Aftermath by Kelley Armstrong
For Julia
PROLOGUE
Three Years Earlier
I will not say that the day Jesse Mandal asked me out was the best of my life. That’s silly, trite, foolish. But I was thirteen, which means I was all of those things. After school, I would have danced home, humming “Best Day Ever.” I’d have tweeted cryptic emojis of hearts and endless exclamation marks. I’d have lain in bed listening to All-Time Five sing about love, glorious love.
I was thirteen. I was that girl. But I didn’t dance home at the end of the day. I didn’t send any tweets. I never listened to ATF again. Because after that day, I’d never be that girl again.
That day started as mine had for the past year, with me no longer rising to my mom singing whatever song she could mangle my name into – “Good morning, Skye-shine,” or “The Skye will come up tomorrow.” I’d groan and bury my head under the pillow until she went off to do the same to my brother, Luka – who got Suzanne Vega’s “Luka,” having been named after the song.
It was only when those wake-ups stopped that I realized how much I’d secretly loved them. Just like I’d loved her hot breakfasts, even when I complained that I could sleep in an extra twenty minutes if she’d let me grab a juice box and granola bar, like all my friends did.
That day I rise to the alarm moments before Luka raps on my door with, “Skye? You up?” He showers first – he’s sixteen and needs it more, and sometimes there’s no hot water anyway, if Mom forgot to pay the bill again. We both try to be quiet and not wake her. When Dad is away on business she’s rarely out of bed before noon, and in the past six months he’s been gone more than he’s been home.
I’m grabbing a juice box and granola bar when Luka says, “That is not a proper breakfast.”
“So you’ve said. Every morning.”
“That isn’t even real juice. You might as well drink soda.”
“Well, then…” I take a Coke from the fridge.
He plucks the can from my hand. “Sit. I’m making you scrambled eggs and toast.”
“You don’t have time.”
“I do. Isaac’s picking me up today. He’s borrowing his mom’s car and —”
A horn sounds outside. I arch my brows.
Luka’s cell pings with a text. He reads it and says, “Seriously?”
“That’s Isaac, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. He’s early. Something’s up. So important.” He rolls his eyes. “It always is with him.” He starts to type a response. “I’ll walk to school.”
“Then you’ll be late. And if we fight about it, we’ll wake Mom.”
He hesitates before saying, “Tomorrow, okay? I’ll cook for you tomorrow.”
“And I’ll drink real juice today. Just for you.”
He comes over and squeezes my shoulder. “You’re a good kid, Skye. Even when you try not to be.”
I stick out my tongue. He grins, grabs his backpack and jogs to the door.
In math class, Jesse passes me a note asking me to meet him at afternoon recess. Of course, it doesn’t actually say that. It gives GPS coordinates.
I tap his back with my pencil and lean forward to whisper, “I don’t think this is the answer to any of the questions.”
He shakes his head without turning.
“Do you need an answer?” I whisper. “I can help you out, you know, if you’re having trouble.”
I get a flashed middle finger for that. At the front of the class, Ms. Cooper’s eyes widen. Then she shakes her head sharply, as if telling herself she saw wrong, because Jesse Mandal is “not that kind of boy.”
“Skye?” she says. “Are you bothering Jesse?”
“She keeps asking me for the answer to 3A,” Jesse says. “I know math is hard for her, but she needs to figure it out for herself.”
A snicker ripples through the class. Ms. Cooper knows there’s no chance I’m cheating – Jesse and I have been competing for the top grade all year. She does, however, give me a stern look, warning me to stop making trouble, because Skye Gilchrist is “that kind of girl.” When you’ve gone to the same school since kindergarten, you earn your labels early, and they stick long after you’ve outgrown them. Well, mostly outgrown them.
When recess comes, I zip along the hall, after waving to tell my friends I won’t be joining them. I plan to sneak through the front door, but the principal and two teachers are in a whisper-huddle outside the office. They’re talking to Ms. Molina, head of the PTA, and not one of my biggest fans, ever since fifth grade, when I called her daughter a bratty bitch. In the middle of an assembly. While standing onstage. Next to the microphone.
I duck down a side hall and see Mr. Garside moving fast in my direction. I backpedal, but he only nods, as if distracted. I zoom past him and out the side door.
Until this past September, Jesse and I had been what Mom calls school pals, meaning we’d say hi if we passed in the shopping mall or talk if we were in the cafeteria line together. Then came two hours assigned to a shared bus seat on a school trip, during which Jesse Mandal became more than a nice guy from school. He became someone interesting.
We’ve played the coordinates game enough that I can guess where his latest set leads: the recessed janitorial door. I race around the corner and…
No one’s there.
As I pull out my phone to check my GPS, hands slide over my eyes.
“Tell me what you see,” Jesse says, and I grin, because this, too, is our game.
“A mountain cave,” I say. “It’s dark, but something’s moving inside.”
“What do you hear?”
“A scratching, like claws on rock.”
“Smell?”
I inhale. “Musk. Like a dog when its fur gets wet.”
“So what do you do?”
“Sneak closer to see what it is, of course.”
He laughs. He’s endlessly fascinated by how quickly I can make up a story. If I do the same to him, he sees fingers in front of his eyes, and he can’t imagine anything else. That’s not how his brain works.
His hands withdraw, but my vision stays blocked by what looks like a cardboard rectangle.
“What do you see now?” he asks.
I make out a few printed words. “Are these —? All-Time Five tickets?” I spin to face him. “For real?”
“I hope so, considering I spent my dida’s birthday money on them.”
I breathe so hard I swear I’m going to hyperventilate. “Oh my God, oh my God.” I inhale and say, “So you’re going to the concert with one of the guys?”
He rolls his dark eyes. “Do you think I’d show these to you and then take one of them?”
I smile. “Maybe your brother likes ATF.”
“My brother’s a jerk. I want to go to the concert with someone I actually like. That’s you, Gilchrist. And you’d better say yes, ’cause if I get turned down the first time I ask a girl out, I may never get over it.”
“You’re asking me…? You mean…? Like a date?”
He goes still. Then he shoves the tickets into his pocket, saying, “No, no… well, yeah. Kind of. But it’s up to you. We could just go as friends if you want.”
“Or a date, if I want?”
He catches my grin, and his eyes light up, and he opens his mouth, but a voice says “Skye?” and we both jump. It’s Mr. Garside. He looks from me to my companion. “Jesse?”
“We were talking,” I say.
Jesse nods.
“You’re both needed at the office.” Mr. Garside sounds as distracted as he looked earlier. “Follow me.”
“If we’re in trouble for sneaking out, I’ll tell them it was my idea,” Jesse whispers as we follow Mr. Garside.
I shake my head, but Jesse says, “Hey, I actually did something wrong for a change. I want to take credit. Boost my rep.”
I’ve started to answer when I catch the sound of a radio coming from the office.
“— events at North Hampton High School this afternoon. One shooter has reportedly been killed. Another has been taken into custody —”
I stop so fast my shoes squeak. Everyone in the office turns and sees us. Someone says, “Turn that off!” and Principal Salas rushes out, her arms blocking the office doorway as if she can block the sound, too.
Jesse has stopped beside me.