I’ll Give You the Sun(78)
Author: Jandy Nelson

And maybe it’s that girl who’s now brave enough to admit to Noah what I did.

If he doesn’t die first.

As we get closer to the ledge, I begin to hear something strange. At first I think it’s the wind howling spookily in the trees, then realize it’s a human sound. Singing maybe? Or chanting? A moment later I realize what’s being chanted is my last name and my heart catapults out of my body. I think Zephyr realizes it at the same moment because we’ve both broken into a sprint.

Sweetwine, Sweetwine, Sweetwine.

Please, please, please, I think as we crest the last hill and reach the flat sandy area, where a bunch of people are in a semicircle like they’re at a sporting event. Zephyr and I elbow our way through, parting the curtain of bodies, until we have a front-row seat for the suicidal game that’s being played. On one side of a raging bonfire is a noodly guy with a bottle of tequila in his hand, swaying back and forth like a reed. He’s about twenty feet from the edge of the cliff. On the other side of the fire is Noah, ten feet from the edge, the crowd favorite to end his life. A half-empty bottle is on its side at his feet. He has his arms out like wings and is turning around and around, the wind rippling his clothes, the glow of the fire lighting him up like a phoenix.

I can feel his desire to jump as if it were in my own body.

A kid on a rock nearby shouts, “Okay, Round Five! Let’s roll!” He’s the master of ceremonies, and, it appears, as drunk as the contestants.

“You grab Noah,” Zephyr says, his voice all business now. At least he’s good for something. “I’ll get Jared. They’re so wasted, it’ll be easy.”

“On three,” I say.

We plunge forward, emerging in the center of the circle. From on top of the rock, the announcer slurs, “Hey, there appears to be some kind of interruption in The Death Match.”

My rage is meteoric. “Sorry to ruin the show,” I shout up at him. “But I have a really great idea. Next time why don’t you have your brother jump dead drunk off this cliff instead of mine?” Oh wow. That girl has many uses. I think I underutilized her in the past. I will not make that mistake again.

I grab Noah’s arm, hard, expecting a fight, but he melts into me, saying, “Hey, don’t cry. I wasn’t gonna jump.” Am I crying?

“I don’t believe you,” I say, looking into the open blooming face of the old Noah. So much love is filling my chest, it may explode.

“You’re right,” he laughs, then hiccups. “I’m totally gonna jump. Sorry, Jude.”

In a sudden swift movement that seems impossible considering how drunk he is, he spins out of my arms, casting me backward in slow, torturous motion. “No!” I reach for him as he dashes to the edge, raising his arms again.

It’s the last image I see before my head hits the ground and the crowd collectively gasps.

• • •

The ledge is now empty. But no one’s racing down the cliff path, the quickest way to the beach. No one’s even looking over the edge to see if Noah survived. The crowd’s in a mass exodus toward the street.

And I need to stop hallucinating.

I must’ve suffered some kind of brain trauma, because no matter how many times I blink or shake my head, they’re still there.

Belly-flopped on my brother not two feet from me is Oscar.

Oscar, who came out of absolutely nowhere to tackle Noah before he reached the edge.

“Hey, it’s you,” Noah says in wonderment as Oscar rolls off him and onto his back. Oscar’s panting like he just raced up Everest, and in motorcycle boots, I note. His arms are outspread, his hair wet with sweat. Thanks to the moon and the bonfire, my hallucination’s practically in high def. Noah’s sitting up now, gazing down at him.

“Picasso?” I hear Oscar say, still trying to catch his breath. It’s been ages since I’ve heard anyone call Noah that. “All grown up I see, and with a buzz cut.”

Now they’re fist-bumping. Yes, Noah and Oscar. The two I vote least likely to fist-bump. I have to be imagining this. Oscar’s sitting up now and has put a hand on Noah’s shoulder. “What the hell, mate?” He’s reprimanding Noah? “And what’s with the drinking? Following in my footsteps? This isn’t you, Picasso.”

How does Oscar know who Noah is to know who Noah isn’t?

“It isn’t me,” Noah slurs. “I’m not me anymore.”

“Know the feeling,” Oscar replies. Still seated, he holds out a hand to me.

I ask, “How are you here—”

But Noah interrupts, garbles at me, “You kept texting me, so I kept drinking ’cause I thought you knew . . .”

“Knew what?” I ask him. “This is all because of my texts?” I try to recall what I wrote, just that I had to speak with him and it was urgent. What did he think I wanted to talk about? What did he think I knew? There is definitely something he’s been keeping from me. “Knew what?” I ask him again.

He smiles stupidly at me, swiping the air with his hand. “Knew what,” he repeats like an imbecile. Okay, he’s drunk out of his gourd. I don’t think he ever has more than a beer or two. “My sister,” he says to Oscar. “She used to have hair that followed us around like a river of light, remember?” At least that’s what I believe he said. He’s speaking Swahili.

“Your sister!” Oscar cries. He falls onto his back again. Noah flops happily down next to him, a loony smile on his face. “That’s brilliant,” Oscar says. “Who’s Dad? Archangel Gabriel? And hair like a river of light, huh?” He lifts his head so he can see me. “You sure you’re okay? You seem a bit stunned. And you look great without your hat and that giant vegetable-stuffed sweatshirt. Great, but like you might be cold. You know what? I’d offer you my leather jacket, but someone stole it.” He’s back in fighting form, I see, recovered from this morning. Except I sort of feel like I’ve read his diary.

Still. “Don’t flirt with me,” I say. “I’m immune to your charms. I’ve been inoculated by one not-girlfriend too many.” For the record, that girl rocks.

I’m expecting a snappy retort but instead he looks at me in a completely unguarded way and says, “I’m so sorry about yesterday. I can’t tell you how sorry.”

I’m taken aback, have no idea how to respond. I’m not sure what he’s apologizing for either. For me seeing what I saw or for him doing what he did?