We All Looked Up by Tommy Wallach Read Free Book Online Page A

it’s not worth it.
    She said the words aloud, but they were hollow now, no more meaning in them than in that distant will-o’-the-wisp adrift in the sky. Suzie O was wrong. Anita wasn’t miserable because of the way things were. She was miserable because she kept hoping things would change. If she could eradicate the hope, she could eradicate the sadness.
    It was time to go home.



E liza
    WAS THERE ANYTHING IN THE whole entire world worse than waking up next to someone you didn’t want to wake up next to?
    His name was Parker—at least she could remember that much. He was asleep on his stomach, blond hair curling around his ears like cotton candy, another little patch at the base of his spine. Eliza was careful not to wake him as she rose from the bed and got dressed. It took her fifteen minutes in front of the bathroom mirror to scrape away the telltale signs of an alcohol-fueled one-night stand. She brushed her unwashed hair into a wild bun and stuck it with a pair of black chopsticks. The result was presentable enough, though all the primping in the world would do nothing for the pounding headache. For that, there was only her traditional mixture of coconut water and Red Bull—what her friend Madeline used to call a Bull Nuts. Breakfast accomplished.
    Which only left the question of what to do about Parker. With all the discharge forms and final check-ups, Eliza’s dad wouldn’t be home before two or three in the afternoon, but this skeeze had to be gone by then. And he’d have to go on foot, because Eliza had driven him here. She left a note on the bedside table: If you’re reading this, you should be out of my house . Too mean? Maybe. But she was way too hungover to care.
    It wasn’t until she saw the digital clock in the car that she realized how early it was. Still, spending an extra hour at school was way better than spending it alone in the house with a passed-out mistake. She turned the radio to the news—a monotonous recitation of international catastrophes—then flipped the station. Eighties music was undoubtedly better for the soul.
    The parking lot at Hamilton was mostly empty. Eliza turned up the radio, got a blanket out of the trunk, and laid it across the warm humming heat of the hood. She leaned back against the wind­shield . . .
    Someone was shaking her by the foot. Eliza opened her eyes to a gray-white sky, uniform but for that wicked blue speck of light. What was it still doing up there?
    â€œGood morning, Mr. Magpie.”
    She sat up and practically collided with the implacable grin of Andy Rowen. He was wearing baggy jeans and an unzipped gray hoodie over a T-shirt featuring the pale, spaced-out faces of the Cure.
    â€œRough night?” he asked.
    â€œA little.”
    â€œDidn’t Blondie deliver the goods?”
    She ignored the question. “What time is it?”
    â€œBy my watch”—he pulled up his sleeve and stared hard at the empty white expanse of his wrist—“about halfway through first period.”
    â€œSeriously? Fuck!” Eliza jumped down from the hood.
    â€œWhat’s the big deal? I always get to school around this time, and lo, the world continueth to spin.”
    Her book bag wasn’t in the backseat, or in the trunk. In her rush to get away from Parker, she must have left it at home.
    â€œShit!” She slammed her fist into the side of the car.
    â€œWhoa,” Andy said. “Chill out, man. It’s just class.”
    Eliza took a deep breath, then spoke with quiet scorn. “This may come as a shock to you, but some of us actually care about stuff. I’m sure you think that’s lame or gay or whatever, but we can have another talk about it ten years from now, when you’re still living in your mom’s basement and working at Chipotle and the rest of us have lives.”
    She stormed off toward campus, already feeling guilty for lashing out; it wasn’t Andy