This Is Where It Ends - Marieke Nijkamp Page 0,2

Well, in theory. The teachers and other personnel are in the auditorium too, and they don’t run.

So everyone pushes to leave, then strolls, dawdles, sneaks out for a smoke and some air (the two aren’t mutually exclusive, thank you very much). After all, even nicotine and tar smell better than what my sis once described as our “odor-torium,” a unique blend of testosterone, sweat, and burned coffee.

But we’re cutting it far too close. “I hate paperwork.”

“Maybe you should stay on the farm then,” Fareed drawls. “Honest work and hard labor don’t require brains.”

“You’re hilarious.” My fingers skim his file, and I pull it out of the drawer. “D’you want to see the letter of recommendation Mr. O’Brian wrote for your college applications?”

He holds out his hands, and I toss him the file. A few sheets flutter from the folder before Far catches it.

“Barbarian.”

I snort. “Sorry. Not sorry.”

“I look so young and innocent in this picture,” Fareed muses, staring at his cover sheet. For most of our class, the picture used by the administration is three years old, taken when we enrolled as freshmen. In his case, however—

“That was taken last year!”

“How you’ve corrupted me. Without your brilliant ideas, I’d have been a straight-A student, never in trouble with the law, girls following me everywhere.”

“Sure.” I pull another folder out of the filing cabinet. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Fareed makes another comment, but I’m not paying attention. A familiar picture stares at me from the cover sheet.

Bingo.

Browne, Tyler. Gelled blond hair, pale eyes, and an oh-so-familiar blank look. The one time his eyes weren’t glossed over with contempt was when I slammed his head into a locker. My fingers itch to do it again.

Does the administration note criminal charges in student records? Probably not when the files are this easy to access. Definitely not when said student dropped out at the end of last year. Besides, I don’t even know if he has a criminal record. According to his grades, he was a perfectly respectable C student. Three years at Opportunity and Tyler coasted through all his classes.

He only—spectacularly—failed Humanity 101.

The latest note in his file is unmistakable though: Reenrolling. Effective immediately.

Sylvia mentioned it this weekend. It was the first time she’s confided in me in months. She looked ready to puke her guts out, she was so scared, but she refused to tell me why. So here I am, breaking into school records. To make sure she’s safe. Twin-brother privileges.

Not that I’ll ever admit to that or even hint that I care. Twin-brother reputation.

I lean against the principal’s desk and read.

Date of birth, address—boring. Emergency contact information for father, mother deceased. Last school, date of admission—nothing I don’t already know. Present class: not applicable. Not yet.

SAT score: 2140.

Huh. A closet genius.

Maybe that explains why, despite his bravado, Tyler never made good on any of his threats. He may be a maggot, but he’s the smartest kind: a harmless one.

• • •

AUTUMN

My back aches. I roll my shoulders to loosen the knotted muscles. Sylv lingers instead of rejoining the rest of her class. She cracks her knuckles with sharp snaps. “Are you okay?”

“I…” I hesitate.

I woke up drenched in sweat last night, expecting a knock at the door like two years ago. But this morning was breakfast as usual. Ty was nowhere to be found, and after this weekend, I didn’t mind. Figures. Dad didn’t bother to get up. He started—or never stopped—drinking last night. These days, he doesn’t even try to hide it. When Mom was still alive, he only drank when she was away and only during the darkest times. He still knew how to smile then, and he could make both Ty and me laugh.

Now he’s angry at the entire world, at anything that reminds him of Mom.

At me.

I don’t know how to put all that into words. I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay in a long time. It isn’t just Mom’s death. Dad—sometimes I’m afraid.

And Ty… I’m afraid I’ll lose Ty too.

But Sylv and Ty hate each other. How can I begin to make her understand?

She places her hand on my arm, then remembers where we are and nervously tucks a long, black curl behind her ears. Her bright-blue top matches her eyeliner, which makes her eyes sparkle. At Opportunity, where so many of us prefer to stay hidden, she’s the brightest spotlight on the darkest stage. She looks at me expectantly. “It’s understandable, you know. Anniversaries can be difficult. You can be sad. No one will