1One Month, Three Days, and Eleven and a Half Hours until the End of the World
The first sign that the world is going to end occurs on Monday, August 15, at 12:13 p.m.
I know the exact time because I’m looking at my phone, wondering where the heck Van is. Because if there’s one thing I know about my best friend, it’s that Van Silvera is never late.
I hate when people are late. If I’m waiting for someone and it’s been more than fifteen minutes, I start worrying that (a) I’ve missed them, (b) they’re not coming, or (c) they’ve secretly hated me all my life and this is how they’ve finally decided to let me know.
In my defense, I know that’s an overreaction. But Van was supposed to meet me here in the school parking lot at noon so we could grab lunch off campus. The fact that I’ve been pacing next to her empty Jeep for thirteen minutes—that’s right, thirteen—can only mean one thing: she’s dead.
Or our friendship is.
Or both.
Where on earth is she? If today were any other day I might not be freaking out, but it’s the first day of our senior year, which means I’m already wound tighter than the restraints on a straitjacket.
Somehow, miraculously, I’ve managed to coast through the last three years of high school without any major disasters. No failed tests. No major bullying. No awkward erections in class. So by my calculations, I’m pretty much due for some sort of Epic Teenage Catastrophe because, let’s get real, no one gets through high school unscathed. No one. That’s just a fact.
Van calls me paranoid, but I basically operate under the principle that if something can go wrong, it will. The way I see it, if you don’t watch your step and keep your head down, the universe will make you a target. And I can’t think of anything more horrifying than being the center of attention.
I’ve certainly never sought any sort of spotlight. In fact, if someone were to ask my classmates at Spruce Crick to describe me, their first response would probably be, “Who’s Milo Connolly?”
As for the small subset of people who do actually remember my name, they’d probably say I’m that super-religious, super-shy nerd who only does “church stuff.” Which is only half
accurate. Technically, it’s my diehard Presbyterian parents who are super religious. I’m more religious by proxy.
That said, I do spend most of my free time doing “church stuff.” I’m a big fan of rules. And church is all about rules—very specific rules that are very clear about what you can and cannot do. And if you follow the rules, you’re all set. No surprises. No confusion. No problem. It’s like having an instruction manual for life.
Most people are surprised to learn that a rule-loving and painfully introverted Christian like me has a best friend like Van, a self-proclaimed agnostic who is both the star player on the girls’ soccer team and the lead of every fall musical. But what people forget is that Van also used to be a quiet, well-behaved little Presbyterian. Back before she scandalized my parents by “taking a break from Jesus,” Van regularly attended our church. That’s how we met.
One December, when we were six, Van and I were cast as Mary and Joseph in our Sunday school’s nativity play. I was painfully shy even then and pretty much refused to say any of my lines. Van on the other hand thrived in the spotlight and wanted to say everybody’s lines: the wise men’s, the angel’s, even the sheep’s. Somehow our Silent Joseph and Chatty Mary routine was the unexpected hit of the Christmas season, and we’ve been inseparable ever since.
Which is why I’m freaking out that it’s now 12:13—no, 12:14—and Van is literally nowhere to be seen. I’ve texted her five times and she hasn’t responded. Which means today just might be the day that my one and only friend has finally and irrevocably realized that I—Milo Connolly—am a Lost Cause.
I shouldn’t be surprised. I knew this day would come. There’s no way someone as special as Van could stay friends with someone as embarrassingly lame as me.
I just thought we had more time.
“Milo!” a voice yells out as the school doors bang open.
Oh, thank goodness . . .
Van waves at me across the parking lot, and the sigh of relief that escapes my lungs practically blows me over.
I’m so relieved by the sight of her smiling face and bouncing mane of auburn hair that it takes me a moment to realize she’s not alone. A boy is with her. I don’t recognize his face, so I assume he must be some clueless underclassman who doesn’t understand the valuable time he’s wasting by trapping Van in whatever inane conversation he wants to have. But as they get closer, I notice the boy is smiling.
At me.
“Look who I found!” Van shouts with a flourish.
My brain is still struggling to make sense of what I’m seeing when the boy sticks out a hand and winks.
“Hey, Connolly. Long time no see.”
Oh. My. God.
Marcos.
I can’t believe I didn’t recognize him. It’s been three years since we were all together, so of course he looks older, but everything I remember about him—everything I can’t help but remember about him—is still the same. His jet-black hair still perfectly coiffed to look intentionally messy. His lean face still ending in that ridiculously sharp jawline, like the hero in an action movie.
As for his eyes . . . they haven’t changed a bit. Dark and penetrating, they still look as if they’re taking in everything and everyone around him. As if they could peer straight into your soul.
I never wanted to see those eyes again for as long as I live.
Before I know what I’m doing, though, I start to reach for him.
Our hands touch.
And the Earth trembles.
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