The Alchemy of Forever

practicing,” I explain, remembering the violin in Kailey’s room. I begin to play a song, the name of which I do not know. It’s a traditional Irish lament, and reminds me of Charlotte.
    The notes weave with the occasional snap of sparks from the fire, rising toward the trees on wisps of smoke. I keep saying the wrong things, and I’m happy to leave words behind for a little while. I finish the song, and hear a small click. I look up at Noah, who’s holding his camera. Nicole looks ready to kill.
    I hear clapping from the path. “Bravo, Kailey!” says Leyla, approaching the fire, Bryan at her side. “That was really beautiful. But also a huge downer. This is a party, not a funeral.”
    I laugh, and hand the violin back to the boy in the band. She’s right. Leyla sits next to me on the log. “I have a very somber personality,” I tell her.
    “Yeah, right.” She throws an arm around my shoulder. Chantal spots the elusive Dawson and heads off to speak with him, and Noah takes the empty spot on the other side of me. I’m not sure if I’m imagining it, but it seems like he’s sitting very close. I can feel the heat of his body next to me, but I don’t move away.
    I feel strange, but in a good way. I almost can’t believe I’m the same person who was ready to die only a couple of days ago. That emotion feels so far away now, like it belonged to someone else. I feel a smile playing across my lips. Could it be that I’m actually happy? I don’t trust the feeling enough to call it permanent. But now, surrounded by people, by laughter—I don’t care if it’s fleeting. I grab hold of it, letting it buoy me like the friends who sit on either side of me, like the bonfire that heats my face, warming me to my core.

twenty
     
    The next week passes easily. I still think of Cyrus and worry about what he might be doing to find me or how he’s treating Charlotte. But as my daily checking of the Internet for mention of my car, Taryn, or the book yields nothing, I find myself slipping into the rhythms of Kailey’s world more comfortably.
    Noah drives Bryan and me to school every day. Whether it’s rainy or sunny, foggy or brisk, we leave the windows down, and Noah turns up the music to drown out the sound of the VW’s strained engine. I don’t know any of the bands, but he tells me their names: Arcade Fire, Bon Iver, Fleet Foxes. The music has banjos and harmonies and a rawness that was entirely absent from Cyrus’s incessant techno—he loved modern architecture with its cold geometry and music that was composed on computers. But there was something more human about an acoustic guitar and drums that were played with one’s body. Riding in the backseat of Noah’s car with the wind in my face and the songs in my head, I want the school to be farther away so the trip will be longer.
    The following Wednesday is slow at the antiques shop, so I blast Billie Holiday records on the store’s sound system and watch the rain streaming down the windows. I amuse myself by looking at a stack of daguerreotype portraits in brass cases. They’re black and white, but some of them have intensely colored rainbowed edges, an artifact of the plate-making process.
    All of these people have been dead a long time. There’s one girl who looks a little like Charlotte, except her hair is far too orderly, parted severely in the middle and hanging around her face in perfect ringlets. I know it’s not her, but I bring it over to the cash register so I can look at it while I work.
    Thinking about Charlotte is painful. I miss her so much, and I’m worried about her as well. Has she managed to keep her head down, to avoid Cyrus’s wrath? I comfort myself with the knowledge that, above all, she’s a survivor.
    I set the portrait down and wander over to a piano, idly playing a few mindless notes. I haven’t fully acknowledged a feeling that’s been growing inside me, but I can feel it now, like a knock at the door, insisting to be recognized, to be dealt with.
    “I wish I could just stay here.” I whisper it softly. There’s no one around to hear me, so I repeat myself.
    I snap my head up at the jangling sound of bells from the front door. It’s Noah, dripping wet and holding his camera in a plastic bag.
    I can’t help but laugh. “You don’t have an umbrella, but you put your camera in a little poncho?”
    “Priorities,” he says, unzipping his sopping-wet black sweatshirt. “Plus, my folks were screaming at each other