3: Sand Through the Hourglass

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Evan

What a fucking day I've had.

I'm driving somewhere, with someone I don't know in the passenger seat. He hasn't spoken in three minutes and thirty-two seconds, so I'm starting to think he's freaking out.

I should probably say something. Plus, I kind of need directions.

"Do you want to talk about it at all, or have you not reached that stage yet?"

And there I go, sounding like an asshole again. Look at him. His eyes are rooted to the floor, and he glances back to the window. Hands balled into a fist, his fingertips dig into the fabric of his khaki pants. Of course, he doesn't want to talk about it.

"Not quite," he replies. I should have asked his name a long time ago, but now it's far too late to backtrack and admit I don't know it. I could have sworn I've seen him before, but I can't place where. "I think I'm still on the denial stage, to be quite honest."

Each word he speaks sounds like he's taking a hiccuping breath between it. Time keeps ticking, regardless of the fact that neither of us is saying a word. My keys jingle together, and the sand in my tiny hourglass cools to the bottom.

"It's fine," I say. "Where am I driving you?"

"Ah, right," he mutters under his breath. I can't hear his next words for a few seconds, but eventually, he lifts his head. When he speaks, there's the hint of an accent to it. It's faint, but noticeable in the way he rolls the letter r. "It's, uh... Daybreak street. Number seventy-six. I—I'm sorry, my head is just... it's not working right now. My thoughts are scattered."

"It's fine," I repeat.

The boy presses his hand to my heating system. The freezing cold air gently blows against his face. He doesn't complain about the lack of heat, or even point it out. I actually think the air conditioning is helping. "What's with your outfit?" he asks, watching the road as I pick up speed.

Glancing down at myself, I remember I'm still wearing my practice outfit. Once we'd gotten into the house, Claire changed in the bathroom and was incredulous that I didn't have a change of clothes stuffed in my back pocket. What, don't you have a backup outfit?

"Oh, yeah, I'm skipping soccer practice," I answer.

"Soccer practice? You aren't a hockey player?"

I nod weakly. "I play on both teams. Well, only because fucking Hayes won't let me quit."

"I don't think anyone should have that relationship with Coach."

I can't help it. I snort. "I can't tell if you're poking fun at me for swearing or not."

"I'm not making fun, just pointing out how ill-placed it was," he says. I can see the reflection in the window, and I catch the briefest smile cross his face. "Why don't you drink?"

My jaw tenses. He catches it and backtracks by telling me, "Sorry, that was stupid. You don't have to tell me."

"I just don't want to. And... obviously, none of us are nineteen. Maybe I just don't feel like breaking the law," I answer, though it comes out a bit harsher than I intended.

I get the sense he's still staring at me, as if evaluating my response. After a beat, he pushes up the clear frames of his glasses and says, "It was the tone of voice when you said it... that's..."

"Obviously. I didn't ask you what happened to make you cry, so there's that."

The pause that follows is agonizing. "Sam Fields happened," he replies softly, but doesn't elaborate any further.

And then it hits me. I recognize him because I've seen him at the rink before, sitting on the stands—Peter Delacroix. That's his name. Sam always said he was setting him up with Lucas Azan, for some reason. I never pried, and frankly, it's none of my business.

Peter flicks the air conditioning off, sending the car back into total silence again.

"Oh, goddamn it, I never asked if you wanted to listen to music," I mutter, partly to myself.

"I don't mind the silence."

It catches me off guard a little, especially since Claire tends to chastise me for liking the absence of music. I'm not like Elaine—I don't need a soundtrack to accompany my life. I have the radio on when I want it to be, and the rest of the time I take solace in the fuzzy noise of the radio losing connection. It gives me a moment to just think.

Eventually, I've pulled into Daybreak. My eyes are scanning the road signs, looking for the smidge of green signage against the kaleidoscope of grey. The buzzing of a silenced ringtone goes off, followed by Peter muttering under his breath as he fishes into his pocket to shut it off. I don't get to catch the screen, but it looks sort of like an alarm for eleven on the dot.

Considering he's dodged all my questions thus far, I don't say a word.

How is it only eleven? I thought for sure it was at least past midnight. Claire is going to call me lame tomorrow. That is if she doesn't snap at me for leaving her with Jenny.

To be fair, she said she was fine. She's travelled on the Sebastian-and-Jenny roller coaster enough times that she knows how to handle it better than I would.

I arrive at Peter's street, veering off onto the side of the road. Directly in front of me is a building, with its flashing neon red sign spelling out the words, Croix Hotel. It sits at five storeys tall, and the lights of a few rooms are illuminated. Behind it, the water shines in the semi-darkness, a mirror that reflects the square sections of light. The moon on the hotel's logo is shaped like a fingernail. The sign rests directly underneath the banner of stars in the sky. It's the same section of town where Claire lives; her house faces the water from the opposite side.

"This is where you want to get out? Are you sure?" I ask.

"Yeah," Peter confirms, "it's fine."

"I can drive you home, though, if you want. It's not like I have a deadline." Unless I'm counting Carolyn's curfew, but I tend to ignore that. I told her exactly what I was doing, like I always do. I don't have a choice, not really.

"Here is fine," he repeats and opens the door. The blast of September air is chilly, and Peter hugs his arms close to his chest. "Thank you... you know, for not murdering me."

I smile. "I make no promises."

Peter isn't looking directly at me, but he returns the smile a little when he moves to shut the door. I wait until he's reached the hotel doorway before reversing out of the road and turning around.

When I reach the stop sign, I take a minute to check my phone. It's been buzzing away in my pocket ever since I got in, and unlocking it reveals about a dozen texts from Claire. She's keeping me up to date on everything with Jenny and the party, then sends me an Instagram link. I exit out of my messages and shove my phone aside without paying attention to it.

My apartment is a few minutes away from the hotel, so I get there early. I park in Randall's designated spot, number fifteen, before checking my phone again. This time, there's a message from Elaine. Mom was awake, and I just got her to leave me alone, she says. Where did you go?

Nowhere, I type and hit send. It shows as read about a millisecond later, which means she's not sleeping like she damn well should be.

Well, come back, she replies. And be quiet.

Obviously, I reply with a smiley face. She leaves me on read, as expected.

With a sigh, I make my way through the entryway and head over to apartment fifteen. The emergency lights on the wall next to the fire detector are flashing a repeating white; they've been that way for about a month, and I doubt it'll ever be fixed.

I scuff my feet against the carpet in the entryway as I enter, facing the kitchen. Dropping my keys on the countertop, I turn to the sink. It's full of plates and empty glass bottles, most of them Carolyn's.

The shuffling of footsteps reaches my ears. Elaine is standing around the corner, wearing a satin scarf around her hair and matching pink pyjamas.

"What are you doing?" I whisper.

"Cleaning." Her voice is flat and almost emotionless. With the lack of light, I have to squint to see what she's doing, but the sound of broken glass is unmistakable.

"She broke something again?"

"Obviously," Elaine replies in a mocking tone as she sweeps the glass into the dustpan. At thirteen, she's already almost the same height as I am, so she lifts her chin to look me directly in the eyes.

Elaine looks like her father, Randall—they both have the same dark skin and the same vibrant stare. Sometimes, I can look at her and forget we're only half-siblings. Sometimes, especially when she looks through me, I can't help but remember again. That the only tether between us is Carolyn, our mother.

"What happened?"

"You know what happened," she snaps, and somehow manages to sound angry without yelling. It's a skill I wish I could master, but I know better. "She came back after another night out. She got angry about nothing in particular. So the story goes."

"Christ." I hold out my hand. "Give me the broom. You're going to cut yourself on that."

Elaine extends it in my direction. "I'm being careful."

"You're not wearing shoes."

The glass crunches under my sneakers as I move to clean it up. The clock on the wall ticks in the extended bubble of silence.

"Evan?"

My head bobs up. "What?"

Her glare returns, and this time her expression softens slightly. "Please stop partying. I don't think she knew you were gone, but what if she'd found out?"

"I was at a party. Not partying. Big difference."

I finish cleaning and carry the pan over to the garbage can, dumping it inside. Above the sink, there's a patch of black paint in the shape of a rectangle. I've never really known why it's there, against the white tile, but if I focus hard enough, I can picture a window in its place.

Maybe one of these days I'll paint over it.

"Hey." Elaine trails me through the hallway to my door. The door is shut, and my lopsided whiteboard hangs from a pin. The marker dangles from a string, slowly moving back and forth. My schedule for today has one item; Soccer practice. Elaine's helpfully doodled a soccer ball next to it. "Maybe we could go somewhere over the lunch break?"

"Sure. Soft pretzels?"

She beams. "I would kill for a soft pretzel."

"Okay. We'd better get on that, then."

Nodding, she covers her mouth with her hand and extends the other out to me. "Promise."

I loop my pinky with Elaine's. "Promise."

I shut the door behind me and toss my phone on my bed. The screen flicks on, showing me two more texts from Claire. The link she sent me before pops up at the top, so I give in and click it.

It's a picture of Sam Fields at the party, posing with the hockey players on the team who actually get to leave the bench. He's holding a bottle of vodka in his hands. The caption reads, Northwood is fucked. Bunch of international students and transfers who shouldn't be here. Tonight we found out two queer students, one of whom tried to assault me. Fucking wonderful, isn't it?

My hand hovers over the comments. There are over a hundred of them. An accomplishment for Northwood drama.

Sam, I am so sorry that happened to you, the first one reads. It's from Brad Melanson, the team's goalie. Actually, it looks like everyone from the party left a supportive comment, except Lucas Azan and me.

The rest of the comments are generic, most of them from the same accounts getting into arguments and trying to figure out who Sam is talking about.

I found him, one commenter writes. His anonymous questions are still active. Go wild.

I follow the link. The homepage of a blog loads on the screen, and I recognize the username as Peter's name. His icon is a discreet photo of the ocean, one that might not even be from Northwood.

The header is similarly anonymous, with a silhouette of a person angled away from the camera. I assume that it's him, sitting with his chin resting on his hand. In the photo, his hair is tapered a bit closer to his ears. The description seems to be written in French, but considering my level of comprehension is basic at best, I can't understand any of it. His username is accompanied by the little rainbow emoticon directly next to the Canadian flag.

Posez-moi une question, the prompt under his profile picture reads. That, I understand. Ask me a question.

I stare at my screen as the blue cursor flashes repeatedly. My fingers start typing, but I have no idea what to write. 'I'm sorry' sounds too generic, and 'You don't deserve it' sounds like he could have deserved it. Nothing feels appropriate, but I type up a message, anyway.

I hit send and watch my message disappear. The homepage of Peter's blog reappears, its navy background with yellow stars around the edges. I can't read any of his posts, but his most recent post is in English.

Facts I Learned at Midnight #2178:
The ancient Egyptians played hockey (or at least some version of it) 4,000 years ago. Maybe history and culture are more influenced by international sources than it seems.

He's probably still awake, not responding to any of the questions in his inbox.

I wonder what the hell that means. And I wonder if Claire sent anything.


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