PART I
CHAPTER1
DAYS SINCE THE COMET DIDN’T HIT:EIGHTY-EIGHT
It turns out that the “too long; didn’t read” version of the world almost ending in a fiery comet explosion is just the word “almost.” It could have happened, but it didn’t. Close but no cigar. The apocalypse-that-wasn’t.
Life as we know it wasalmostcompletely different, and the weight of that “almost” is everything. Contrary to viral internet theories and speculation, reckoning with deathdidn’tupend society, most of the population didn’t quit their jobs to go off-grid or live in a van, and the economy didn’t grind to a halt.
Which is good! But also… kind of weird?
The optimist in me wanted to buy into theothertheories. The ones that thought humans would finally learn how to coexist peacefully. No more gun violence, no more violation of basic human rights, and no more taking three weeks to respond to a text because you were lazy and then forgot.
We stared death in the face, and we lived to tell the tale. Call me naive, but I thought our new lease on life would meansomething. When you’re told you have eight days left to live and then defy the odds—shouldn’t that change, like,everything?
Spoiler alert: it didn’t.
On the outside, life looks the same as it always has. I’m at Wildcat Welcome Week at Northwestern University, and it’s exactly what every college movie has prepared me for. Throngs of incoming freshmen have flooded the campus, with stars in their eyes and dreams of a new life filled with parties and booze, classes and friends, sex and freedom.
My life is on more or less the same trajectory it was when I landed in London back in June. Comet or not, I probably would have always been here, staring into the dark eyes of a stranger at a freshman orientation party thrown by an off-campus frat house. Classes don’t start for a few more days, but college life has officially begun.
Despite what I once wanted to believe, this mediocre party is my real fate.
“What’s your major?” the boy (Ethan?) asks as he fills my cup with foamy beer that I have no intention of drinking, while my phone buzzes endlessly in my pocket. I glance at the screen and have a quick internal meltdown before focusing back on the guy in front of me. He’s a few inches taller than me, with light brown skin and shaggy black hair. He’s thin but not lanky, and when he smiles nervously, I realize he’s cute in a way that would have caught my attention, before.
I guess noteverythingis the same.
“Undeclared,” I tell him, accepting the warm beer. “What’s yours?”
He leans closer so I can hear him over the music. “Engineering.”
“No hesitation! Nice!” I hold my hand up for a high five. He obliges with a laugh.
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” he says.
“That makes one of us.” Sometimes I wonder if there aren’ttoomany options at college. (In life!) I know for a fact that there are more than two dozen different engineering majors and minors.
“No plans?” he asks, the word “plans” pressing on my fight-or-flight instinct like a fresh bruise.
“None whatsoever,” I confirm. It’s a weird feeling; I went from being a girl with all the answers about her future to one who is utterly directionless. I don’t even know what next week will bring, let alone what I want to do with the rest of my life. I briefly thought photography was the answer, but what if I’m wrong? What if I waste my second chance?
When the gaping black hole that is my future starts to scare me, I remind myself that fate had my back in Europe, and who am I to think I’m stronger than destiny? Life will work itself out. (Right?)
He smiles, so I smile back, to prove to myself that I am present, that I’mnotthinking about the Google Alerts blowing up my phone. I let the silence settle between Ethan and me for a beat too long—and take that as my cue to leave. My eyes wander over Ethan’s shoulder, searching for my best friend, Naomi, who’s just as likely to be found in a corner reviewing her class schedule and texting her boyfriend as she is to be doing a keg stand and making plans to pledge a sorority. She’s as social as she is ambitious, and these days I feel less and less like either. I open my mouth to say “See you around!” at the same time Ethan doubles down on our conversation.
“What’d you do during Comet Week?” he asks.
“Comet Week” is what everyone now calls those seven or eight days where we all thought we were going to die. I glance down at my drink and grimace, remembering the last time I got drunk (in a small Italian home, with a girl who hated my guts). The memory of that hangover—like everything from that week—feels painfully fresh. I take a small sip and shudder as I swallow.
“Nothing much,” I lie. He stares at me expectantly. I need to try harder. “I dyed my hair. It was horrible.”
“I like it.”
I sigh, exhausted in my bones. He’s nice, and I wish he weren’t, because then I’d have a reason to leave. “It was worse before.” I run my fingers through my hair. A few weeks ago, Naomi had dragged me to a salon. I was weirdly relieved when the stylist said the bleach had damaged my hair beyond repair and it needed more time to recover. She’d offered to tone my streaky red-orange locks, and I’d accepted, thinking that having something less stripey and more natural would make me feel like myself again. (It didn’t. It looks pretty much the same—minus the stripes—and every time I look in the mirror, I hear a confused British accent say “What’s a Gritty?” and I want to throw up.)
Ethan nods, probably expecting me to add something interesting to the conversation. Unfortunately for him, it’ll be a long wait. The first few weeks after my trip, I felt like a shaken-up pop bottle—ready to burst with all the secrets I was holding. From having gone through so much but not being able to talk about any of it. From the knowledge that I looked more or less the same on the outside but inwardly felt like every one of my molecules had been rearranged. Almost three months later, I’m still not ready to talk about it, especially not with strangers.
“What about you?” I ask Ethan. I’m rusty, but I’m trying.
