Unravelling. Elizabeth Norris

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      “Janelle!” Nick shouts.

      I turn around in time to see Kevin knock him over and push him face-first into the sand. Nick rolls over and punches Kevin hard in his lower back—kidney shot—and spits sand out of his mouth. “I’ll pick you up around eight tonight, right?”

      I nod, and a grin overtakes his face. I start to return the smile, but then Kevin is on top of him again, and they’re back at it.

      I turn around and catch Brooke staring at me. I lock onto her blue eyes and refuse to look away. There was a time when I might have been the kind of girl to wilt under the disapproval of Brooke Haslen. She’s seemingly everything I’m not—tall, blond, beautiful, perfect. And if this were three years ago, I might have felt guilty about the fact that Nick asked me out only a few days after he broke up with her. But not anymore.

      Brooke and I stare at each other as I pass by her and her friends. It’s Kate who actually breaks the glare for us. She reaches for a can of soda and leans in front of Brooke. Then she looks up—sees me—then frowns and tries to look away.

      When I get to my car, I understand. Brooke’s smirk. Kate’s regret.

      The windshield of my Jeep reads BITCH in fluorescent pink window paint. Apparently, I’ll also be running through a car wash on my way to pick up Jared.

      Or not. Because as I open my door and chuck the duffel into the passenger seat, I realize my tire is flat. It doesn’t just need more air. It’s dead flat—the rim of my tire is on the pavement.

      And it’s not the only one.

      My other front tire is flat too.

      Kate would know I have a spare in the back of the Jeep. She knows my dad wouldn’t let me get my license until I’d successfully demonstrated I could change a tire, check my oil, and jump-start the car.

      When your ex–best friend and the ex-girlfriend of your sort-of boyfriend call you a bitch—in neon-pink window paint—and slash your tires, the temptation to break down and cry is definitely there. My eyes sting, my body feels hot in that “I’m treading the emotional line between fury and tears” sort of way, and I’m tempted to just throw my arms out wide, look up at the sky, and scream at the top of my lungs. Only, this is hardly the first time I’ve felt this way. Slashing tires might be new, but the life-ruining sentiment is still the same.

      And I’ve dealt with far bigger issues than high school mean girls.

      Digging into the glove compartment for my cell, I contemplate heading back to the beach and asking Nick for help. But being a damsel in distress isn’t really my thing. And I don’t want Nick to make any wild guesses about how this happened—he might act like a Neanderthal sometimes, but he’s actually a smart guy, and BITCH plus two flat tires equals only one possible culprit. Plus, if I go back down to the beach for help, Brooke will get the satisfaction of seeing that she got to me.

      So I call AAA and explain the problem while changing into my running sneakers. It’ll take them at least an hour to get here to change the tires, but no big deal, I’ll be back tonight. And they’ll charge the tires to the credit card, so I won’t have to worry about that.

      Then I start walking. This stretch of Highway 101 is wide open—just cliffs, beach, and two-lane highway. I can easily hike up the hill and run into Del Mar. It’s a little more than two miles, but if I run full speed, I can probably make it in under fifteen minutes. I dial the one person who’s never let me down.

      Because he’s Alex, he answers on the first ring. “What’s up?”

      “I need a favor.”

      “Sure.”

      I smile into the phone. “Can you pick Jared and me up at Chris Whitman’s house? He lives in Del Mar on Stratford Court at Fourth Street.”

      “Of course, but what’s wrong with the Jeep?” I hear him grabbing his keys.

      “Flat tire. Long story.” He starts to protest. “I’ll tell you all about it when you get there.”

      “Yeah, no problem. Do you want me to pick up something on the way?”

      Crap. That reminds me. I promised Jared a carne asada burrito from Roberto’s. I’m not going to have time, and it would be out of Alex’s way. . . . I bite my lip and close my eyes for a split second, weighing Jared’s disappointment against time.

      I’m about to ask Alex if he can stop at the drive-through at Cotija’s, which isn’t quite as good but is at least on the way, when I think I hear someone shout my name.

      But it’s drowned out by the screech of brakes and the grinding of metal on asphalt.

      

bservation skills are hardly a hereditary gene, but before I died, I would have always said I either inherited mine from my dad or honed them living with my mom.

      I also would have said I was the most observant person I knew—it was why I had the most saves out of all the lifeguards at Torrey Pines.

      But somehow I manage to miss the faded blue Toyota pickup until it’s so close I can feel the warmth of the engine and smell the smoke of locking brakes. Until the only thing I have time to do is haphazardly throw an arm in front of my face. Because apparently I’m vain like that.

      

here’s a second of scorching heat and a sensation of vertigo, then my heart stops, everything freezes, and suddenly I don’t need to breathe. The last thing I hear is Alex saying my name, his voice raised in question.

      But there’s no pain. In fact, when I die—and I know I’m dying, I’m as certain as I’ve ever been about anything in my life—there’s an absence of pain, a lightness almost, as if all my worries about Jared getting enough to eat, making his water polo practices, getting good grades, adjusting to high school, about my dad working himself into the ground, getting enough sleep, spending enough time with Jared, about my mom taking her medicine on time, getting out of bed before three, not noticing I dumped the last of her gin down the drain—it all just escapes.

      And I’m dead.

      The clichéd whole-life-flashing-before-my-eyes moment doesn’t come either. Instead I see just one day. The most perfect day of my existence. Maybe the sight of it really is just my optic nerves firing as my body shuts down. But the feeling—that’s more than just my body’s physiological reaction. Because I can feel everything I felt that day.

      And there’s nothing clichéd about it at all.

       I see the heavy heat of the midday summer sun beat down on my mother, surrounding her like some sort of halo, her belly swollen and pregnant with Jared. Her dark olive skin gleams in the reflection of the sunlight off the sand, and a thick mess of black hair is piled in a loose bun on top of her head. She claps her hands and throws her head back, letting out СКАЧАТЬ