I think I woke up first, and after that I started an accidental chain reaction of confused screeching and Spencer pounding his fist against the door even louder than he already was. He swung it open without warning, Pete scrambling to pull the lone sheet over his chest like he was naked. Which he wasn't, thankfully. That would've been disgusting. I probably would've left, or maybe used the built up anger punch I'd saved from last night.

This is it, I scolded myself when Spencer crossed his arms over his chest like he was mad. I didn't see his face though, so it was just an assumption that he was angry at us. Per usual though. He always seemed to be upset over something, but none of us could tell what or why. It was probably because we caused so much ruckus he wasn't able to contain. That was plausible.

I bet we'd had too many drinks. One of cats we'd released weeks ago gave it away. Pesto snuck out without Brendon to tuck him into bed last night. The suspension letters took our prank too far. The firecrackers led right back to us. We were going to get expelled right here right now, and Brendon wasn't here so he wouldn't be caught. I'd never ever see him again.

Then everything came flooding back; his lips on mine and the tired smile across his face and the 'To be continued', then the confusing yelling too late at night, the "I'll see you tomorrow", and the flutter of his white tank top in the parking lot. I didn't want to be expelled in the much too realistic fear of never seeing him again.

And then my mind told me, he only said what he'd said because he was drunk. You really don't even know him at all, at this point.

Don't, I told myself, one of the only times I'd bothered to argue back, I've just begun to know him.

As if answering my nervous prayers, Spencer uncrossed his arms lazily and said, "you guys aren't in trouble. Just come down to the gym. Take all the time you need."

"What happened?" Ryan mumbled, barely awake from sleep. Patrick grunted in confusion next to him.

Spencer turned away, like he was afraid to look at us. And before he shut the door, muttered something under his breath I wasn't able to make out.

I turned to Pete and he turned to me, and I realized the suspense in my chest was gone. For better or for worse, I couldn't tell. All that mattered was that it was gone, and nobody was dead.

..:..::..:::..::..:..

"This happened last year," Pete grumbled in annoyance he had to get dressed so early, still half asleep and trying to button up the only remaining clean shirt that he owned "when one of the history teachers died. I would say I missed him if he wasn't such an asshole."

"You failed that history test for a reason-" Ryan reminded Pete of the story of how he got 22/80 questions right because he'd taught himself to make baskets from the palm fronds outside instead of studying like a 'responsible student', as Patrick loosely phrased it. He'd especially gotten angry over one of the questions with an easily disputable answer that left it open between 3 options.

"The answer to question 22 was right and everybody fucking knew it."

"If you ask me," Ryan sighed and started changing his socks to a pair that wasn't green from grass stains "it's totally the asshole Spanish teacher we had last year that bit the bullet. It's the only explanation I've got for right now."

"You guys are the assholes." Patrick laughed and ushered us all out of the room, assuming we'd meet Brendon there since he hadn't returned home yet. We'd probably meet him there. If my suspicions were correct, he had camped out somewhere for the remainder of the night, and we'd see him again in a bit and get the answer as to why he'd left in such a hurry.

"But the Spanish teacher," Pete muttered through a sly smile "has got it coming to 'em."

By the way he said it, I would've thought he'd murdered the Spanish teacher while we slept. Knowing Pete, he probably did.

Note to self; do not ever, under any circumstances, get on Pete's bad side - unless you want to die, but I'm pretty sure if anyone simply asked he'd do it for half of a bowl of cereal and a couple of those heat detecting pencils that changed colors.

We passed by Brendon's room on the way towards the stairs. Pete took a few minutes to slam his shoulder against the door like he was about to break it down until Patrick yelled at him to stop. And Ryan almost picked the lock again to go get Brendon, until we all had to stop him from breaking in. Because that's a legitimate crime, even if it is just a dorm room, and if we were caught I didn't exactly feel like having that piled on top of all the felonies we'd committed this year alone. I'd probably die before the police finished reading the list of things we shouldn't have done but did anyways for the sheer reason that we could.

"But his door is like, never locked." Ryan grumbled in protest and followed us down the hall and through the empty yard.

"Well, he's probably there already." Patrick said in response 3 minutes later when we crossed over the soppy mess of a lawn.

The gym was packed with 194 students, the only empty seat being the one right next to me, the seat we'd agreed to save for Brendon when he got here.

I'd never been in the gym before, since I'd opted out of taking PE this year. Silky looking banners of the school colors, gross murky ocean blue and boring dull cloud gray, hung over the stage where Spencer stood at a small podium, surrounded by a couple other people I'd never seen before. A guy in a suit on the ending seat was clutching a box of tissues to his chest, and a girl on the other side wearing a pair of blue skinny jeans and a nicely pressed dress shirt stared blankly off into space like she'd been confronted by a ghost.

Then the microphone screeched and Spencer said exhaustedly,"is everybody here?"

"Brendon's not here!" Pete yelled from next to me, worry seeping through his tone like ink through paper.

Spencer nodded once dismissively in acknowledgment and repeated himself. "Is everybody else here?"

And then I stood up, cupped my hands around my mouth so he would acknowledge me, and called out "Brendon's not here yet!"

"Yes! I know, Dallon!" He snapped, and I could've sworn I saw silent tears running down his cheeks. But I brushed it off and dropped my hands to my side in defeat, because I knew he was almost here, and I called back "can we please wait for him? Please?"

"For the sake of every remotely short person seated behind you, please sit down, Dallon."

And I did, not because of the shorter people behind me, but because maybe Brendon was behind the banners or he was going to rush in through the front door at any second, still pulling on his tank top and tying the laces to his worn out shoes that looked like they'd run too far in too little time, laughing at our worried expressions. He'd be here just in time, like always.

Ryan and Patrick both stood up in my place and said what Pete and I had been saying, and I guess Spencer had had enough because he yelled at us once more to sit down. And we listened.

From the distance, he made direct eye contact with all of us and for sure he was crying, noiselessly of course, the sound not projected nor picked up by the microphone in front of him.

He gripped the edges of the podium stand, like he was willing himself to say something, anything, and he finally did after a full suspenseful minute that seemed to last for an eternity. My heart was pounding in my chest so loud I almost didn't hear a word he said.

He mumbled something inaudibly to the people stationed next to him, and looked up at me and my other friends and the sorrow flooding his eyes said he was genuinely sorry. It was like Spencer was trying to stall. I wasn't completely sure why though. I'm not sure why he couldn't just say what he wanted to - or needed to. Whichever works. I wish he could just tell us so I could get back to our dorm room and sort out everything that had happened with Brendon last night.

"Brendon is dead."

I wish he hadn't said anything.

The only sound was the dead silent sound of 194 people having the air sucked from their lungs, and the terrible feeling was back and crushing my chest and I couldn't breathe, oh god I can't breathe. And I felt sick to my stomach, the watermelon candies and cigarette smoke taste in my mouth fading quickly and replaced with the overwhelming knowledge that he was dead. It hit me like a train and my heart pulsed so fast I could've sworn it was about to burst. That would've been fine, because he was dead and it was all my fault.

Dead, dead, dead. It didn't even sound like a word anymore. Like giraffe or potato chip.

It was all my fault.

Maybe if I hadn't kissed him or if I stopped him before he drove away in the car he hadn't even set foot in for so long. If I hadn't taken him out to the forest, if I hadn't willingly agreed to help him escape undetected with no questions asked.

I could've stopped him.

I sat there on the bleachers for a minute while everything crumbled to pieces around me like Pompeii in all the famous books and movies, head spinning, body feeling like it was the backseat witness of Patrick's controlled yet reckless driving.

He promised I'd see him again tomorrow. He promised. You can't just break a promise, especially when it's as important as that.

I want to go back to that last moment, when he'd told me he'd see me again tomorrow, and tell him I loved him. I never got the chance to answer him.

He never knew.

I wish I could go back and live in that moment when he pulled me down close to him and pressed his cigarette smoke lips to my cheek, and freeze time just like that for a moment longer. Stop time, and take in the bone crushing weight of it all so maybe I could snap to my senses and carry him home instead of letting him go, so then he wouldn't be so heart wrenchingly dead, tell him I love him because damn it, he never knew.

I could've stopped him.

I didn't, but I wish I did.

When I glanced to the side, Patrick was hunched over in his bleachers seat, head in his hands. I could tell he wouldn't be able to look in the mirror until his hair was no longer blue. The neon dye had taken so long to fade so little.

A couple people behind me were sobbing loudly into each other's shoulders like they'd actually gotten to know him like we had. But they hadn't, and I knew that for the rest of the school year, we'd be bombarded with false apologies by people who hadn't given two shits about him. That would be one of the worst things possible.

Pete was on the seat in front of me, laid out on his side and curled up in a little ball, screaming nonsense until he would run out of air, inhaling for a second and yelling again. After a second of just breathing in then screaming, there was a rhythm. It took a moment to realize the rhythm was the consistent tone of the 4 words, "it's all my fault" and I thought, it's all our fault.

And Ryan was wandering dazedly down the stairs and as he reached the bottom step he sat down, plopped his feet on the ground, and set his head between his knees like he was participating in an earthquake drill.

So I got up, and made my way down to Spencer, who was still standing at the podium as if no time had passed.

"He's not dead," I told him matter-of-factly with my arms crossed like I knew what I was talking about "this is all just a joke." And I nodded proudly because I was definitely right. He wouldn't leave us just like that. This was his plan he was telling us about a couple days ago, the ultimate prank. [its just a prank bro]

"I'm sorry, Dallon. I saw him. He's dead."

And I asked what happened and he sat down on the gym floor with me and told me in a quieter tone so that nobody else could eavesdrop and cause even more chaos.

"He drove his car over a railing and crashed into a tree on the way down the cliff. There was close to no way he could've made it out alive, and I'm not sure anyone would've found him unless the cop that was parked there watched him do it." He put his hand on my shoulder like he was trying his best to comfort me, which wasn't working, and simply repeated his words from before in a different order, "I saw him. He's dead. I'm sorry."

I took a deep breath and hugged my knees closer to my chest because I didn't believe him. Scratch that, I knew he was right. But I didn't want him to be.

"How did he look?"

Spencer agreed to tell me hesitatingly after I pestered him about it couple more times because I deserve the right to know.

And I instantly regretted it, and now I couldn't shake the image of his head split open and the blood water-falling from his nose. The only decently calming thing was that it was a quick death due to the steering wheel that had disfigured his chest. But that also made it worse because if instant pudding took like an entire hour, then exactly how long was an instant death?

Did he have time to think about what he'd just done? The outcomes he was facing? Did he wish he could go back? Maybe he changed his mind halfway down. Maybe he realized it was an accident and he didn't really want to die. What if he'd been given the time to realize I did love him? Maybe he had known after all.

No, no he hadn't. Excuses, excuses in a last second attempt to stop my mind from caving in on itself. It was going to inevitably happen, no matter how much I attempted to stall.

I hoped to whatever God out there listening that an instant death was long enough to remember me and Pete and Patrick and Ryan, but short enough so it wouldn't hurt. He didn't deserve that.

I could still hear him in my distant memories where he'd stay forever, yelling about how he was the lonely whale, and how he was stuck in a tornado with no escape. The screams off the top of the cliff still echoed in my head, and I wish I'd given a response to what he told the stars. Maybe, just maybe, I might've been able to save him.

I didn't, but I wish I did.

I wish.

..:..::..:::..::..:..

"He's not dead." Patrick insisted for the 3rd time in the past minute.

And I wished he was right. Some part of me thought he was, but deep down I knew Brendon was gone and wasn't ever coming back home.

I could still taste him too, but the worse part was that it wasn't the smoke and the watermelon candies and the intoxicatingly pungent alcohol, but instead just cold and dead and spine tinglingly disgusting. Like a zombie from one of those movies that haunts your dreams for like a month after you watch it.

It wasn't even noon.

In fact, it wasn't even a year since I'd stepped foot into his room. Barely 218 skimpy, lousy, short days. That wasn't nearly enough time for him. Not even close to enough time for any of us. There's never enough time.

And I stopped walking and stood in the middle of the soggy flowerbeds and wondered what in the world I had possibly done wrong to make the universe hate me so much.

[2840 words, 11/23/16, wow I feel like Satan. I feel like this was a surprise to some people but no I've literally foreshadowed all of this from the beginning hhha]