Page 131 of 72 Hours of You

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” My voice comes out weird and slow, but I can hardly hear it. My ears are ringing. Blood is pounding in my skull.

“I …” Peter stands there, mouth open, face ghost white.

What did he see? What the fuck did he see?!

I run over and snatch the notebook out of his hands, clutching it to my chest. “I said green notebook!” I scream, tears springing up in my eyes. “Green! What is wrong with you?!”

“I’m color-blind!” he yelps back.

“What?!”

“I can’t become a pilot!”

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!” My hands are shaking and the room is spinning. Peter is looking at me with horror and disgust and fear and a bunch of other bottom-dwelling emotions I can’t name. He saw. He saw it all.

“I … Red and green. They’re the same to me. The cones. In my eyes …” He trails off.

Jesus Christ. He saw it all.

“Sydney …” he starts again. “What is this?”

“It’s nothing. It’s a fucking diary.”

“But the pictures …”

“What about them?” I snap. “I draw creepy pictures. Who cares? It’s whatever.”

“But all the people in here …” He pauses and rubs the back of his neck. “They’re all dead. Except for Jegstrup …”

“I … It …” Shit!

“In the notebook, you drew a clock. Over her head. Like … one of those countdown clocks. And everyone else in this book is already dead. And … do you think Jegstrup is going to—”

“Just shut up!” I mean for it to sound harsh and rude, but it comes out in a pathetic little warble. I might fucking cry.

He reaches out, like he wants to pull me into a hug. I step back. “Just let it be. Just don’t … Just …”

“It’s okay,” he says, clearly trying to sound stronger than he feels, because his face is still pale and terrified.

“It’s not okay. Nothing is ever okay.”

“Sydney …”

I have to get it together.

“Look,” I say, attempting some approximation of casualness, even though I’ve already screamed and am currently on the verge of crying little bitch tears. “It’s just a weird notebook with creepy drawings. It doesn’t mean anything. I just got freaked out because I haven’t shown anyone my sketches before. They’re personal. So. That’s it.”

“You can tell me,” Peter says.

“Tell you what? That I’m some kind of psychic who can see when people are going to die?” I laugh. “Yeah, right. Do you know how crazy that sounds? This isn’t some M. Night Shyamalan movie. This is real life. Don’t be insane.” I laugh again, to really drive it home. This is normal. This is casual. This is fine. I’m just a girl with a dark aesthetic.

Something shifts in Peter’s face. He isn’t buying it. He shakes his head, his eyebrows pulling together. “That night with Liam … you were so intense about him getting in that car. And …”

“I was drunk.”

“I heard you,” Peter presses. “You said … Shit, what was it? You said … ‘You were a good guy.’ Were.” Shit, I really thought I whispered that. “I remember thinking it was weird at the time, but I was distracted because you looked so …” His cheeks get the tiniest bit of red (or apparently green if you’re Peter). “Anyway, I kind of forgot about it. But now …”

“Now what? Like I said, I was drunk. So what if I mixed up my tenses? I didn’t think having perfect grammar was a requirement for attending a high school party. If so, you should probably tell Noah, because that kid says irregardless.”