The Fleeting Happy

Twenty-Six

Sunday morning brought along a litany of different emotions for me, from the common jitters to unparalleled anxiety to the excitement of what would surely be my first (and only) school break-in to the sheer thrill of doing something bad.

I'd had some weird dreams on Saturday night, about a brown house and a boy I couldn't remember. I could tell that the dream had been bad, but luckily, I forgot it about it very quickly.

I spent the majority of that day at home, in my room, listening to music and trying to write something for Radley. It was bittersweet, since I knew I'd be meeting him and yet I doubted I'd enjoy it as much without being on good terms with Montana.

I'd scrapped about thirty half-baked poems total, frustration running through my veins alongside my blood.

Montana wrote beautiful poems so easily. I had no trouble believing that one day, she'd write a poem just like Radley's Come Dusk— something inspiring. Something world-changing.

I was in the middle of a break, rummaging through my backpack, when my hand accidentally brushed against what felt like a hard CD case. When I pulled it out in bewilderment, I was shocked to find an old relic: the Poetic Songs to Make Montana Smile mixtape I'd created for her the day we met. The one I had never gotten around to giving her.

A hot stab of pain shot through me.

After about two straight minutes of staring sullenly at the CD's glossy surface, my own pathetic reflection staring back at me between the cracks of the Sharpie marks, I carefully opened the case and put the CD into my player. If Montana would never get to listen to these songs, at least I would.

The intro to Broadripple Is Burning slowly filled my room as I collapsed back into bed, my heart pounding. I think I missed Montana more than ever. So much so that I was beginning to feel actual physical pain.

Quickly, I ejected the CD, shoved it back into its case and chucked the thing into my drawstring bag. Maybe Montana hated me now. I don't care— I just needed to give her this mixtape. I needed to be afraid of something and I needed to do it anyways.

Tonight, I promised myself. I'll give her the mixtape tonight.

Now, I had three things to remember.

One, text Carter.

Two, retrieve gun.

Three, give Montana mixtape.

That evening, at precisely 6 PM, I began to prepare for the heist. I took a shower and got dressed, in my signature jean jacket, my leggings and my lucky Rock the Casbah T-shirt. I did my makeup like I always did, mascara and eyeliner and dark eyeshadow coming together in a dark, grungey hurricane, contrasted deeply by the sparkle of my clear lip gloss.

Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I wasn't quite sure how to feel. I think I was proud. I was proud of how far I'd come since my days as sad, invisible Aurora Caples of McAdams High. I was proud that when I looked into my own eyes, I found myself content and... happy— even if fleetingly so.

Without realizing it, I'd cracked a smile.

Then, by 8 PM, after a quick cup of coffee, I began the bus ride to Stef's house, which was where we had all planned to meet before the break-in. When I got there, I was the second one to arrive after Owen. We only waited ten minutes before Carter and Montana showed up, Carter looking like he'd recently been living under a bridge and feeding off of nothing but caffeine tablets and 5-Hour Energy shots and Montana looking only slightly melancholy. Every time I tried to meet her gaze, she looked away.