November 29, Friday. 3:12 p.m.

Every day, all day long, everywhere I go, all I hear about is the apocalypse. The air is causing people's cells to deteriorate. People are becoming self-imploding shells. The state is going to issue special suits to prevent this. The head of the school gave a huge speech about it in the auditorium this morning, and everybody is panicking. It wasn't long ago that my daddy phoned me with the news, and I know he spoke of things like this often in the past, so honestly it shouldn't bother me too much. Many a time people are freaking out when there's nothing to worry about. They panic, they overreact, they make life hell for everyone around them. And the stupid propaganda isn't helping. Fear-mongering, Daddy calls it.

And yet, despite knowing all this, I'm still terrified.

Adam asked if I'd walk with him to work today, so that's what I'm doing. In all honesty, I have nothing better to do. Besides, he offered to teach me a few more guitar chords in his free time.

   "You're quiet today," he observes as we meet up at the apartment and head down the street. I shrug it off. Perhaps he thinks I'm quiet because normally, when together, we can't shut up.

   "I'm just thinking."

   He glances at me, skeptical. "But it doesn't feel like you're just thinking."

   I wait for him to go on, seeing as it's impossible to fool someone who's pretty much always on my wavelength.

    "It feels like you're overwhelmed," he mutters, a very deep concentrated look darkening his eyes.

  "I don't know what's wrong with me," I frown, then huff out a big sigh, trying to clear everything and appear normal. I feel bad being this way when he's around, like I drag everything down when I'm not on his level.

   "I do. You've been worrying too much," he points out. "You feel like you have to keep up with me all the time, because you hate being left in the dust."

   I swear that boy reads my thoughts. I glance up at him, those understanding, mellow hazel eyes, that patient face. So eager and so full of kindness, ideas, poetry, music, a desire to help. That jagged mop of ink-black hair. Those thick, dark smudges posing as eyebrows. That saucy mouth with the two rings in the left half of the bottom lip. Those ears, so ready to listen, so absorbent, with the black and white striped gauges in the lobes. Plugs, he calls them.

   Without really knowing what I'm doing, I drop my head against his shoulder in a sad moment of helplessness. Sympathetic, he emits something crossed between a chuckle and a whimper. As I lift my head he assures me, "You'll be alright. We'll both be."

   "I hope so." The words come out in such a desperate moan I wish I hadn't opened my mouth.

   He smirks soothingly. "You will be. Don't worry." Hand on the music shop door, he turns to me. "Care to stick around until I clock out tonight? Then when Dylan comes to pick me up, we can walk you home."

   He needn't bother, but he's stubborn and never takes no for an answer, so I'm not about to fight him. I think of the feeling of impending doom that's been churning inside me lately, and deciding that I feel better about it so long as I'm with him, I nod silently. He smiles and pulls the door open, gesturing grandly, kicking the stopper in place so people can come and go as they please.

   "Right this way, then. I'm sure Tom won't mind you hanging out. He doesn't encourage loitering but if you're working on a musical piece, he's more than happy to let you do your thing until we close. Besides, he told me he likes hearing your uke music in his store."

   Hearing this, I look away bashfully, then realize there's something I've been forgetting these past few months.

   "Um. Adam, how late do you work?"

   "I get off at eleven. Why?"

   "Uh, well, I'd like to stick around that long, but I have to be home before then. Nine-thirty at the lastest. Dad's rule, remember? I know, I haven't been sticking to it as much as I should. I feel really bad about that and I think it's eating at me."

   At first he seems so terribly confused, but genuine apology soon animates his features as the recollection hits him. "Oh. That's right. You made so many exceptions, I forgot about that. It's fine. We'll just have to work something out. Okay?" He scratches his head thoughtfully.

   I know he thinks a lot of my dad's rules are silly—he's even told me so—but at least he respects them and doesn't try to pressure me into bending them. That's how real friends are supposed to be. I appreciate that about him. Forcing a tired smile, I walk past and he falls into step behind me. After getting me situated in a quiet corner of the store with an ukulele, he quietly tells me to come find him if I need anything. "I'll walk you home on my break. Six-thirty works for you, yeah?"

   "Perfect."

   With a smile, he heads to the front desk, dropping his backpack back there and doing something at the computer before heading into the back to find Tom.

   Sitting on an unused amp stack, strumming the uke—which I've fondly nicknamed Ike, short for Ikulele—I get lost in thought and start humming to the tune I'm creating. Words begin to form along with the music—words conveying what I've been dealing with, but I fabricate the chorus and bits of the verses because it sounds good. Besides, I don't want anyone worrying about me. I have to stay positive on the outside, even if I'm not okay on the inside.

   When I'm finally satisfied with the way it sounds in my head, I can't resist softly singing them aloud just as a test. Gradually, my voice grows stronger as confidence mounts. Nothing else exists—it's just me and my uke in the room.

Walking on eggshells
With just about everyone I love
And I've been up
For nineteen total hours now
Overtired and emotional
Reactions hardly functional
Letting things build up, build up
Til they blow
Turned my molehill to a volcano

Safe to say, yeah you've
Been getting on my nerves
Recently
It's in overdrive, I claim to be fine
You say I will but I think you lie
Doubts are clouding my crowded mind
I let things get between us for
My wrath to be justified

Scared of what you think of me
Worried you're gonna go
I talk to you so
Tentatively
Forget around you, I can let my emotions show
It's not FAIR
Say you love me, say you care
Don't overdo it with energy
Because I'm tired and it's just not good for me, oh

Safe to say, yeah you've
Been getting on my nerves
Recently
It's in overdrive, I claim to be fine
You say I will but I think you lie
Doubts are clouding my crowded mind
I let things get between us for
My wrath to be justified

People overreacting
Telling us the end is near
We know they're lying
The signs prove it's all a scare
They're milking it, controlling us
Driving me insane, boxing us up
Can't go anyplace.
They took away our freedom.

Forgive me if it seems
That you're getting on my nerves
Hate to admit it but it's true
That you are
I'm so sick of this messed up world
Shouldn't let it get to me
But I'm exhausted from this fight
I want my anger to be justified

Spider's web has caught me
Trapped in it like tacks in glue
And I can't get over the irony
In how as much as you've been pissing me off
You're the only human I want to go to.
Stop being different.
Stop making things complicated.
Show me that you care again
Don't say it, cuz I don't feel it.
I miss our deep talks
I miss having fun
Nothing's the same.
I know we thought it'd never happen
But I don't really feel your wavelength
Anymore.

   Tom and Adam are staring at me when I open my eyes, and I blush embarrassedly.

   "Why don't you take her into the studio sometime, kid? This girl's obviously got something to share with the world."

   "I...geez, I guess I underestimated her," Adam whispers, eyes wide. I'm puzzled. I know he's heard me play and sing before; why should this be any be different? He gave me my turquoise uke as a replacement for the one I lost. The one I had when I was a kid. He gave me the turquoise one. Didn't he?

   I don't even know anymore. I'm dizzy now. I want to go home.

"What time is it?" I ask, feeling panic setting in as I hop off the amp stack and put the ukulele away. Adam checks his watch.

"Five o'clock. Why?"

"I... I need to get going."

Tom nods at Adam. "Take an early lunch. It's slow today. I'll cover for you."

"Uh, thanks." Looking quite confused, Adam follows devotedly at my heels as I exit the shop, breathing heavily. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, it's nothing. I just—"

"Hey." He reaches out and catches me by the right shoulder, twisting me to meet his gaze. The fusion between our eyes is so much deeper than it normally is. He hasn't looked at me like this in a very long time. "Don't lie to me. Remember, I know everything about you."

"Not everything. Don't say that." Tears slide unbid down my face. He sighs, clearly hating that I'm crying, but gently hustles me home nonetheless. Once I'm safely inside, he turns and heads back to town. I head upstairs to take a long shower, hoping the hot water will wash the panic away. Its effect is definitely relaxing, and I spend more than an hour under its calming flow of warmth and serenity.

   Serenity.

   At the thought of the word, panic grips me once more. Hurriedly shutting off the water, the bringer of the cursed term, I wrap myself in a thick towel. As I step out, I slip, hitting the floor.

11:13 p.m.

I find myself lying on the bathroom floor, wrapped in a towel. I don't recall much, and my head hurts tremendously. Staggering to my feet, I dress in some comfortable clothes and head to my room. Initially I intended to go to bed, but for whatever reason I choose to dig into the dresser, pulling out my uke and examining it carefully. Memories of a secondhand music shop in a bright city begin to surface, along with the grimy reflection of myself against the shop window.

I'm not that girl.

I'm not that girl.

Best way to avert these things is busy myself. I'll brush my hair. That will calm me. As I pull the brush through my knotted hair, something happens to my mind. It suddenly feels full. My eyes blur out. For some reason I think of the faint perfume Dylan's mom wears. That's when I find myself thinking about Mama's favorite flowers, Starflowers. That's what Joan's perfume smells like.

Suddenly I feel more homesick than I ever have in my life. I close my eyes and a scene comes up, not one of Mama's melted face, but of the two of us walking hand-in-hand through a garden bright with flowers. "See? These are Starflowers." Mama gestures to some star-shaped blooms and points to one. "They're called that for the Bethlehem star. But do you know what else they're for?"

   I shake my little caramel-blonde head. "No, Mama. What?"

   Mama plucks one and tucks it just above my ear. "They're for you, dearest. God's own little star. Shining bright for Him in everything you do." And with my mother's kiss on my forehead, the scene fades out.

I realize I am not holding a brush anymore. I am sitting on the floor with a pocket knife in my hand. I don't deserve to be alive. What am I doing here anyway, if I'm not shining? All of my family is dead, but even if they weren't, all I would do anyway is let them down. My mind is so crowded. I look at the lines on my forearms, the scars symbolizing all the times I've given into deep memories and dark nights. So many...

Why even try to resist when so much of me is scarred already? Who could love someone with so much weight on her back? So much guilt...so much pain. So many permanent scars. I'm vaguely aware of a light stinging presence on my wrist, but I need to feel something more than that. My vision is too blurry to even see red, but it's on the tip of my tongue as I fail to continue. Why do I fail to continue?

Because something grabs the knife from my hand and then wraps my wrist with a washcloth. Because someone's hands hold mine as that someone tries speaking to me in a booming, shaky, blurred-out voice. Because as I fall back in a dizzy trance, those same hands catch me, and the body they belong to holds me.

Someone holds me and cries and I'm too tired to even see who it is. But for now I have a little bit of hope. That someone cares enough to stop me. Why would someone care enough about me that they would hold me and cry? I'll go on, because I want to see who it is...tomorrow.