, but in the end, Elsie had the sniffles and so
they both rushed off to the twenty-four-seven clinic, leaving me to greet Levi solo. I guess I should thank my little sister for once.

Levi steps to the side and gestures toward the Tahoe idling with its headlights on in my driveway and I duck out after him, barely remembering to grab my clutch off the entry table.

He holds the door open for me, just like I knew he would, and there’s an Action Hero Disco song blasting through the speakers.

“Sorry about that.” He jumps in and twists the knob to turn the volume down. “Just getting in the mood.”
See
, I knew he really was a fan. I make a mental note to
tell Brynn that I told her so. Maturity, thy name is Stella.

I glance over at him while fumbling with my seat belt. Although I’d totally never admit this in a million years, I’m loving the way our matching outfits make us look like we fit
together. Stella + Levi. Levi + Stella. God, I’m practically doodling my first name next to his last in my notebook. Pull it together, Stella.

He twists around in the driver’s seat, putting the car in reverse, and I take a deep breath, determined for this first date to go well.

“Where are you from?” I ask. “I mean, originally.”

“Originally? Here.” He points down. “Seattle.”

“A native?”

“Can’t beat the weather.” He grins. “Rain with a side of rain.”

The back of my jeans squeak against the seat. We can’t talk about the weather. Any discussions that involve temperature, the relative moisture in the air, or the seven-day forecast have to
be early warning signs of a date about to go belly-up. My mouth suddenly feels dry. The silence goes on for an extra beat.

“I—”

“Where—”

We both speak at once.

I look down at my hands. Both of our laughs seem to balance on a nervous edge, like a gymnast fighting to stay on the balance beam.

“Go ahead,” I murmur.

He clears his throat. “How about you? Native or transplant?”
Transplant
. That word will only ever mean one thing to me. I swallow it down. Not tonight. Tonight I’m
normal.

I pick at a loose stitch on my jeans. “My family moved from Eugene, Oregon, when I was five,” I say. “I don’t remember much about it. Except this one time when my dad
took me riding around Hendricks Park in this little sidecar that he rented. He attached it to his bike.” More tight lips and I’m now thoroughly uncomfortable. “I don’t know
what made me think of that. I guess for a five-year-old it was pretty cool,” I say.

Levi navigates the twists and turns through my neighborhood. “And what about now? What’s your thing?”

“My thing?”

“Sure. Miniature Stella apparently most enjoyed being pedaled around in sidecars. The Current Stella’s thing…?” He glances at me sidelong. “Or is it still sidecars?
Because if it is, no judgment here.” The shadow of his sly grin plays at the corners of his mouth.

I frown. “I—”
Swimming
sits at the tip of my tongue, but it’s not true anymore. “I don’t really have a thing.”

“I reject that out of hand, Cross,” he says, thumping the steering wheel. “Everyone has a thing.”

I shrug. “Not everyone, apparently. I guess I’m in the market.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “Is that a challenge?”

“Okay, fine, what
are
you into then?” I fold my arms across my chest.

“Music.” He turns serious, his eyes trained out the front windshield. “Music is my thing.” The roads are slick, reflecting the pale, yellow glow of the streetlamps. The
muscles on his forearm ripple as he twists his grip on the wheel.

“All right, what’s your favorite AHD song?” I ask, resting my elbow on the console. Music’s at least one thing we have in common.

“‘Made-Up Moniker,’” he responds without hesitating.

I nod slowly as if considering his choice on its merits. “Interesting. That’s…interesting.”

“What?” He chuckles. “What’s wrong with ‘Made-Up Moniker’?”

“Nothing.” I’m not impressed and I make no effort to hide it. “It’s just that, well, no one’s favorite song is ‘Made-Up Moniker,’ that’s
all.”

“Not true. Didn’t I just tell you that it’s mine?”

I watch my green eyes in the side-view mirror. “Sure. That’s what you told me.”

“Okay, then, smarty-pants, what’s yours?”

“Easy,” I say, folding my arms. “‘Pragmatic.’”

He guffaws. “What? No. That’s so cliché. That’s everyone’s favorite.”

“It’s everyone’s favorite because it’s the best,” I point out. “I’m not going to change what I like just because a lot of other people like it, too.
That’s way too arbitrary, and besides, if I picked something different, then what I’d really be telling you is my second favorite.” I pause. “So what’s your
real
favorite?”

I’m not just messing with him. Something I’ve never understood is why people stop liking something just because it gets popular. I mean, if everyone on the planet started liking
Action Hero Disco, would I stop liking them? No. Why? Because they’re good. It’s simple logic, really.

“Fine,” he grumbles. “‘Pragmatic.’ You’re right. But don’t count that against my otherwise mysterious and dangerously moody persona.”

He winks, clicking a button on his steering wheel twice, and ‘Pragmatic’ starts playing. He opens the window and I turn the volume up and we’re both singing out loud now, at
the top of our lungs, and I’m holding my hair back against the cold wind and we’re screaming,
“If you’re such a pragmatist, then what the hell you want with this? Oh, oh,
oh, oh.”

Stoplights flash red and car headlights whiz by. The Tahoe speeds toward the backdrop of tall buildings downtown where the Space Needle looms, an alien green, hovering over the city like a real
UFO.

Beside me, Levi’s voice layers beneath mine.
“My behavior’s not erratic, you’re just being melodramatic. Stop trying, trying, trying, to be so pragmatic. Oh, oh, oh,
oh.”
The me who’s afraid of karaoke, the me who barely lets out a
woot-woot
at high school football games, the me who’s questioning and rational and methodical sloughs
off and blows away like a silk scarf out the window.

I raise my voice, tilting my head back and clamping my eyes shut to try to outdo Levi in our loud, off-key competition.
“Baby, if you’re such a pragmatist, then let me be your
catalyst.”
As the last word slips out, I realize that I’m the only one singing. My hand slaps over my mouth and I peek over at Levi, who’s staring at me intently, skin
crinkled at the corners of his eyes.

“Sorry,” I say, my voice muffled through my fingers. “Got carried away.”

The light turns green and Levi pushes down on the accelerator, eyes returning to the road.

I’m blushing. I know that I am, but inside the dark cabin of Levi’s car, our faces are streaked with shadows and I pray he can’t see the way my skin gets blotchy when I’m
mortified.

“Okay. You’re killing me. What are you thinking? I couldn’t have been that bad, could I?” His eyes stay focused on the road, and I find myself wishing he’d look at
me.

“I’m thinking about melodies.”

“Melodies?”

“Yep. And how one wrong note in a good melody can make you feel off, but the right one, once you find it, can make you feel complete again.”

Why do I get the sense he’s not just talking about music? My insides glow, lighting up until I swear my skin must be translucent.

We ride the rest of the way mostly in silence, with Levi occasionally asking me questions about my family and about Brynn and Henry, and me finding myself surprised that I want to answer him
with complete honesty. Levi hums snippets of AHD songs and eventually his hand crosses the center console and finds its way onto my thigh, where I watch it, not sure whether to hold it or let it
be. Instead I do nothing and fold mine in my lap, breathing in the night air until I’m filled to the brim with it.

The parking lot’s crammed with cars that navigate around each other, backing up and lurching forward and honking until the space between me and Levi is eaten up by one, long, blaring horn.
Stuffing my fingers in my ears, I jut my chin to the left in the direction where I think I see a spot a half-dozen rows back. The dirt lot crumbles beneath the tires as he threads us between the
other cars, searching for spots until we find one big enough to fit.

“Ticket, please?” I hold my hand out and Levi digs a perforated ticket out of his jean pocket.

A tiny thrill gurgles up in the back of my throat. Two months ago, I was on my deathbed—literally—and now here I am, a regular teenager going to the best concert in the world with
the hottest guy ever.

Levi takes my hand as we walk to the front entrance, and it’s so natural that I hardly even notice until we’re halfway there. Our fingers are intertwined, his thumb brushing gently
against mine. He doesn’t let go even when we hand our tickets over to the bouncer and he stamps our hands with an inky blotch of
UNDER 21.

“We’re in!” I squeal. The concert venue is an old aluminum-roofed warehouse, floors slick with dust. Levi’s hand is still cold against mine, and he cranes his neck
around.

“First thing’s first—we stake out our spot. Then I’ll grab drinks.” Blue, pink, and green strobe lights flash across his face from the stage. The opening act has
begun to warm up the audience—not that I require any warming.

We snake through the crowd, with Levi leading me through spilled beer and sweaty T-shirts so that I don’t get left behind. People have already started dancing, bumping into my shoulders
and sending me stumbling. More than a couple times, I’m saved from falling by Levi’s firm grip. Eventually he tows me to the side of the crowd, tucked back from the stage where
there’s a short rail.

“Look, you can sit on it to see better,” he says into my ear.

I smile and he gives me a boost up onto the rail so that my feet dangle over the concrete floor.

“Lick your hand.”

“Huh?”

Levi wraps his fingers around my wrist, flattens his tongue over the back of my hand, and then rubs at the stamp until the ink disappears. “There.” He grins.

“Hey!” I wipe off the saliva, but I’m giggling. “Did you seriously just lick me?”

Levi licks his own hand and erases the underage stamp from his skin. “Trust me. It’ll be worth it.” For my part, I try not to look nervous. “Guard our spot with your
life, Cross.” He nudges me. “I’m going in search of sustenance.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.” I salute as he leaves and notice him laughing as he melts into the crowd. Almost at once, the ache starts up again. I have to clutch my chest it’s so real.
A gnawing in the hollow underneath my ribs, it burrows into my back and starts running up against my spine.

I knead the spot closest to the pain with the nubs of my fingers and wonder if I’m imagining it. But then, of course I’m imagining it. What else is pain but convincing fiction? A
bunch of nerves snapping and zapping at each other, telling your brain there’s something there when, in reality, there’s not. It’s Sick Kid 101.

I settle onto my rail to watch the stage. The band opener consists of a boy and a girl, both equally gaunt, with matching black hair that parts down the middle and slides down to their chins.
They look at each other while they shout into their microphones and pick noisy melodies out of their guitar strings. The panic eases and is replaced by excitement. Maybe I’d just been scared
Levi would get lost in here and I wouldn’t be able to find him for the rest of the night. That’s silly, though, since I’m staying in one spot. I drum my fingers on the cold metal
rail, thankful to be perched a head above the ruckus below. A few screeches come from a microphone and then there’s a tug at the bottom of my jeans. I look down and there’s a guy in a
blue baseball cap. For a split second, I think that it’s Henry, but of course, it’s not, since I ditched Henry to come here with Levi. With a pinch of guilt, I lean down so that I can
hear what he’s saying.

“What’s your name?” he yells.

I scrunch up my nose. “My name?”

He’s a tall string bean of a boy with a baggy shirt and a tuft of brown hair growing out of his chin.

When he nods I can just make out his eyes, glazed over, like those of a taxidermied fox.

“Stella,” I shout back. I should have lied.

The boy’s grin is soupy on his angular face. “Joshhhh,” he slurs. He wobbles to the side before grabbing the railing to right himself.