Prologue
Atlas
Iknow the moment he passes on. His aura, our tether—that strong, once unwavering bond dissolves into the universe. There one moment, and then gone within the blink of an eye. I choke out a sob and fall to my knees. My shins scrape against the asphalt. I momentarily wonder if my parents know or how long it will take them to find out about his passing. I wonder if I will be the one to tell them, thinking I’m not sure I can fathom their reactions.
With bloodied kneecaps, I bolt to my feet. I need to do this, I need to see him. And then I’ll have to tell the Angelics of his passing. Maybe they’ll assign me to continue with his work. The thought evokes a bittersweet pang and lingering throb in my heart. Is this what grief feels like? How long do I have to feel this way?
A sudden, audible pop follows my vanishment. I don’t care if anyone saw it. He’s far more important than the discovery of my powers. My world is crumbling around me—a physical, sturdyobject now parting like sand through the cracks of my fingers. What the hell am I going to do without him? How the hell will I navigate this world without him guiding me or . . . imparting his wisdom?
The living room is silent. The door to his room at the very end of the hallway is ajar. Lights are on inside. My parents must be at his bedside. A cry from Máma and her pleas in Spanish indicate they know he’s gone. I don’t want to have to deal with them—I just want to mourn in peace, alone . . . I want to be alone.
Chapter 1
Ezra
The sun drips its light onto the blank page. It’s been empty for a while and will most likely remain so. I tap my pen on my makeshift desk—a small fold-out table found curbside for free. It’s not much, but it’s something—just like everything I own—the bed frame and the sheets over the mattress from the D.I., to the splintering nightstand.
Orange hues paint the tone of my room. The space is scarce. The twin-size bed adorned with the worn bed set, a three-cubed organizer brimming with Conin’s recommended books, and several posters tacked to the wall:Star Warsand my favorite CHVRCHES album cover. I glaze my eyes over the sheet of paper. Miraculously, words haven’t written themselves onto the page. The lyrics are lost—they won’t come to me, no matter how hard I try to coax them out.
This song has been in my head forever. I know what message I’m trying to convey, but I can’t commit those words to written form. I had finally mustered enough courage to write the song,but another unwavering, cemented wall blocks me. I don’t know how to push through the worst of it. I don’t know what it is. My frustration builds, and in a flurry of defeat, I toss the pen and watch it scatter to the floor in two pieces. My gaze lingers where the ink spills. I don’t care enough to clean it. Instead, I wonder if Conin’s ever been this frustrated with his writing.
I’d probably be a shit songwriter anyways. Better to acknowledge it now rather than later. I prefer not to give myself false hope. But then again . . . some of the best songs take years to finish. So, perhaps today isn’t my day. Maybe tomorrow will be.
A muted numbness creeps into my chest. I know this numbing sensation. I’m acquainted with it, used to its debilitating effects. I can’t ignore the feeling, so I let the permeations wash over me like roiling waves at sea, numbing me, numbing me, numbing me. Of course, I’m left with no choice. There are always ways to dull the pain.
My parents’ bedroom door is cracked open. I sneak inside, though no one is currently home. My dad stashes his alcohol in the corner of their closet, hidden behind the drapes of hung clothes. He’s not discreet about it. He thinks Thax and I aren’t stupid enough to steal from him. Luckily for us, whenever alcohol goes missing, Dad assumes he consumed it because he never remembers. Thax and I caught on pretty early that all we needed to do was return the empty bottle to its home. Lukeman Gray was none the wiser.
A fresh, gleaming bottle of amber liquid bestows itself when I swipe the clothes away. Tequila, an alcohol I can stomach. I grip it hard, return the clothes to their original positions, and rush back to my room. I choke down the scalding liquid. It tears at my throat, but I relish the burn. It’s comforting. Familiar. Before I know it, the world is tilting and my vision sways as a burst of euphoria replaces the numbness. The alcohol sloshes in mybelly, distending tight against my abdomen. After a while, the need to puke washes over me. The pounding of my heart is loud, but all I can think about is the incessant worry that I don’t want to vomit.I don’t.
I carry myself to the bathroom and release the regurgitated liquid into the toilet bowl. It makes me feel disgusting. I’m disgusting. The thought of what I just did replays, triggering another gag reflex. I sit over the basin for what feels like hours. The wave of nausea doesn’t pass, not for a while, but it eventually does.
I’ve all but forgotten the split pen and the barren sheet of paper in favor of wasting away on my bed. The world tilts. My eyes shut. Eventually, Thax lets himself in with some weed and an unfamiliar bong in hand. It’s new, crystalline. But its presence is alluring, and I’m tempted when he offers to take a few hits with me. I cave in like I always do. Guilt rises in my throat, though I’d rather not piss him off. Weed is what keeps the peace between us. So, he and I take turns passing the bong.
The sun sets. Moonlight filters through the blinds. And it’s silent, too silent between Thax and I. We don’t talk. We never do. There’s this mutual understanding between us. I’m not sure you would call this brotherly bonding, but I’ll take this momentary truce. Smoking weed is about the only thing we hold in common, besides our abilities. Even then, our powers are nothing alike.
Today, I chose my battle. This is how I avoid the inevitable.
Then, miraculously, he speaks. Even as I buzz from head to toe, I’m floored.
“I met up with an old friend from high school the other day. It was crazy,” Thax says.
I can’t get my lips to move. Instead, I opt into listening, not caring enough to wonder why he’s telling me any of this.
“He asked about you, actually. I told him there wasn’t much to know. He’s like us.”
I’m already forgetting, losing consciousness, watching Thax’s face muddle into hues of peachy skin and brown hair. If he told me what the name of his friend was, I can’t remember. Frankly, I don’t care.
I don’t know when Thax leaves. He’s no longer with me when I slump onto the bed. I pass out immediately after laying my head on the pillow. A null world of black envelops me, beckoning me into its depths.
It takes me a couple of minutes when I wake to realize that I’m late for school. I’d rather not go, but Ms. Bernard would be pissed if I missed today’s rehearsal. I finally managed first chair and I don’t want to fuck this up. But the second I stand, I know today’s going to suck. My head pounds in a ruthless rhythm. I feel sick to my stomach.
In the same fashion as yesterday, I flee to the bathroom and discard the remainder of my belly’s contents. It only induces my already rising anxiety. It lingers and sticks to the muscles of my chest. But I need to get to school, no matter how shit I feel.
I hurry to get ready and find a clean long-sleeved shirt to cover the scars along my arms. I toast some bread, something bland, and drink about a pitcher of water before I bolt to school. It’s about a five-minute walk, but I’m already an hour and a half late. Above all my worries is the thought of if I’ll see Conin today. I haven’t seen him in a while because of how busy he’s been. And come to mention it, I forgot to reply to his text from yesterday. I fire a quick response and shut off my phone when I arrive at English. Conin’s taking AP this year. I miss the days when we’d share the same classes.
Thank GOD I missed chemistry, though suffering through Math is now the bane of my existence. By fourth period, thetension in my shoulders eased as I entered the orchestra room. The anxiety is still there, still persistent as I unpack my violin, tighten and thoroughly resin the bow hair, then tune the strings. Ms. Bernard greets me with a curt nod but smiles, nonetheless. Students pile in. Gleaming ebony shines under the rough fluorescents. My head is a dull ache now. The more I sit here, the more I start to believe that I won’t be able to do this today. I’m not sure why today out of all days is the exception, as every day before has been just as shit as the last, but I know without a shadow of a doubt that today is worse and that my performance is going to be severely lacking because of it. And I’m not at all wrong. In fact, I am downright terrible. Fuck this hangover.
My head is not in the game, and it shows. Ms. Bernard’s glance flicks to me, her lips pursing tightly. The movements of her baton become less languid and more rigid. My classmates’ gazes hold on to my every movement. The ensemble starts to unravel, the tempo and notes missing after every interval. Clara, sitting right next to me, casts cautionary looks my way. Ms. Bernard pauses us so often that I start to lose track of how many times we need to replay a specific section. I never heard my name uttered with so much disdain before. Well, apart from the way Dad said it, I suppose.
