1: Looking Forward to Nothing

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Evan

Two hundred and eighty-nine days, four hours, thirty-six minutes, and fifteen seconds—that's how much time I have left before I leave this town.

My eyes train on Claire as she walks alongside me, cutting across the field. Her vibrant grey eyes find mine, and for a second, I wonder if she can hear our time together ticking away. If, when she inspects my face, she can see my expiration date.

Two hundred and eighty-nine days, four hours, thirty-six minutes, and nine seconds.

"You must have heard by now," Claire starts, bending over to stretch her calves. Her neon pink tank top and matching capris almost clash with the lime-green soccer uniform clinging to her forearms. She stands out against the stark-white sky and the colourless grass beneath my feet like a flower growing from a sidewalk. Impossible to miss. Impossible to forget.

My hands sink into my pockets. "About what?"

Claire sends me a particularly cunning glare, gathering her brunette hair into a ponytail. She nods in the direction of the field and replies, "Coach Hayes is inviting scouts to the soccer game next week."

"How do you even know that?"

"Because," she says, rolling her eyes at me, "I'm a fucking psychic. How do you think?"

Groaning, I scrub my face with my knuckle. My gaze flickers to Coach Hayes for a second, then back to Claire. "If you broke into his office, you should at least have invited me."

"God, sometimes I wonder what goes on in your head," Claire mutters. She finishes her warm-up, watching me like she expects me to stand here and attempt a tree-pose. Unfortunately, the amount of effort I'm willing to put into soccer practice is slowly dwindling to zero, and I can only blame myself.

It seems like I'm existing a few steps behind her. But we're both running in the same direction—I can see her as she recedes, never looking back at me. I want to shout at her to stop, to slow down, but she can't hear me. And I can't catch up. I can never catch up; time seems to move slower and slower with each day that passes.

"I didn't commit a crime, Evan. My father's friends with him. Haven't I told you that before?" she continues.

I blink. Try to think. To remember. I want to feel guilty for forgetting the specifics of Claire's life, but that part of me is asleep. My brain is clustered with a heavy haze that doesn't fade until lunchtime, at least. So I force myself to laugh, and I tell her, "Probably. I still think stealing his keys would be cooler."

She scoffs, narrowing her eyes at me for a second, and digs her shoes into the mud. "Are we skipping practice again?"

I don't know when Claire started saying we. When she started acting like she's joined to my hip, like lichen stuck to a rock. I've never corrected her because I figure it doesn't matter. Not necessarily. I've known her for three years, so when my parents ask, I refer to her as my girlfriend. It's easier that way; less invasive. If I have a girlfriend, I have somewhere to be. Something to do.

Something to get me out of the house.

"In case you hadn't noticed, we are practicing," I say. "Practicing how to be invisible."

For once, Claire smiles. It's the soft kind of smile, the one that makes her eyebrows crease and her lip tremble. The real sort, not the smile she gives me when her friends are around. "Then, you don't care about getting scouted?"

Two hundred and eighty-nine days, four hours... "It's not happening, Cee. Not for me."

Her smile fades, and her usual look of pity returns with a vengeance. "You don't know that. You might not be the best player, but maybe if you stopped expecting to fail, it might help. You need—"

"It doesn't matter," I interrupt. "I don't need your shit right now, okay?"

The grass crunches beneath my battered sneakers. Worn from years of use, the laces are unravelling; the rubber forming holes at the sides. I think I laughed when Claire asked if it was vintage.

"I didn't mean it like that," she assures. Her voice is low, meant only for me to hear. "I was just... just telling you since you might want to get a scholarship. You know, if... you don't have..."

She trails off, never quite mentioning the subject of money directly. I suppose Claire is rich enough that the concept of having nothing boggles her mind. "Not happening," I repeat. "The team captain will get it. He always does."

The air tastes stagnant as Claire peeks over to Coach Hayes again as if expecting him to notice she hasn't moved in the past nineteen minutes. Part of me wants her to run her laps, just so that I can escape. Maybe if I moved fast enough, far enough, I could get out of Northwood before anyone noticed. Before anyone stopped to care. Maybe, maybe.

"Sure, I just feel like you could beat him if you put effort into..." Claire reaches for her phone and holds it up, squinting at the notification bar. "Oh, God. Seriously?"

"What?"

Her fingers are lightning on the keyboard as she types and hits send with a flourish. "It's Jenny. She's breaking up with Sebastian."

For the third time this week, I silently remind myself. "I'm sure she's heartbroken." I try to restrain myself from letting the sarcasm seep into my tone, but the words don't sound genuine.

Claire grumbles under her breath, her silver eyes drilling a hole through me. "Honestly, she sounds upset. I know you think this is funny, but this is Jenny's life. She doesn't break up with him for the drama, she does it for love."

"Oh, yeah." The sarcastic edge to my tone is evident. "I can imagine how tough that must be. How much it hurts to break up with someone, not once, but three times. She must have bought all the ice cream in Northwood by now."

Claire's phone dings. She ignores me while she types, then says, "You're being dumb. I have to go and pick her up. Sebastian left her at the mall alone."

Again, for the third time.

"Right now?"

"Yes, Evan. Right now." She turns halfway around, tilting her head at me. "Are you coming?"

I nod, sprinting across the field. As soon as I cut in front of Coach Hayes, he yells our names, but Claire ignores him, her laughter ringing through my ears. I recede into the fray of students crowding the school parking lot, locating my car sitting in its designated parking spot.

I tug the door open to my car—well, technically it belongs to my stepfather Randall, but who cares—and climb inside. Claire buckles herself into the passenger seat while I fumble for my keys. My key chain was decorated by my half-sister Elaine, who made it as obnoxious as she possibly could. My house key has rhinestones, for crying out loud. And the charms; a plastic hourglass and a set of ice skates, gently clink together.

Claire jabs her finger on the heating system. The light turns on, and the fans hum noisily before blowing cold air directly in my face. She yelps and rushes to shut it off. "It's still broken?"

"Yeah, I'm taking it to the shop next week."

"Jesus. You need heat, Evan."

Fucking obviously. I careen through the parking lot and turn onto the main road, waiting for the red light to change.

"What are you going to do when it gets colder?" she asks. "I mean, you can't—"

My knuckles tighten against the wheel. "I know," I interrupt.

Only two problems with that: I would have to admit to Randall that I'm taking the car when he isn't home, and I don't have any extra cash to fork over. At least, not any money that wouldn't come straight from my college fund, and I've been saving that for a reason.

Claire slumps in her seat, her fingernails tapping against the faux leather. I focus on the road, and the drive passes in silence. We reach the mall a few minutes later, and Claire jumps out to meet Jenny and bring her back.

The road glitters with droplets of rain, and the sunshine comes from behind a layer of thick clouds. I check my phone three times while I wait, feeling time slowly slide away.

"Oh, my God," Claire says as she climbs back into her seat. Jenny follows a second later, getting into the middle position of the backseat. "And what happened after that?"

"It was insane," Jenny says with a small nod in the rear-view mirror. "I don't think we're going to prom anymore. I can't imagine he wants to, after all that."

"Ugh, what a jerk." Claire flicks through the radio channels before landing on the only decent station in Northwood, Mix on ninety-nine point five. "I say screw it. If you don't want to go, we can definitely throw a better party. Actually, that sounds fun."

I tune out of that conversation. I take the right turn that leads me back to Jenny's house, but she pokes her head out from her position and says, "Evan, there's a party downtown. That's where I'm going."

"Oh," I say, and fetch a glance in the mirror. As if for effect, Jenny dabs at the smeared mascara under her eye. "Whose party?"

"Fields, of course. Who else would it be?" Claire replies. Sam Fields' parties are a staple of Northwood's existence, and I usually avoid them as much as humanly possible. I thought I wouldn't have to deal with him for a while, considering the hockey season hasn't yet started, and I've been so busy with soccer that it prevents me from having to attend. Nothing good ever happens at a Fields house party.

"Good to know we won't be the only ones skipping practice." Surely, the entire team will be there.

Laughing humourlessly, Jenny says, "I'm so sorry. You didn't have to skip for me. I could have taken the bus!"

"Please," Claire says as if the idea is preposterous. "I would never make you do that."

She turns her gaze to me, and even though I'm not looking, I can sense she expects me to say something. And maybe to drive a little faster; Claire seems to think following the speed limit makes me slower than a turtle. You drive like you're eighty, she told me once.

"Not like we haven't skipped practice before," I pitch in. Her x-ray glare fades.

"Quite a few times, actually," Claire tells Jenny. "This time Coach might seriously consider kicking you off the team, Evan. Three strikes and you're out."

I sigh, scraping a hand through the messy brown curls falling over my eyebrows. The centre of the town comes into view, the brightly coloured buildings squished together near the water. The waves on the horizon are capped with white, reflecting the sunlight and making the sky indistinguishable from the ocean.

"It'll be worth it, I swear," Jenny says brightly.

The road narrows, the trees looming overheard. Their branches interlock, drenching the path to Sam's house in darkness. Jenny points at the house at the end of the road and excitedly slides herself closer to the door.

"It's, like, four o'clock, there's no way the party has started yet," Claire says.

In reply, Jenny shrugs. "Too bad. I can help him set up. I'll be fine." And she opens the door and climbs out onto the sidewalk.

Claire moves to follow her, lifting her eyebrows at me. "Are you coming? You... you can go back if you want. I'm sure I can find a ride."

"No, hanging out with the hockey team captain sounds like a thrill," I joke, rolling my eyes. "I'm not going home, Cee. Fuck that."

I follow her; the door slamming behind me. Sam Fields' house is behind a wire gate, the carefully trimmed shrubbery keeping it protected. The white brick shines like the walls are made of gemstones. The lawn is freshly mowed, and the scent of grass floats through the air. The layout is identical to the other houses on the street—always flawless, as if the houses are inhabited by porcelain figurines. It always gives me the impression that the entire family would lose their mind if a leaf landed on the property.

Shoving my keys in my pocket, my finger clasps my hourglass. Just a few more hours left to go.

Jenny knocks. The door swings open, revealing Sam. He nods his head in the direction of the living room, inviting her inside. His smile as he looks at Claire and me is almost sinister. "I didn't expect more guests."

"I can help," Claire offers and pushes past him, trailing Jenny before she can disappear.

Sam watches her, crossing his arms over his chest. He's wearing his hockey sweater, the one with the North High mascot, the panthers, stitched onto the front pocket. The bright white C on his shoulder taunts me, a reminder of everything I am not.

"Maybe you can sit on the sidelines and help us, since you're so good at getting benched during every game, McKenna," Sam mutters before letting me inside.

"Maybe you can pay for me to quit if you care that much," I reply evenly, and head to the kitchen. Sam's fridge is full of alcohol, but I have no plans on getting drunk.

I'm just here for Claire. And maybe, with any luck, I can waste some more of my time.


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