Note: So I was pretty close to finishing this chapter...

...and then I moved to the West Side four months ago. Heh. And my life has kind of just exploded in a very NYC-ish way from there, lol. On the one hand, inspiration is pretty much everywhere (Hello, Winter Garden Theatre! Hello, fire escapes!), but on the other, I have very little time to write. But oh well. If you're still here, thank you for sticking with this story. I promise, once more, that I will finish it if it's the last thing that I do. And that we'll get back to our angsty intrepid hero next chapter, hahaha.

Thankyouthankyouthankyou: RhapsodyInProgress, and shadeslayerprincess111 for their super mega awesome reviews last chapter. You win the universe. :)

2.24.14: Also, thank you to MissMello! Unfortunately can't review reply, but I wanted to say that I appreciate the review! While the Jet girl Clarice was paired with Action in at least one version of the stage play, fta is based on the film version, where Action is shown dancing with Pat Tribble (whom Tony Mordente has named as Minnie), Carole D'Andrea/Velma, and one other actress. When Bardess of Avon and I originally developed our own fanon universe based on the film, we named Rita Hyde D'Amico, the dancer who partners Big Deal and Gee-Tar, as Clarice, because quite honestly that's who she looked like to us. ;) The other dancer paired with Action ended up as Pauline, and Francesca Bellini, the fourth non-dancing actress in the "Cool" scene, was named Bernice. All the relationships and pairings in fta are based on what we felt was shown in the film. Hope that clears things up, and thanks again! :)

—viennacantabile

fell the angels

twenty-eight : from here to eternity

.

(Where doesn't matter.)

—Madeleine L'Engle, A Wind in the Door

.

Velma has just knocked on the door to the Gambini apartment when it swings wide open to reveal a dark-haired girl in a pink and purple polka-dot apron holding a pot full of tomato sauce and a wooden spoon.

"Buenos días, Velma!" she chirps. "You have come here just in time!"

Velma blinks. "I have?"

"Sí, sí," Rosalia giggles. "I am making spaghetti with meatballs and I would like someone to try it to see if it tastes good. I cannot, you know," she says very seriously. "It is bad luck to eat your own cooking."

Velma has to hide a moment of panic. Among many things Clarice has told her about the Gambinis' babysitter is to never, ever eat anything Rosalia has made. "Sorry. I—er, already ate," she says hastily. "Couldn't have another bite."

Rosalia sighs. "That is too bad. Oh well," she says, brightening once more. "Would you like to come see Izzy with me?"

Velma smiles. "Sure."

After a quick detour to put the pot back onto the stove, they settle into Izzy's nursery with the baby fast asleep in Rosalia's arms. "How are you today, querida?" asks the Shark girl, energetically rocking Izzy back and forth.

"Not too bad," says Velma. She and Rosalia have met a few times before, but she's never had what she'd call a real conversation with the girl she's heard described as an unstoppable force of chaos. "You?"

The girl beams. "Oh, that silly Indio asked me to marry him today."

In spite of herself, Velma is a bit shocked. This is not, she thinks, the way she ever expected to hear about an engagement. "Congratulations," she says, then blinks. "Wait—ya did say yes, right?"

"Sí, of course," giggles Rosalia. "But he looked so funny I could not stop laughing. He was not too happy with that."

"What d'ya mean, funny?" asks Velma, expecting some elaborate proposal like she's seen in the movies.

"Well," says the girl thoughtfully, "he had just fallen out of his chair and he was on the floor of The Coffee Pot and because he had been eating a doughnut he had jelly all over his face and sugar in his hair. Now tell me, querida, could you keep a straight face if a boy proposed to you like that?"

"But why'd he fall out of his chair?" Velma asks, indeed biting her lip to keep from laughing.

"Perhaps because I had just told him about the bebe," says Rosalia, giving the one in her arms a pat. She shrugs, very innocently. "He choked on his doughnut and fell over and when I went around the table to pick him up he sat straight up and gave me such a look, you would not believe. And then," she says quite happily, "'Rosalia Mariàngela Escamila Rios,' he said, 'we must get married right away!'"

"Oh," says Velma helplessly. "That's—er—romantic."

"He was very sure about that," confides Rosalia. "Something about the bebe having a father. But I told him not to be silly because of course the bebe has a father: Indio!"

Velma stifles a chuckle. "A-course."

"All bebes have fathers," says Rosalia very seriously. "Even small Tony, and small Bernardo." She coos at the baby. "Just like you, Izzy."

But all Velma has heard is what surely cannot be. "Small Tony?" she asks, fighting to keep her voice steady. "Small Bernardo?"

"Sí," Rosalia beams happily. "Though they are growing very fast and will not be so small too much longer. They are just Izzy's age, and I know that she will be good friends with them." She giggles and pats her stomach. "And also with the bebe in here, too."

Maria, she thinks, her mouth dry. Anita. And Graziella. They were, she supposes for not the first time, all more alike than they'd ever realized.

And if she'd been in their place, Velma thinks, half fascinated and half sick, what would she have done? After all, it isn't as if Ice is even a proper name, anyhow, and—

She shakes her head. "You think they will?"

"Sí." Rosalia nods, her face for once turning serious. "Is that not what we will teach them now, querida?" She strokes Izzy's cheek, and the baby fusses a little. "After all of this?"

Velma thinks of the Jets, preparing for yet another showdown with the Reds. She thinks of three small boys never knowing their own fatherless fathers, and how it all seems to come back to the same things, the same sadnesses and the same heartbreaks when she still can't imagine ever having to be that strong. Who will they be? she wonders, and will they be able to end this cycle of fear and hurt and pain?

"I don't know," she says. From far away, Velma hears the door open, Clarice's voice call out a hello. But still her eyes are locked on the sweet-faced, brown-skinned girl with the baby in her arms. On that faint wisp of the future. "But I hope so."

.

That Saturday evening, Velma is sitting in her room brushing her hair when she hears a knock at her window.

By this time she knows who it is: Mouthpiece has taken to visiting every now and then, just to check up on her. She does appreciate it, Velma supposes as she opens the curtains and peers out. Sure enough, the overgrown Jet is sitting cross-legged on her fire escape.

"Your lamps ain't on," he observes.

Velma glances at the room behind her, lit by just the single fixture above. She hasn't thought of them in a very long time. "No," she says. "Guess not."

"Shame. I liked them," offers Mouthpiece. "Say, I got a real good idea, Velma. Want to know what it is?"

Velma smiles in spite of herself. "Sure."

"I wanna take ya to a dance," Mouthpiece says, blue eyes wide and earnest. "There's one tonight. You like dancin', right? I ain't seen ya do it in awhile, though."

Velma, taking a deep breath, shrugs. "I—haven't much felt like dancin' in awhile, Mouthpiece."

The boy fidgets. "Not even with Bobby Benson? Or Jerry Saunders?"

Velma glances at him, her mouth quirking up a bit. Normally she wouldn't say anything, but she's honestly amused. "What d'you know about them, Mouthpiece?"

Mouthpiece turns bright pink. "Ya ain't with them now," he says at last. "That's about it, really."

Velma looks down. Bobby had been nice. Jerry had been nice. Even Dean Chalmers had been nice. All of them had asked for a second date. And she'd turned all of them down. Mouthpiece's version of it isn't a bad summary, really.

"Well, okay," she says with a sigh, mindful of what Clarice has told her. Maybe it won't be so bad, after all. "I'll go with ya."

Mouthpiece goggles at her. "Ya will?"

Velma half-smiles. He isn't smart, she thinks, and never will be, but what he is is sweet. "If ya really want to."

The Jet beams. "You betcha I do."

But they don't even make it halfway through the door of the dance hall before Velma stops.

It isn't just that she's with Mouthpiece. It's that Graziella is at home with Tiger, taking care of Riff. Clarice is by the punch table with Big Deal, but, as she's told Velma, it's Bernice's turn to babysit Izzy tonight. Half the Jets, thinks Velma, feeling very lonely, aren't even here. As for the most obvious difference, well…that's not even worth mentioning, at this point.

"Take me home," she says, trying very hard to keep her voice even. She's gotten good at this by now, but even so, it's a struggle. "Please. Just take me home."

And Mouthpiece, as he always has, just shrugs and does as she asks.

On the way back they stop for ice cream. Mouthpiece treats her to a vanilla cup and buys a fudge pop for himself. He looks a bit crestfallen when he gets it.

"I thought it'd have two like with Popsicles so I could give half to you," he explains, waving the ice cream bar around by its one stick.

Velma can't help it—she smiles. "That's sweet, Mouthpiece."

The boy blushes. "Aww, it ain't nothin', Velma."

The fudge pop lasts a block and a half; the vanilla cup twice as long. And then they are just walking, and Velma becomes more and more conscious that for once in his life, Mouthpiece isn't talking.

She's never really had to make conversation with the Jet before—usually he's just said something silly, or sweet, and all Velma's had to do is react. But now, when he is silent, she feels like she ought to fill up the empty space with something. Anything. Velma's not really sure what to say, though. She's trying so hard to avoid anything that has to do with herself—that horrible, uncomfortable subject—that she feels a little dull.

"My sister's havin' a baby," she finally offers after awhile.

The Jet looks surprised. "You got a sister?"

"Two," says Velma with a small smile. "This one's the oldest."

"Lotsa babies poppin' up lately," Mouthpiece observes.

"You're tellin' me," Velma says with feeling. What with Izzy, and Riff, and Rosalia's baby, and Astrid's, and now what she's heard about two small boys on the Shark side of town, it seems like something of a baby boom has come over the West Side. Velma thinks babies are sweet, and technically she knows she could be a mother herself, but still, it's a little frightening. It seems like only yesterday when adulthood and responsibility was the farthest thing from any of their minds and now they've been plunged right in the middle of it. How? she wonders. How did all of this happen?

They walk another block in silence before Mouthpiece stops dead in his tracks, face turned up to the night sky.

Velma stops, too, vaguely reminded of a time or two with another boy who'd stopped, scanning the streets for danger. "What? What is it?"

Mouthpiece swivels his face down to look at her. He is, she is surprised to see, grinning happily. "Oh, nothin'. Just I saw a star an' named it after you."

Velma stares. "You did?"

The blond Jet points skyward. "Yup. That one, right there."

Velma, looking up, blinks at the multitude of lights up above. It's hard to see from here which ones belong to the buildings and which ones belong to the night, hard to pick out the sky from the earth. "Where?"

Mouthpiece gestures again. "That one."

Velma shakes her head. "Mouthpiece, there's a million stars up there—"

Mouthpiece scratches his head. "Yeah?"

Velma nods. "Yeah."

"Huh," he says. "Well, then, you can have 'em all."

Velma doesn't know why, but looking up at the stars she can't quite make out—in the same sky as it ever was, the same sky that is over Ice's head wherever he is right now—she's never wanted to cry so much in her life.

"Oh," she says, swallowing hard against the ache in her throat, trying to hold it back. "Thanks." She hopes he doesn't notice, but in another moment he's digging through his pockets and holding out a huge polka-dotted handkerchief.

"Y'know," he tells her, "my ma always says it's okay to cry."

Velma takes a shuddering breath. "No one—no one else ever says that. I know it's stupid, and I ain't done it in ages, and—I shouldn't care—" She hates the way she can't speak without shaking, has to cover her mouth with her hand to push the sadness back. But Mouthpiece doesn't blink when her voice catches, doesn't even seem to notice.

"Feel what ya wanna feel," he says, pulling her hand down and folding it over the handkerchief. "I don't mind."

Velma looks up at him then, and the earnest expression in his wide blue eyes is enough. Just like that, tears are slipping down her face.

"It's okay," Mouthpiece says, tugging her over the steps to a nearby building. "It's okay."

He sits with her for a long time. He doesn't say much, just keeps his arm around her shuddering shoulders as she cries, remembering Ice, and all they were. He stays with her, until she is exhausted and spent and her head is pounding. He stays with her, and his quiet companionship says everything he doesn't.

"He said he was going," she finally says, staring out at the road. "I'm going, and I love you. How does that—I don't—" Velma stops. "'See ya later,'" she says, taking a deep breath. "That's what he was supposed to say. Because we never say goodbye."

"Him leavin' don't mean he didn't love ya," Mouthpiece offers softly. "We all knew he did."

Velma shakes her head, eyes locked on the pavement. "He shut me out an' wouldn't talk to me an' God, I know I'm just a girl an' not a Jet but I needed him too." She buries her face in her hands. "Why would he do that, Mouthpiece?"

The Jet shrugs. "I don't think he wanted to put all his worries on ya."

Velma shakes her head again and looks up. "I wanted him to. And he doesn't—didn't—know how hard this whole year's been. I tried not to tell him, with everythin' he had to deal with."

"I bet he knew, though," Mouthpiece says. "He always worried about ya."

"He didn't need to," Velma says, annoyed, before she realizes how contradictory she sounds and can't stop her face from flushing. "I mean—not in the way he thought. Not about that."

"You sound like you're mad at him," he says, looking at her with his round blue eyes.

Velma's breath catches in her throat. "I'm not—I—mad?" she asks, shaking her head. She doesn't understand. "Why would I be mad?"

"He left," says Mouthpiece. "After this whole year. It'd make sense if you were sore about it."

Velma stares at him. "Maybe. But it's a lot of things at once," she says, swallowing hard. "Not just mad or scared or lonely. It's complicated."

He furrows his brow. "Whaddaya mean?"

"That's the thing," she says, swallowing hard. "He'd know. So the one I want to talk to about all of this—the one I would talk to about something like this—is him."

"Tell me," Mouthpiece says, propping his chin on his hands. "I know I ain't smart, an' maybe I won't get it, but—I'll listen."

She almost doesn't know where to start. There has been too much over the past year to begin too easily. Finally she opens her mouth and says the first thing that comes to mind.

"He almost died," she whispers. "An' he wouldn't—he wouldn't talk to me about it, he just sat there an' stared an' I couldn't do anything—"

"You can't always fix everything, I think," Mouthpiece observes. "Sometimes you just have to do what ya can an' hope it works out."

Velma lets out a short laugh. "I did everything I could think of an' I still couldn't help him, no matter what I did. No matter how much I loved him."

"How d'ya know ya didn't help him?" Mouthpiece asks.

Velma stares at him. "He left, didn't he?"

"Still," Mouthpiece says with a shrug. "He stayed that long. 'S gotta mean somethin'."

Velma bites her lip. She doesn't dare allow herself to hope that Mouthpiece is right when she can point to half a dozen reasons why Ice might've stayed and most of them revolve around the Jets.

"You did everything ya could," he says, watching her. "You know that, right?"

"That's what I keep telling myself," Velma says. "But then if that's true, why isn't he here?"

"Maybe nothing you did could stop that," Mouthpiece says, and in spite of herself Velma almost believes him. "But at least you gave him something to come back for. So maybe he will."

She sighs. "If he did come back I don't know what would happen. Nothin' would change. He'd still be a Jet an' I'd still be—less," she said, her voice hollow and echoing. "Less than that."

Mouthpiece takes her hand then, and when Velma meets his gaze, his blue eyes are completely sincere.

"Trust me," he says. "You ain't less than nothin'."

Velma holds his gaze for a few seconds, then looks down, conscious that her makeup must be down to her chin by now, and takes out her mirror to fix some of the damage. "Maybe not, but I know I'm a mess."

"I don't care," Mouthpiece says. "I still think you're pretty."

She glances at him, lets out something between a hiccup and a sob before she can help it. "I don't feel pretty."

"But you are," Mouthpiece says, undeterred. "I always thought so."

And again it almost makes her feel worse, this adoration she never asked for, but Velma knows he means well and so she tries to smile. "Thanks."

They lapse into silence, then, and Velma wonders if she will regret this later. As much as she has come to like—and even trust—Mouthpiece over the last couple months, there is a part of her that is terrified right now. Because Velma, ice queen of the Jet girls, has earned her reputation for a reason. Velma doesn't ever crack, doesn't ever lose control or show how she feels and she can't believe she is doing this now. She is fine, just fine, and the Jets had better believe it.

At least that will mean somebody does, she thinks with a sigh.

After awhile, Mouthpiece clears his throat.

"Tiger's thinkin'-a quittin'," he says, and Velma looks up, astounded.

"Really?"

"Yeah," he says, swinging his feet. "Says sooner or later he's gotta make a choice, an' if he does, it's gotta be Graz an' the kid."

Velma thinks about this. "Wow." Then she looks over at him, concerned. "You okay with that? Him not bein' a Jet?"

"Sure," Mouthpiece says with a shrug. "He's still my best buddy, an' he'll still be around. If he says he's gotta stop fightin', then I guess he's gotta stop fightin'. 'Sides," he adds, glancing at her, "he'll still be a Jet. It's for life."

Velma stares at him, wishes she had that complete confidence. "You said the Jets are family," she says, thinking back to a long time ago. "D'ya still think that?"

He turns to look at her, smiles. "A-course, Velma."

Velma looks down at her feet. "It can't last forever," she says quietly. "Look at Tiger." Look at Ice, she leaves unsaid. Look at all those others who have left and haven't come back. "You know that, right?"

"Yeah," he says, with another easy smile. "But it don't matter. Even if I ain't with 'em, I'm still a Jet. An' I always will be."

"I guess that goes for all of us, then," Velma murmurs. "Even us girls."

Mouthpiece nods. "Yeah," he says, his voice sure. "It's a part of you ya can't never take back. Not ever. For life."

"For life," she repeats, and as Mouthpiece gets to his feet and holds his hand out to her she thinks: however long that may be.

They've just reached her doorstep when she comes to a decision.

"Mouthpiece," she says. "I have a question."

He glances at her. "What?"

Digging through her purse, she hands him the Polaroid. "Does this look like me?"

Mouthpiece studies it for a moment. "It's you," he says after a moment. "But not all of you."

Velma quirks an eyebrow. "What's that mean?"

"This's you, not happy," he says, and Velma bites her lip. "But you'd have to take dozens of pictures to make it really you. Happy, sad, mad, glad. Like I said: all of you."

Velma stares at him. "And now? What—what am I now?"

"Okay," he says, meeting her gaze with keen eyes. "Not fine, but okay."

Velma blinks, once, twice. "Okay," she repeats, swallowing hard. She climbs up the steps, fumbles with the key. She's just opened the door to go in when she hears him:

"He didn't, y'know."

Velma glances back at him. "What?"

"Say goodbye," he tells her, wide eyes very blue even in the darkness. "He left, yeah, an' he didn't say it like normal, but he didn't say goodbye."

She blinks. "What're you talkin' about?"

"Don't know," he says. "But it seemed important that ya remember. That he didn't."

Velma stares at him. Against everything, she can't stop her heartbeat from quickening. "It don't matter, Mouthpiece," she says. The night is over and whatever else has happened she is back in control now. "Good night."

She climbs the stairs, slips into her room without meeting anyone, and switches on the smallest of her lamps. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter.

If she says it enough times, Velma figures, gaze tracing shadows on the wall, she'll believe it.

.

In the morning Velma wakes up to see Graziella sticking her head in through the window.

"So," she says, climbing through, "last night, with Mouthpiece, how'd it go?"

Velma, who figures it's not even worth it to ask how Graziella knows about that, doesn't miss the way the redhead's eyes dart to the bed as she sits up. "Fine."

"Really?" the redhead says with a smirk. "I know ya left the dance early. You could tell me, Vel, if anythin' happened I oughta know about."

"No," Velma says. And it's true. "Nothin' happened."

Graziella pauses, for the smallest of moments, then laughs. "Sure. Why would it, right? You can't stand him."

Velma shakes her head. "No. He's okay," she says, drawing her knees up under her arms. "Better than I thought."

"Right," says the redhead with a sidelong glance before plopping down onto the bed and grinning. "Look, Vel, you shoulda seen what happened this morning. Tiger decides he's gonna make me breakfast in bed."

"Why?" asks Velma, intrigued.

Graziella shrugs. "Just cause, he says. Anyway he gets up at the crack-a dawn an' thinks he's bein' so smart, 'cept Tiger never could cook worth beans an' I wake up 'cause I can smell the bacon burnin', an' I guess little Riff can too, 'cause he's screamin' bloody murder."

Velma laughs. "Yeah?"

"So I know what's happenin', an' even the kid knows what's happenin', but Tiger tears into the room like his ass is on fire an' says there's smoke in the kitchen an' I oughta take the kid an' get out. I ask him, did ya turn the stove off? an' he says no, he thought it'd explode if he touched it 'cause it was already smokin'."

Velma rolls her eyes. "He didn't."

The redhead smirks. "He did. Anyway I get outta bed and run over to the stove and turn it off an' ya know what the stupid lunk did? He tried to cook the bacon right on the stove, without a pan or nothin'. I can't believe he didn't set the place on fire."

"Me neither," says Velma, shaking her head.

"It was the dumbest thing you ever saw," snorts Graziella. "The goof ended up with a burn for his trouble an' is layin' on the couch suckin' his thumb an' moanin' somethin' fierce right now. I'm s'posed to pick up somethin' for him from Doc's 'fore I go home." She giggles again. "The big dumb baby."

Something about the sound strikes Velma, and she looks at her friend. It's a real laugh, just like she used to hear all the time, careless and cackling and without a worry in the world. She looks at Graziella, and for the first time sees the flame-haired girl she knew before.

And Velma remembers Mouthpiece's words. He's thinkin' about quittin'. Says he's gotta make a choice, an' if he does, it's gotta be Graz.

It's not right, she thinks, that things ended up this way. But Graziella has, at long last, picked up the pieces and made a life for herself. It's not right, but maybe it's not wrong, either.

"Sounds like Tiger ain't so bad anymore." She pauses. "Sounds like you're happy with him." And even though Velma doesn't dare say it, it's there: like you love him.

Graziella's eyes widen, and an almost panicked look flits across her face before she shakes her head. "No," she says quickly. "No, I ain't ever gonna forget Riff. Never."

Velma takes a breath, then lets it out. "I know."

There is silence for a few moments as Graziella picks at her nails and Velma keeps quiet, feeling a bit stupid. Of course, she thinks, of course it's silly to hope for that storybook ending when so much in the last year has proved her wrong. Why would this be any different?

And then a strange sort of wistful half-smile comes to Graziella's lips. "But yeah," she says. "I guess he ain't as bad as he used to be. Maybe."

Velma matches her expression. Storybook ending—no. She's not sure she believes in those anymore. But, she thinks, maybe just a whisper of chance—for love, for happiness, for the future—is good enough.

.

Velma is just coming in one night when she passes the kitchen and stops, startled. "Hi, Dad."

She doesn't see her father often at this time of the night. Usually he works late, and when he comes home, goes straight to bed. When she talks to him, it's in the morning after the tiredness is gone from his face. It's clear now, though, from the way he's sitting against the table that Dr. Andersen has had a long day.

Still, though, he half-smiles at her. "Vilhelmina."

Velma smiles back, feeling a little tug at the sound of her full name. "You okay?"

Dr. Andersen nods. "Yes. It's just there was—" He hesitates, and lowers his gaze to the table. "There was a fight last night. It wasn't as bad as it could have been. All they had was rocks, it seems."

Children, Velma remembers. Her father treats children.

She pulls out a chair, sits next to him. "You okay?" she asks again, taking in the lines around his eyes and the weariness in his face. Dr. Andersen doesn't usually tell his children too much about his practice on the Upper West Side. Not like he used to, across the city. But now, Velma supposes, he's probably realized that his daughter will understand, more than anyone else, the gang violence that affects his patients in a way none of them had expected.

He sighs. "I knew what it would be like," he says. "I'd heard. But I didn't know, at the same time."

Velma puts her arms around her father, rests her head on his shoulder. She has done this so many times in the past that it feels strange to realize that he is the one who needs this comfort now. "It's different, seeing it. When they're right there in front of you."

"You've grown up a lot, Vilhe," Dr. Andersen says, and she can hear a kind of heaviness in his voice. "Faster than I wanted you to."

Velma smiles a little. "Can't stay daddy's little girl forever, I guess."

"Do you wish we had stayed?" he asks her. "After all this?"

Velma thinks for a moment.

"No," she says at last, and she means it. "No, I don't." Because even with all the hurt, and all the heartache of the last year—she can't forget how she has changed, and what she would be giving up if they had never left, had never come to the West Side. She can't forget the knowledge of loss, and of the nature of pain. She cannot regret falling in love.

"I wish I still had all the answers for you," her father says, his voice wistful. "Like when you were small, and all you wanted to know was where the sun went while you were asleep."

Velma half-smiles. "But I know where it goes now, Pappa."

Dr. Andersen's voice is serious. "And where does it go, Velma?"

"Away," she whispers past the sudden ache in her throat. "To the other side of the world."

"But it always comes back," her father reminds her. "To greet you in the morning."

It's like an old fairy tale, Velma thinks, and in fact that is the way her father has always told it to her. Night comes, the stars watch over your sleep, but the sun will be there in the morning.

"Yes," she says. Whatever happens, right now, or in the future, there is this hope. "It always comes back."

.

Shortly after midnight on June 7th, 1958, Velma wakes up and stares at her celling. Today she is eighteen years old.

"Happy birthday," she whispers. "How does it feel?"

Not too different, yet, she thinks, getting out of bed and sitting on the windowsill. She's crossed some magical line overnight that says she is an adult but she has yet to see how it makes any difference. How it changes anything.

Velma rests her forehead against the glass. There is no reason to leave the window open nowadays, but she can't help it. Force of habit, and maybe some mad hope that one day, she won't be alone when she wakes at dawn.

She lifts her hand, watches the imprint of her fingertips mist onto the top half of the glass.

"See ya later," she echoes, gaze searching the night.

When she looks back up, the fingerprints have already disappeared. It's a little bit frightening, Velma thinks. Like they were never there at all.

The thought is so terrifying that her hand reaches up for the glass again, presses desperately to feel the half of her that has gone.

"You're there," she whispers, against everything that has told her otherwise. "You matter."

But even if he does, she thinks, should he matter to her?

Velma sits in the dark, listening to the distant noises of the city. She can't go on like this in this in-between time, she knows. And yet. College, marriage, a job. Are those really her only options? she wonders. All that is open to her?

But what else is there? She can't keep waiting like this, Velma thinks. She's had enough of it, had enough of the uncertainty, of having her life depend on someone else's choices. What Velma understands now, after all this, after everything that has happened, is that whatever she chooses, it needs to be just that: her choice.

Because she could do it if she chose to, Velma thinks. That would be the difference. She could keep waiting, hoping, for Ice to come back and fix the huge gaping hole in her heart. She could.

Or she could move on to the boy she knows is waiting: Mouthpiece. He is nice, Velma knows, and he cares a lot about her. Loves her, even though he's never said it. And while she would never love him back, she can't help but admit she doesn't mind him. She's maybe even fond of him, more than she ever thought possible before Ice left. He is a nice boy, and he would do anything for her. It's not so bad, as she's seen from Graziella's example. Not so bad, being loved.

But there is another choice, and that is what is hardest. Try to pick up the pieces of her life and move on for herself, without any guarantee of what her future will be, or even that everything will be okay.

Velma leaves the window, reaches for the Polaroid photo still in her purse and sticks it into the frame of her mirror. Her own eyes stare out at her, unsmiling and serious, and Velma wonders what she will look like in yet another year.

Finally she gets back into bed, closes her eyes, hugs her knees to her chest, and tries to sleep. She knows what she will do, finally, and all she waits for is morning.

.

You've lived in small houses, tight spaces—
the walls around you kept closing in—
but the sea and the sky were also yours.

…Goodbye, love, far away, in a warm place.
Night is endless here, silence infinite.

—Edward Hirsch, "What the Last Evening Will Be Like"