That night, dreams of awful violence had sat on his chest. He fought with Shaun over and over. Wrenching his gray T-shirt in his fist. Shoving his shoulder into Shaun’s chest, knocking the air out. Smashing up against the wall, picture frames scattering. The taste of blood in his teeth, all tinny.
Nobody thought anything about it, Shaun not being at school the next day. It happened a lot, with his nan being so old. And nobody asked Réal about the purple under his eyes, ’cause that happened a lot too. But then another whole day passed and still no Shaun, so Réal had crossed that field after supper, after sundown, to go say sorry.
And he’d folded to his knees just outside the arc light, one hand over his mouth, wide eyes flicking over the meat.
Fuck.
Parts of Shaun looked eaten. Mostly the gut, with its pearly blue tangle of tripe and fat. Not much fat on him, Ré thought. Not much of a meal.
His own gut lurched. He kicked away from the floodlight, back into the scrub of the field, and he puked. Chunks of chewed hamburger, bloody red tomato sauce. Again he puked. Gasping for air, he kicked in the dusty ground to get a foothold, he bolted back across the field, away from what he’d seen.
Back in his room, he found his plaid shirt balled under the bed, the front dried brown. The same. Shaun’s torn gray T-shirt was the same. He drew breath fast and shallow. His heart skittered. Shaun was his best friend. Blood on his sleeves. More than just a busted nose. He looked down at his jeans, his shoes—flecks of brown and rust on those too.
He ran a hand over his mouth and a rubbery, gray piece of puked-up meat came away on his fingers. He stared at it, helpless. The taste of blood in his teeth.
He started to cry, and he didn’t stop till his face hurt like hell and he could hardly breathe at all.
He’d told no one what he’d seen.
It was another whole day before the kids went through that field.
And now, people who’d never once given a real rat’s about Shaun were squawking and hopping like crows on roadkill. Girls he’d never talked to cooed over his corpse like he was some lost puppy they’d secretly always loved—which probably was true, Réal thought, rolling his eyes. Shaun had that effect on girls.
Réal’s ears pricked when he overheard Tracey Weatherall tell a small crowd that Shaun used to holler hey, girl at her in the parking lot, long arms hanging out the window of his car, blond hair shining in the sun. She said, “He only seemed like a burnout if you didn’t know him. Really, he was sweet.”
“Ew, seriously?” another stuck-up girl said.
“Well, it’s not like I dated him!” Tracey backpedaled with a laugh.
Réal tasted vomit in his mouth all over again.
He eyed Tracey as he pulled books from his locker. She was hot, in a boring way. In a thin-tanned-perfect-white-girl kind of way. Shaun probably had hollered at her. Probably slept with her, too, ’cause, well, he was Shaun. But she was popcorn. No way in hell did she know him.
He slammed his locker door and shoved off in the other direction, leaving the roadkill behind.
It had been two days since they’d found his best friend’s half eaten body.
There was a memorial in the gym that afternoon—the last place Réal wanted to be, but the others were going. Sunny had insisted. For Evie’s sake, she’d said—although he suspected it was really just for Sunny’s. She liked calling the shots. Liked the world to spin on her fingers.
Réal and Shaun had grown up together. They’d met Alex in junior high. And in sophomore year, Sunny had swooped down, landing on Alex and making them a quartet.
Scary Sunny. Tall, skinny like a wishbone. Long, straight black hair. Hot. Definitely not popcorn. She knew it, too, with her serious dark eyes and a mouth that could turn you into a snake without saying a word. She was the only Korean goth he’d ever met, and everything was a fucking hurricane with her.
And somehow, like this was some darkest timeline slash twilight zone, she’d wound up with Alex Janes. Of all the guys! Not tall, good-looking skater Shaun, who only had to holler hey, girl out a car window to get laid, but skinny-legged stoner Alex Janes, son of bikers, grandson of bikers. Nearly three years later, Réal still couldn’t figure that one out.
As he pushed through the crowded hall, every third person seemed to eye Réal strangely. He just glared back, irritated, till he remembered his two black eyes going green around the edges. Irish sunglasses, he thought, almost smiling.
A familiar shape floated down the hall from the other direction, and guilt flew through his gut when he saw her. He ducked into the collar of his jean jacket, heart tapping up under his ribs.
Evie Hawley. The final fifth. The last piece of their puzzle of friends. She’d been Shaun’s girl for almost a year, but she was so quiet Réal still hardly knew a thing about her. She was just dark hair, big eyes, pretty laugh—nothing like Shaun’s usual prey.
There was a word Ré had thought of the first time he saw her sitting in Shaun’s car, hair half hiding her face. Fragile, maybe, or insubstantial. Or barely there. But he couldn’t remember that word now.
He turned a corner, taking the stairs two at a time and leaving her behind.
Alex whistled under his breath. “This is so messed.”
Réal grunted in agreement. There were no pictures hung in the gym. Like Shaun’s wiseass grin and shitty tattoos would be in bad taste at his own memorial.
He looked around for the girls and found them two rows back, Sunny’s arm around Evie,
