three
The light grew brighter and brighter until the room was bathed in a wash of rose-colored light, which made almost everything else disappear like thin pencil lines that had been only partly rubbed out.
two
Ridley closed her eyes—a little girl blowing out a birthday candle, to make a wish—
one
She opened her eyes.
It was decided.
BEAUTIFUL DARKNESS—Deleted Scene
roses are red, roses are red
i picked one for you but it ended up dead
love is grave, one grave, two
love is deep, i dug it for you
now ask me again should I love you
roses are red and so is blood
cry me a river and watch the flood
roses are red, roses are red
the roses are gone
that’s what they said
That was the card I got from Lena on our first Valentine’s Day together. The paper heart was torn and black, the writing in jagged silver ink. I could picture her sitting with her notebook, trying to write something on the heart. Knowing Lena and her indescribable powers, the paper had probably turned black in her hands. I turned it over and noticed there was writing on the back.
my brokenblack heart belongs to you. L
Amma had found it on the front porch this morning tucked inside The Stars and Stripes, Gatlin’s only newspaper. I wasn’t expecting it, but to be honest, I didn’t know what to expect anymore. It had been only three days since Lena’s sixteenth birthday, her Sixteenth Moon. The day we had feared would be the worst had surpassed the worst. Macon had died, and there was no way to glue all those broken pieces back together. Not without Macon. He was the glue.
Happy birthday.
The world was still upside down, those pieces still scattered around us. I knew from experience it would stay like that for a long, long time. My mom had died over a year ago, and up was still down. Maybe it always would be for my dad, who was in Columbia now, at Blue Horizons. After Amma found out about the nonexistent book my dad had been pretending to write for months, and the “incident” on the balcony (which is how she referred to my dad’s Ridley-induced suicide attempt), she had called my Aunt Caroline. My aunt had driven my dad out to Blue Horizons that same day. Only she called it a spa. The kind of spa you sent your crazy relatives to if they needed what folks in Gatlin called “individual attention,” or what everyone outside of the South called therapy.
I stared at the black heart. Then I took a tiny white bear out of my backpack and looked at it. Clutching a pack of conversation hearts, the bear was just about the only thing left at Gardens of Eden last night. But Lena wasn’t exactly your run-of-the-mill conversation heart kind of girl.
Hug me. Be mine. Luv u. What had I been I thinking?
The more I looked at it, the more I hated that stupid bear that couldn’t let go of the glued-on box of stupid hearts. Everyone knew the candy hurt your teeth and tasted like toothpaste. I tossed the bear into an old black Converse shoe box stacked against the wall of my room, along with a cheesy card, a funny card, a serious card, and a homemade card. I had covered all the bases. The homemade card was the worst, too embarrassing to think about. It involved clip art and a poem I had tried to write myself. Something about the road being long and twisted, but we could travel it together. That I’d never be lost with her by my side. I’d have to stop making fun of Link and his crappy song lyrics.
I don’t know why I tried to write a poem. Writing was Lena’s thing, not mine. I knew how I felt, what I wanted say. But I just couldn’t say it. I didn’t know if I should. Not after Macon.
I still had time to come up with something else. For once, I was up early. Maybe I could find something Lena could add to her necklace—the one she never took off. But somehow I couldn’t bring myself to go downstairs. I wasn’t ready to see Amma baking like she was planning to feed an army, and polishing the silver until you could see your reflection in it. The same way she had after my mom died.
I rubbed my eyes until my vision started to blur. My window was open, and light was streaming into my room. I almost flinched, out of habit. An open window used to mean a visit from Macon during the night—refueling by stealing my dreams and messing with my mind. Sort of like dinnertime for an Incubus.
Now an open window was just an open window.