JENNIE

142 days to go

Two a.m. Wednesday. My bedroom.

I wake up to the sound of rocks at my window. At first I think I'm dreaming, but then I hear it again. I get up and peek through the blinds, and Lalisa Manoban is standing in my front yard dressed in pajama bottoms and a dark hoodie.

I open the window and lean out. "Go away." I'm still mad at her for getting me detention, first of my life. And I'm mad at Taehyung for thinking we're going out again, and whose fault is that? I've been acting like a tease, kissing him on his dimple, kissing him at the drive-in. I'm mad at everyone, mostly myself. "Go away," I say again.

"Please don't make me climb this tree, because I'll probably fall and break my neck and we have too much to do for me to be hospitalized."

"We don't have anything else to do. We've already done it."

But I smooth my hair and roll on some lip gloss and pull on a bathrobe. If I don't go down, who knows what might happen?

By the time I get outside, Manoban is sitting on the front porch, leaning back against the railing. "I thought you'd never come," she says.

I sit down beside her, and the step is cold through my layers.

"Why are you here?"

"Were you awake?"

"No."

"Sorry. But now that you are, let's go."

"I'm not going anywhere."

She stands and starts walking to the car. She turns and says too loudly, "Come on."

"I can't just take off when I want to."

"You're not still mad, are you?"

"Actually, yes. But look at me. I'm not even dressed."

"Fine. Leave the ugly bathrobe. Get some shoes and a jacket. Do not take time to change anything else. Write a note to your parents so they won't worry if they wake up and find you gone. I'll give you three minutes before I come up after you."

We drive toward Bartlett's downtown. The blocks are bricked off into what we call the Boardwalk. Ever since the new mall opened, there's been no reason to come here except for the bakery, which has the best cupcakes for miles. The businesses here are hangers-on, relics from about twenty years ago—a sad and very old department store, a shoe store that smells like mothballs, a toy store, a candy shop, an ice cream parlor.

Manoban parks the Saturn and says, "We're here."

All the storefronts are dark, of course, and there is no one out. It's easy to pretend that Manoban and I are the only two people in the world.

She says, "I do my best thinking at night when everyone else is sleeping. No interruptions. No noise. I like the feeling of being awake when no one else is." I wonder if she sleeps at all.

I catch sight of us in the window of the bakery, and we look like two homeless kids. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

The air is crisp and clean and quiet. In the distance, the Purina Tower, our tallest building, is lit up, and beyond it the bell tower of the high school.

Outside Bookmarks, Manoban pulls out a set of keys and unlocks the door. "My mother works here when she's not selling houses."

The bookstore is narrow and dark, a wall of magazines on one side, shelves of books, a table and chairs, an empty counter where coffee and sweet things are sold during working hours.

She stoops behind the counter now and opens a refrigerator that's hidden behind it. She digs around until she comes up with two sodas and two muffins, and then we move over to the kids' area, which has beanbags and a worn blue rug. She lights a candle she found near the register, and the light flickers across her face as she carries it from shelf to shelf and trails her fingers along the spines of the books.

"Are you looking for something?"

"Yes."

Finally, she sinks down beside me and runs her hands through her hair, making it go off in all directions. "They didn't have it at the Bookmobile Park and they don't have it here." She picks up a stack of children's books and hands me a couple. "They do, thank goodness, have these."

She sits cross-legged, wild hair bent over one of the books, and immediately it's as if she's gone away and is somewhere else.

I say, "I'm still mad at you about getting me detention." I expect some fast reply, something flirty and flip, but instead she doesn't look up, just reaches for my hand and keeps reading. I can feel the apology in her fingers, and this takes the wind out of me, so I lean into her—just a little—and read over her shoulder. Her hand is warm and I don't want to stop holding it.

We eat one-handed and read our way through the stack, and then we start reading aloud from Dr. Seuss— Oh, the Places You'll Go! We alternate stanzas, first Manoban, then me, Manoban, then me.

Today is your day.

You're off to Great Places!

You're off and away!

At some point, Manoban gets to her feet and starts acting it out. She doesn't need the book because she knows the words by heart, and I forget to read because it's more fun watching her, even when the words and her voice turn serious as she recites lines about dark places and useless places and waiting places, where people don't do anything but wait.

Then her voice turns light again and she is singing the words.

You'll dfind the bright places where Boom Bands are playing.

She pulls me to my feet.

With banner flip-flapping, once more you'll ride high!

Ready for anything under the sky.

The two of us are doing our own version of flip-flapping, which is a kind of leaping over things—the beanbags, the rug, the other books. We sing the last lines together— Your mountain is waiting.

So … get on your way! —and end in a heap on the oor, candlelight dancing across us, laughing like we've lost our minds.

The only way up the Purina Tower is the steel ladder built into the side, and there seem to be about twenty-five thousand steps. At the top, we stand—wheezing like Mr. Black—beside the Christmas tree, which sits planted all year. Up close, it's larger than it looks from the ground. Past it, there's a wedge of open space, and Manoban spreads out the blanket and then we huddle on top of it, arm to arm, pulling the rest of the cover around us.

She says, "Look." On all sides of us, spread out below, are little white lights and black pockets of trees. Stars in the sky, stars on the ground. It's hard to tell where the sky ends and the earth begins. I hate to admit it, but it's beautiful. I feel the need to say something grand and poetic, but the only thing I come up with is "It's lovely."

" 'Lovely' is a lovely word that should be used more often." She reaches down to cover my foot, which has found its way out of the blanket. "It's like it's ours," she says.

And at first I think she means the word, but then I know she means the town. And then I think, Yes, that's it. Lalisa Manoban always knows what to say, better than I do. She should be the writer, not me. I feel jealous, just for a second, of her brain. In this moment, mine feels so ordinary.

"The problem with people is they forget that most of the time it's the small things that count. Everyone's so busy waiting in the Waiting Place. If we stopped to remember that there's such a thing as a Purina Tower and a view like this, we'd all be happier."

For some reason I say, "I like writing, but I like a lot of things.

Maybe out of those things, I'm best at writing. Maybe it's what I like best of all. Maybe it's where I've always felt most at home. Or maybe the writing part of me is over. Maybe there's something else I'm supposed to do instead. I don't know."

"There's a built-in ending to everything in the world, right? I mean, a hundred-watt lightbulb is designed to last seven hundred and fifty hours. The sun will die in about five billion years. We all have a shelf life. Most cats can live to be fifteen, maybe longer. Most dogs make it to twelve. The average American is designed to last twenty-eight thousand days after birth, which means there's a specific year, day, and time to the minute when our lives will end. Your sister's happened to be eighteen. But if a human was to avoid all life-threatening diseases and infections and accidents, he—or she—should live to be a hundred and fifteen."

"So you're saying I may have reached my built-in ending to writing."

"I'm saying you have time to decide." She hands me our official wandering notebook and a pen. "For now, why not write things down where no one will see it? Write it on a piece of paper and stick it on the wall. Of course, for all I know, you may suck at it."

She laughs as she dodges away from me, and then she pulls out an offering—the Bookmarks napkins, the half-burned candle, a matchbook, and a lopsided macramé bookmark. We lock them into a at Tupperware container she's confiscated from her house and leave it sitting out in plain view for the next person who comes here. Then she's up and standing at the edge, where only a knee-high metal guardrail keeps her from falling to the ground.

She throws her arms out over her head, fists clenched, and shouts:

"Open your eyes and look at me! I'm right bloody here!" She shouts all the things she hates and wants to change until her voice is hoarse.

Then she nods over at me. "Your turn."

I join her at the edge, but she's farther out than I am, as if she doesn't care whether she falls off. I take hold of her shirt without her noticing, as if that will save her, and instead of looking down, I look out and up. I think of all the things I want to shout: I hate this town! I hate winter! Why did you die? This last thought is directed at Jisoo. Why did you leave me? Why did you do this to me?

But instead I stand there holding on to Lisa's shirt, and she looks down at me and shakes her head, and in a moment she starts singing Dr. Seuss again. This time I join her, and our voices drift together across the sleeping town.

When she drives me home, I want her to kiss me good night, but she doesn't. Instead, she strolls backward to the street, hands shoved in pockets, eyes on me. "Actually, Jendeuki, I'm pretty sure you don't suck at writing." She says it loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear.