CHAPTER EIGHT

THE BEATLES WEREN'T THAT GREAT

XENA

          People were staring at me as we made our way into the Physics lab.

          Okay, fine, in all honesty, they were probably staring at all three of us. I had never been one to enjoy being the center of attention and highly preferred to let other people be in the spotlight (my mothers, both fashion designers, had never been too thrilled over me not following in their footsteps), but my height made it harder for me to hide. All three of us were tall—with Felix being one inch taller than my five-foot-nine height and with Sofia easily hitting five-foot-eight—so it was easy for anyone to find us in a crowd.

          Now that everyone had seen the drama unfold and seen Leon get slapped in the face—hard as hell, if I dared to quantify it—there was no way people weren't talking about us. If they hadn't been before, they were now.

          I clutched my textbooks close to my chest, took in a sharp breath (breathe, Xena), and quickly crossed the lab towards my designated seat. Next to me, Sofia fiddled with her graphing calculator and, when I risked a glance towards her, I found her playing a particularly intense game of Super Mario.

          "Are you okay?" I asked, half-scared of what she might say. She didn't pause the game. "Sof, I'm sorry; I know I ask you the same question every single time we're in Physics class, but it honestly feels like everyone keeps dumping new information on you. I just want to know how you're holding up."

          Sofia waited until she finished the level to pay me the slightest bit of attention. By the time she did so, the lecture had already started and most of the class had begun to doze off. That was the status quo I had gotten used to, and the one I wasn't willing to let go of.

          It was almost a perfect replica of our first day back at school after June died—the whispering, the stares, me trying to talk with Sofia, Felix hinting that I should drop the subject.

          "I just don't understand," she confessed. "I've been trying to make some sense out of everything that has happened since June died, but I can't find a logical conclusion. I can't find anything reasonable regarding the reasons why she did what she did. I don't know why she texted everyone but me. I don't know why she called Meridian. I don't know why Leon is blaming me for what happened. I don't know what is going to happen to all of us, now that it seems pretty likely we won't be friends by the time graduation comes."

          My stomach sank.

          It was one thing for me to think it. It was a completely different one to hear someone put my thoughts into words, and it made it so much scarier.

          It hadn't even been two weeks since June died, yet it still felt like there was a massive rift cracking between us. It was a known fact that Leon only put up with the rest of us thanks to June, since he didn't particularly care for anyone other than her, and now that she was gone, what was in it for him to get along with us? Even at a time when we should stick together, a part of me knew he wouldn't stay.

          I just wasn't sure whether it was worth it or if it would be helpful to even try to talk to him.

          "Personally," Felix began, leaning to the side to eavesdrop on our conversation, "I never really got what the hell June ever saw in him. I'm starting to think Grace was right when she slapped him." He gave us a noncommittal shrug, ignoring the profoundly incredulous look I threw him. "Oh, Xena, come on; don't play the saint. You can't possibly tell me you feel the slightest bit of sympathy for the guy when he keeps treating us all like crap."

          "That's not the point!" I hissed. "If it had been you dying, I'd want the people who had been the closest to me for the entirety of my high school career to be there for me!"

          His eyes widened, and I immediately regretted having said that. There was a time and place for everything and blurting out an 'I love you' to the guy everyone loved in the middle of a Physics class wasn't an ideal scenario. Nevertheless, I had probably done exactly that, and there was no going back from it.

          "You know it's not the same thing," he argued, keeping his voice lower than before, but it wasn't like anyone was paying attention. Even Sofia had dozed off and returned to her Super Mario game. "It's not. They were together and we—"

          "It was an example! If you want something more palpable, more objective, take Grace and Christina. Tell me they wouldn't be pissed. Tell me we shouldn't support them."

          "I highly doubt Christina would be a douche to us whenever she got the chance."

          "And Grace?"

          "Grace might be a lot of things, but she's not a hypocrite." I opened my textbook harder than necessary and the dry thud of it hitting my desk echoed in the lab, startling a few people around me. "I might not agree with what she did, both when she slapped Leon and when she ran her mouth while talking to the police, but her head is in the right place. So, yes, I'm giving Leon the benefit of the doubt for the time being."

          "I hope you know Grace wasn't trying to rat us out," Sofia murmured, and we both turned to face her. She stared down at her calculator, as I had already expected, and it was almost like we weren't even there. I was used to trying to be invisible, but Felix wasn't; if anything, he put plenty of work into being in the spotlight. "Out of everyone, she's the person I have the utmost faith in." She let out a sad sigh, shaking her head and setting her calculator aside once our teacher turned around to face the class. "She's one hell of a friend, guys. Don't let what happened earlier change it for you."

          My left cheek was reddening by the time I got home, coincidentally matching Leon's. Fortunately for me, I hadn't gotten slapped by Grace in the middle of a crowded hallway. Unfortunately for me, one of the girls of the volleyball team accidentally failed to measure their strength while shooting the ball and I got caught in the crossfire.

          So, when I waltzed into my kitchen, I was hoping to find everything perfectly pristine as I pulled a pack of ice from my freezer. However, I found both my mothers standing there as immobile as marble statues and two police deputies sitting by the kitchen islands, with two empty glasses of water in front of them.

          I suddenly felt minuscule, with four pairs of eyes drilling into my face and closely examining any potential changes in my facial expression or the stiffness of my shoulders. When my mothers used me as a model for their clothes, they told me I had to behave like a hanger—I was just there to show off the clothes, meaning I couldn't risk making any sudden moves, otherwise I could rip open the fabric.

          "Xena, sit down," Maman—Sienna—asked. She was my birth mother, and it wasn't rare for people to comment on how similar we looked and that I was pretty much a miniature of her—same blonde hair, same round green eyes, same face shape. The major difference was that my French knowledge was lacking when compared to hers, a Brest-native. Next to her, Mom—Phoebe—crossed her arms so tightly the creases of her blazer dug into the curve of her elbows. "It's important."

          "Please, we don't want to take much of your time," one of the deputies said, and he and his partner sprang up from their seats. I remained still by the kitchen entrance, tightly clenching my backpack's strap. "Hi, Xena. I'm Deputy Joffrey. This is my partner, Deputy Clare. We need to ask you some questions about your friend Juniper."

          "Sure," I croaked out, even though I had never been less sure of myself in my almost eighteen years of existence. There were too many variables at stake, and I knew there was no plausible way I would be able to control every single one of them.

          For starters, I had to take what Grace had told them into consideration, but she didn't go into explicit detail about it, so I had to trust my gut—which was, indeed, a terrifying thing. I was an emotional person, often allowing my feelings to get in the way of my judgment, but I had to remember other people's lives and futures were being discussed.

          I had to find a way of telling the truth—that I hadn't had anything to do with June's death, that I had been caught off-guard and was as shocked and devastated as the rest of my friends, and I had zero clues why she had decided to text pretty much everyone that night—while not pitting it on anyone else.

          That sounded a lot easier said than done.

          I cleared my throat. "So, um, how can I help you? What do you need to know?"

          "Nothing too complicated, really," Deputy Clare replied. "We already spoke with your mothers"—they both glared at the deputies in perfect sync with one another and Mom crossed the kitchen to stand a step behind me, with a hand protectively set on my shoulder—"and they assured us you have nothing to hide, but we wanted to hear your side of the story."

          "And, like we've told you, deputy," Maman said, "we'll be staying here to listen."

          I threw her a look full of gratitude and her lips twisted into the smallest of smiles, which was the most she could do under the current circumstances.

          "Very well," Deputy Joffrey continued. "Where were you on the night Juniper died?"

          "At home," I answered. "I went to bed early. We had a Biology test the day after."

          "I see. Had you noticed anything strange about Juniper? Any changes in behavior, or something that seemed . . . odd?"

          "I don't—" I abruptly stopped. I didn't know what Grace had said in response to this question and I wasn't sure if I should tell them, but I had noticed something. They all looked at me expectantly, and I knew there was no going back from that brief moment of hesitation, even if my throat had dried up. "June danced. You probably know this, right?" They didn't answer, which was all the confirmation I needed. "She loved ballet. She wasn't the chattiest person on the planet, but, whenever someone mentioned it, her face would light up like the sun." My chest tightened as I remembered the wide grin plastered on June's lips whenever she talked about ballet—and how it would never happen again. "Then, she stopped mentioning it. Whenever one of us asked her about it, she'd change the subject, but everything else was fine. Normal." I eyed them both. "You don't think she—"

          "We're considering every possibility at this point," Deputy Clare clarified, and Mom's hand tightened the grip on my shoulder. "Did Juniper try to contact you in any way on the night she died? A . . . text message, maybe?"

          "With all due respect, Deputy," Mom interrupted, moments away from shooting laser beams from her eyes. "At this point, it feels like you're trying to confirm a hypothesis and twisting her words to fit your narrative. Go straight to the point; otherwise, we'll have to ask you to leave while we contact our lawyers."

          Deputy Clare huffed, then turned back to face me. "We've received a tip that Juniper contacted her friends that night, mostly via text"—I wrinkled my nose—"and we decided to look into it. It might provide us with some clarity regarding what happened."

          "She texted me, yes," I confirmed, and Maman pinched her nose bridge. I pulled my phone out of my backpack, opened my conversation with June, and handed them the device. They ignored all my futile attempts to communicate with June following her last text, and I bit my lip as I waited for a reaction. I remembered exactly what she had said.

Do you ever feel like you'll never be anyone outside of your accomplishments? Like, if people only saw you as a volleyball player. Like it's all you are. What do you do when that feeling hits? Who are you, really?

VIENNA

          "The Beatles weren't that great," Natasha said. A collective groan echoed in the room, and everyone brought their red cup to their mouths, taking a sip of their drink, while she calmly leaned back. Her own drink remained untouched. "Seriously, though. You guys suck at this game." 

          "Probably because you invented it," I pointed out, reaching out for another bottle of beer to refill my cup. Natasha shrugged, throwing me a peace sign, and I couldn't do anything but sip my own drink as well.

          It wasn't like we had nothing better to do that afternoon, because we absolutely had (my pile of unwritten essays seemed to be calling my name from my dorm room), but Natasha had decided we needed to have a dumbtervention—as in, a dumb intervention, during which we all complained about feeling too stupid to college while partaking in underage drinking. I would only turn twenty-one by the end of May, whereas Meridian's birthday landed in March, right during Spring Break, which was fitting.

          Well, it was fitting for the rest of us. He had been greatly enjoying a nice afternoon of sulking in his armchair for the past hour, skipping his turn whenever he could, and I was pretty sure he was just drinking for the sake of it.

          Natasha's game was simple. At its core, it was a mere drinking game, and we were college students, which meant all of us had implicit knowledge of how to play one and we all greatly enjoyed drinking. This one involved someone blurting out a random unpopular opinion and whoever agreed with it had to take a sip of her drink. That was doable.

          The main problem was that Natasha had a strange way of coming up with surprisingly obscure unpopular opinions that a lot of people in the room agreed with. It was a great way of getting to know people and, for that, I applauded her, but the drinking was getting out of hand. My own brain was fuzzy and a guy from my Cognition and Memory class was giggling by himself in a corner as he talked to a potted plant (and had nicknamed it Caesar).

          "Your turn, pretty boy," Natasha announced, raising her cup at Meridian. She was holding it with her right hand, and I grimaced, sincerely hoping no one would call her out on it and make her down her drink . . . or maybe I hoped they would, as it would even things out in the room. "Hit me with your best shot."

          "You're a pain in the ass," he dryly retorted, and everyone but me sipped their drink, even Natasha. He raised a hand. "Wait, wait, wait. I'm not done. I have more opinions."

          Natasha leaned forward, setting her elbows on her knees, and threatening to rip open her jeans even more. Her curls fell loosely down her back. "You're suddenly really talkative."

          He let out a humorless chuckle and I shuddered. I knew Meridian well enough to know this wasn't going to end well, and he had been holding so many things and feelings inside of him it was only natural for them to come bursting out like fireworks.

          "Quitting pre-law in Harvard to study art is a bad idea," he said, and pretty much everyone in the room drank up. Natasha gulped and shot him a murderous glare. "Not visiting who's supposed to be my best friend in the hospital after their mother died is insensitive." More drinks. Natasha's fingers clenched around her cup. "Kissing said best friend, leading her on for years, and then shattering her heart just to strengthen my own ego because my parents were crappy ones is something that should be discussed in therapy instead of having me act like I'm superior to everyone else." He raised his cup, and I could have sworn I'd seen Natasha's eyes glisten with tears. "Cheers, Tasha. Welcome to California."

          Natasha stood up, while he remained seated. I knew he was in a lot of pain, but it was no excuse for speaking to Natasha the way he did. What had happened back in Massachusetts with her former best friend was no one's business but her own and the fact that he was telling everyone about it was pretty low, in my opinion.

          I opened my mouth to call him out—even though the irrational part of my brain tried to fight against that urge, especially with the way the sunlight of the late afternoon hit him and highlighted his already sharp cheekbones—but Natasha did it for me, no words necessary.

          She threw her cup at him, spilling her beer all over him, and everyone gasped.

          "You know, for someone with a dead sister, one would expect you to have some empathy," she hissed, balling her hands into fists. He could have easily stood up from his seat, as he easily towered over her, but he simply sat there, soaked and dripping beer from the ends of his hair, still looking like a goddamn god, and I hated it. "Guess I was wrong."

          "This is me being empathetic," Meridian said, and drank what was left of his own drink, "except it's not for you. I fail to see how you've been wronged in the middle of all of this."

          A knock on the door interrupted us. We rushed to hide the cups and the bottles, both the empty and the unopened ones, but there was nothing that could be done regarding the intoxicated students, a seriously pissed off Natasha Reinhart, and, well, Meridian Beaumont. He got up to check who was outside, and instantly stiffened.

          We all did when he opened the door, revealing two police deputies—a man and a woman, who could easily feel the strong stench of beer in the room.

          "Meridian Beaumont?" the man asked. Meridian nodded once. "We need to ask you some questions about your sister Juniper. Is this a bad time?"

HI. i know i've been gone for a month, but, hopefully, this makes up for it.

stop being mean to natasha 2k19 (even tho she was pretty mean herself, both to meridian and to montana, but that's another book).

were the beatles overrated? discuss.

i've entered the following books into the 2019 wattys: carry it home, counterfactual, see you in san francisco (u kno....this one), mimeomia (<3 love u bb) and smells like tone spirit. wish me luck. also, good luck to everyone entering.

DEDICATED TO MY FAVE LIV Iydiamartin

p.s. this is meridian rn