love it if we made it ✔

Miles and Miles, Before You.

             Corey.

              The first day of school passed almost completely without incident. In the locker block, however, there was a feeling of bewilderment that was tangible.

             We still yelled and shouted in excitement at our new timetables and compared summer stories, but more than once I heard someone say, "Hey, when is Peter getting here —" and break off in disbelief.

               And then there was a hush and our eyes roamed the block, waiting — always waiting — for the return of Van, Peter, Rylan and Reed.

             At the end of last year, our whole year sat in muted numbness on the floor of the locker block, after the news filtered threw to us in the form of social media posts that Rylan had killed himself.

             Reed, so present and so alive, looked up at me and murmured. "Three — Jesus, three of them."

             The Yorkie principal, who we had affectionately nicknamed Cookie as kids, had called a meeting in the Performing Arts Centre. He stood on the stage and we sat in the seats and he told us that we were no longer allowed to talk about the deaths of classmates, because it wasn't a very school appropriate subject.

             I remembered Reed threading her fingers through mine and squeezing my hand. I remembered that moment so vividly, cause I could feel her heartbeat through her skin.

             Sam and I showed Izzy the memorial plaque the school had put up for Reed.

             She chewed on the inside of her cheek and was silent for a few moments, before turning to us and grinning. "Fuckin' bitch would love all this attention."

              Sam and I giggled, and Izzy wrapped her arms around the both of us.

            My classes passed in a blur, my mind stuck with the thought — fuck, Reed is so late — and I jolted several times, no, I corrected myself, Reed is dead.

           In maths, a class I had with no close friends, I screwed up my face and pinched my legs, hard, underneath the desk. No, Reed is dead — three, Jesus, three of them.

           The bell rang and the first day of year eleven finished. I fucking ran for it. Out of the stuffy, hot classroom and into the locker block where I'd never see Rylan, Van, Peter or Reed ever again — where Georgie McElroy was waiting for me.

            She smiled, licked her lips, and leaned in to whisper. "Girl, have you heard all the shit they're saying about you over at Eastwood High?"

              "Let them talk, like I give a fuck."

              I refused Sam and Izzy's offer to go get frozen Coke's and have them down at the beach. Instead, I walked home alone and cried the whole way.

             Maman wasn't home from work yet, so I dumped my bag on the kitchen floor, kicking off my shoes, and went straight up to my room. I laid underneath my ceiling fan, arms spread out, and stared lamely as it spun.

            Louis had seen my messages and still hadn't replied. He had moved interstate, and now couldn't be fucked to reply to my messages?

          I laid back on my bed and gnawed on my fingernails. A breeze floated through my open window, and blew out my curtains.

             My phone chimed. I went for my phone, heart swelling till it ached in my chest. A message from Izzy. My heart deflated.

             Izbiz to you, 4:55: can I come over to talk about Sam?