Fall to Pieces by Vahini Naidoo Page B

roulette instead. Pet bobs her head up and down like a buoy in the ocean. But we all know there’s nothing about this buoy that’s going to keep her afloat.
    I am silent, but unafraid. Completely unafraid. I slide toward the edge. Creep toward my fall.
    E puts a hand on my shoulder before I can get too far. “Why?” he asks. “Why do you do this?”
    I don’t say anything, and neither does Mark. But Petal—softhearted Petal—finally gives E the explanation he’s been hankering after. About Pick Me Ups. About Amy. And even as she says it all, even as she tells him abouthow Mark thought we could use Pick Me Ups to understand Amy, it sounds forced and stupid. Because it’s more than that. It’s so much fucking more than that.
    Explosive Boy doesn’t seem too convinced. “Is this really the best way for you guys to get close to Amy?” he asks. “And I mean, no offense, but I didn’t even know Amy. There’s really not much of a reason for me to be tossing myself off shit and putting a gun to my head. I don’t want to die.”
    He doesn’t get it. Pick Me Ups aren’t only about death. They’re about really, truly feeling the world around you. They’re about the rush. The way the blood floods your head, pounds in your eardrums. The wind whistling by as you fall. And of course, the adrenaline spike when you hit the ground.
    This is about living as much as it is about dying. About pleasure as much as it is about pain.
    Petal shakes her head at E. “You don’t understand anything,” she says, echoing my thoughts. “What are you even doing here? You just want to get into Ella’s pants, don’t you?” She raises her eyebrows. If he says no, she’ll make social mincemeat of him at school.
    We know. He knows.
    But judging by the grin on his face, he doesn’t care. Maybe Explosive Boys don’t do well socially, anyway.
    “You got me.” He holds up his hands, palms out.Surrenders. “But jumping off things isn’t going to get me into Ella’s pants. And almost killing yourself isn’t going to get you into Amy’s mind.”
    “What do you know?
What?
” My voice shrieks, grating like sandpaper against his cheeks. I can practically see it obliterating his freckles. I want to swear so fucking badly. But swearing would be an admission that he’s right.
    He isn’t. Pick Me Ups are worth it. I’m getting my memories back.
    “I know a lot about coming to terms with grief,” E answers.
    Petal’s arm is raised, fingers curling toward the palm. Half fist. It quivers as if it’s not an extension of her body but something separate. Something with a mind of its own. Floundering, hovering above the hay.
    Ready to strike.
    E grins at her. “And you look like such a pretty girl—” I punch E on the shoulder. Not too hard, but hard enough for him to know that if he says that again we’ll lob him straight into the bales of hay below. And this time I won’t leap after him, won’t make sure he’s okay.
    Petal’s lying to me, sure; but, hell, she’s still my friend. No one messes with my friends.
No one messes with us
. Amy used to make sure of it when she was alive. It feels like my job now, for some reason. Maybe because Amy, as much as she linked us together, was the odd one out.
    Amy was the one who felt isolated the most—and she didn’t shut up about it, either. If there was one thing Amy wasn’t insecure about, it was her insecurity. And in some ways that made her a stronger person than I’ll ever be.
    Outwardly, I don’t whine.
    Outwardly, sticks and stones don’t break my bones.
    Inwardly, I’m worse than Holden Caulfield.
    I try to shake myself out of my thoughts and into the real world, but it’s like there’s a barrier between my body and my soul and the air. Detached, I’m so detached.
    And I look at the hay, and I can’t help but think of straw floating up around me like a lazily blown kiss. The rush of the wind and the roar of my memories. I want to walk down this road. I want to retrieve