Chapter 1: Laughter
Eli had not smiled since the day she died. In the beginning, he'd blamed it on the grief. People said you were supposed to try to remember the good times, but all he could think about was the fight, the last words they'd screamed at each other before she had taken off. Now he would never be sure if she had meant it when she said they were done, or if it would have been another 48-hour cooling off period before he buckled and went over to apologize, and she'd pretend to still be mad until she got into another fight with her stepmom, and she show up on his doorstep, red-faced and windswept, and they'd lose themselves in the depths of Eli's bed and wake up forgetting they'd ever argued. But there would be no more apologies, and no more fiery make-up sex, and certainly no more broken promises. Julia's annoying habits had ceased when her heart stopped, but Eli's temper would burn on in the wake of her death, forever reminding him of what he'd done. His unhappiness was his own fault, he'd killed her.
When the drowning pain had passed, faded into a dull ache, he thought the lightness might return also. Yet day after day wore on, and Eli seemed to have no more jokes to tell. Witty comments and double-meanings didn't come to him anymore – every time he tried dry, hateful sarcasm spewed forth instead. Eventually he stopped trying to be funny, stopped trying to go back to normal, and embraced his newfound contempt for the world. He wasn't sure why he still felt so angry, but he learned that punching things helped. At first it was simple – lockers, doors – but he quickly realized that it was even better when the things punched back. Some boys turned their contempt and sense of superiority into bullying, but Eli was not one of those. He was rage turned outward, and it was best when he could justify his hatred with a pre-existing disapproval. He didn't just hate bullies anymore, he crusaded against them, and every bruise on his knuckles, every split lip or black eye that throbbed stopped his heart from throbbing for a little while.
The persona gave Eli something new to cling to. He bought more dark clothing and shoved his more colourful band t-shirts to the back of his closet. He experimentally shoplifted an eyeliner pen from the cosmetics department of a local superstore (he couldn't go up and pay for the thing, it would be too humiliating) and tested its effects in the bathroom. And when he saw that old hearse in the parking lot of a used car lot, well, he quickly traded in the Old Clunker for the new-Eli friendly death cab. He even named it Morty, and made sure to call it that often, smirking to himself when the joke went over his classmates' heads.
There was only so long the school administration could turn its head, however, and though Eli's new hobby only ever put known hallway terrors at risk – and made the whole school a lot safer for some very grateful grade nines – the fights were becoming almost daily occurrences. The new Eli needed to go.
Wrapped up in his rage and contempt, Eli hadn't kicked up a large fuss. A part of him – the part most closely connected with his pain sensors, most likely, knew he was on a path to destruction. The rage faded a little, but the contempt didn't. High schools were all the same, and he could cultivate the same reputation at this new one.
It was in English class one day, as Eli was colouring his nails with a sharpie – a habit he'd developed since he noted how well it looked with his new colourless get-up, that he heard it. After being assigned as English partners, the girl whose glasses he had run over in the parking lot – the one he kept telling himself was not cute, and whose eyes weren't that pretty – drawled a dull "Great, that'll be fun", and it was so low, so positively dripping with sarcasm and so completely uncharacteristic of such a normally smiley, positively perky girl that he couldn't help it. Eli wanted to laugh. He held strong, of course, unsure the muscles still worked after such a long time. But then, when she had added the deadpanned "Sylvia Plath killed herself", he couldn't help it. Eli Goldsworthy actually laughed – out loud.
Granted, it was barely a chortle, but it was still something. A grudging respect for the girl who no longer wore the coke-bottle glasses started to grow. Maybe he had been wrong to typecast her so early. The dark humour was certainly unexpected.
It happened again when they skipped English the next day. She made a snappy retort, and he offered her a smirk that was close to a half smile when he replied. Something about having someone match his cynicism without batting an eye made him want to smile. Since he'd adopted the sarcasm and dark persona he'd gotten used to being given a wide berth, but Clare didn't seem to fall for that.
Then, after she screamed, as he wrapped his hands around her tiny wrists and she got close enough to kiss, Eli actually smiled. And it felt nice.
A pattern had been established, and Eli found the more time he spent with this girl, the more the forgotten muscles in his face would tense, and the hidden smile would break forth. It came so naturally to him when she was around, or he was thinking of her, and it had never occurred to him to fight it. It had been so long since he had wanted to smile.