Julia

I pop the tab on a can of Red Bull and take a long swig. Coming to track practice today was obviously a mistake. Everyone must expect me to be in mourning, because I am having major flashbacks to when I was seven. My teammates keep acting like I’m the one who died and I just happened to rise from my grave. Dr. Phil says that everyone expresses grief in their own way, I want to tell them. I am perfectly normal!

The way I express my grief, apparently, is by running a personal record in the mile. Instead of cheering for me, though, my teammates just gaped like I’d run on air. They seem to think that even if I’m not a blubbery mess, I should at least play the part.

“You kicked ass out there, Ippie,” a voice drawls, and I know it’s Bret before I turn around. He’s on the track team, too, and the only one who calls me Ippie, which was once I.P., or Ice Princess. It’s a nickname I’m proud of, earned because he and Griffin knew I was the only one who could beat them in an insult-throwing match. I turn to see him lounging on the grass, iPod buds in his ears, his trusty unsolved Rubik’s Cube in his hands. Nearly three months ago he had this grand idea that he was so brilliant he could be like the guy in The Pursuit of Happyness and conquer the puzzle in two minutes flat. We’re still waiting for him to discover the secret. I can’t help thinking of the day Griffin stole it from him and solved it for him. Maybe not in two minutes, but he solved it. Griffin might have been a jokester, but he was also a genius, which was why teachers loved him, as exasperating as he was. “Was that a personal record?”

I collapse next to him. “Yeah. I feel really good today. It’s weird. My lungs usually start to burn during that last lap, but I felt fine.”

He sits up, throws the cube on the ground, and pops the buds out of his ears. “Interesting how your boyfriend’s death seems to agree with you.”

“It does not,” I insist, though I was thinking the same thing. A familiar feeling rushes over me: the desire to punch him. If there’s anyone I fought with more than Griffin, it’s his best friend. Bret has always had it in for me. Together, the two of them were like machine guns, constantly firing at me. “When have you ever known me to get all teary-eyed?”

“True,” he says. He doesn’t realize that before I met him and Griffin, teary-eyed was my way of life. I was a wuss. But most other people could cry and it wouldn’t mean anything; when I cried, it turned heads. “Though you did seem a little rattled yesterday. Or do you normally suck that bad at giving eulogies?”

Before I started dating Griffin, I’d have been insulted. But with Bret and Griffin, you learned to ignore the digs. They’d made me strong. They’d made the rest of the school see me as normal. Sure, Griffin had his sweet moments, but they were few and far between and always buried under sarcasm and practical jokes. I liked that. Maybe normal friends would sit around crying and trading Griffin Colburn stories until the end of the world, but not Bret and me. We’re light; we float; we don’t dwell on the depressing stuff. Not when there’s so much room for humor in the world. “If you were up there, all you would have done was tell fart jokes.”

He nods. “Well, yeah. Did you see the place? It was like a funeral.”

“But what about you?” I ask him. “Why aren’t you at home right now, crying into your pillow?”

I know the answer already. It’s almost as if the smirk is glued to Bret’s face, because it never goes away, not ever. He’s like the Joker. Griffin and Bret never once talked about what happened to me when I was a kid, even though I know that they, like the whole town, were aware of it. They just accepted it, moved on. Similarly, if Griffin’s death had any impact on Bret, you’d never know it by looking at him. Considering they’d been best friends since forever, most people would think that’s kind of demented. And Griffin was more than Bret’s best friend; he was his master. Bret was Griffin’s little protégé; Griffin was the person he aspired to be. As I’m wondering how he can function without his fearless leader, his grin broadens. “I’m saving my tears for the candlelight vigil.”

“Okay, well … just remember: I get to lead the group in ‘Kumbaya’ this time. You did it during the Heath Ledger memorial.”

He leans back and yawns. I get the feeling he’s trying to suppress a snicker. “All right.” There’s an unspoken rule to our sparring matches that if the other person laughs, he loses. Secondly, if you take too long to respond, you’re toast. I start counting the seconds, one … two … But he finally says, “You always did have a way with ‘Kumbaya.’ The smooth vocal stylings of Ippie Devine. Maybe you can delight us with ‘Thriller’ as an encore?”

I turn to him, speechless, and then say, “Well, maybe you can sing … uh …” But I can’t think of a comeback. Three: if your comeback is pathetic, game over. Though I’m able to win sometimes, he’s usually the victor. Griffin was the undisputed champ, but Bret’s more of a natural at this than I am.

“Bzzzz. Thank you for playing. This game called on account of lameness,” he says proudly, pushing on an imaginary game-show buzzer with the heel of his hand.

Just then a couple of senior girls, who I’d seen at some of Griffin’s parties, walk by. They raise their eyebrows at us and start to whisper. “They think we should be wearing black, I think,” I say, nudging him.

He starts to stretch his quads. “Black really doesn’t do anything for my complexion.”

I’ve known Bret for a year and not once has he ever expressed any remorse for acting the way he does. He’s Griffin’s smaller, lighter twin—and he may even be a little cuter, too, except he isn’t half as outgoing as Griffin was. He was Griffin’s comedic sidekick; it was almost like he enjoyed being in Griffin’s shadow, following in his footsteps, being the butt of his jokes. And really, as both of us could attest, being known as Griffin’s shadow was way better than being known for other reasons. I say, “And my black singlet is at the dry cleaner’s.”

Coach calls the guys to run the 400 m, which is Bret’s specialty. He gets to his feet, then throws an arm around me and pulls me close to him. I can smell the cinnamon Mentos he’s constantly popping. He lays a few good noogies on me and says, “Guess it’s just you and me against the world.”

It’s uncomfortable being so close to him. I pull away and straighten. “And Satan,” I say. “Don’t forget Satan.”

The joke doesn’t hide my discomfort. He tries to position himself closer to me again, but I take a step back. Finally, he nods, a rare thoughtful look on his face. The smile is still there, but his expression is just … changed. It’s scary, because I’m not used to it. “How can we forget Satan?”

The coach calls for the runners to line up, and he just stands there, oblivious. I point toward the track. “Go get ’em.”

His face returns to normal and he gives me a thumbs-up. “Consider ’em got,” he says, jogging away.

Off in the distance, a gaggle of girls is stretching on the green, whispering. Every so often, one turns and looks at me. It hardly seems fair. I’ve barely been able to shake the stigma from the last incident, and now here I am again, Front-Page Julia, the dead guy’s girlfriend, propped up in the spotlight for all the world to examine like some sad sideshow act.

CHAPTER 6

Eron

In all my years of the seduction, I have never felt so uneasy. Last night was a lesson in frustration. Everything I explained to the boy was greeted with “But why?” or a snide remark. If he had been one of Mama’s stepchildren, she would have already taken a belt to his rear countless times. Tonight I expect much of the same torture, but worse. Tonight the agenda calls for me to introduce him to every one of our charges.