This is Not the End by Chandler Baker

Author:Chandler Baker
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Disney Book Group
Published: 2017-09-11T04:00:00+00:00

I wake up sore and hours before dawn. The scabs on my wrist are stiff beneath the bandages. Mom didn’t come in to check on me after the shiva. I wonder if she’s mad that I yelled at her. Dad came to sit on the edge of my bed last night. He stroked my hair while I pretended to be asleep and cried into my pillow. He might have known I was bluffing.

The black outside is still thick. I was dreaming about Will coming back to me. He would give Penny a eulogy at her real funeral, one that would be funny and bittersweet and would make people laugh and cry in exactly the right places. He would shower me with flowers and thoughtful cards. Maybe we’d get married after college and have Maddie over for sleepovers with her friends.

Even at night, I feel the minutes ticking by—tick, tick, tick—leading up to my eighteenth birthday. I pull my bare feet underneath me and stand up. Sleep is out of the question.

Propped beside my mirror, I spot the ignored envelope.

“‘Clue Number Two,’” I read softly to myself, pinching the edges between my thumb and forefinger. I’ve been saving it, holding onto the untouched seal, scared to open it. I press it to my chest. I promised Matt I wouldn’t open it without him. But it’s late.

Quietly, I push open the door to my bedroom and pad down the hallway. I’ve always thought that the ocean sounds louder at night. Here, it thunders through the walls when I pass by the great room. Through one of the windows I can just make out the ghostly form of the jetty marker, cast in gray by the nighttime that is punctured by a spray of stars.

I tread through the house, the floor cool against my toes. At Matt’s door I raise my fist to knock. He’ll be sleeping at this hour. I hesitate, then slowly turn the knob and tiptoe inside.

“Who’s there?” The question is instantaneous.

I freeze. For a moment, I consider creeping back out the way I came without saying a word. It’s not like he could follow me.

“It’s me.” My voice rasps. “Lake. Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” I slink farther into the room until I’m standing at the foot of his bed.

His eyes gleam in the darkness, staring straight up at the ceiling. “You didn’t.”

“It’s the middle of the night, Matt.”

“Aren’t you observant.”

“I just mean—”

“You just mean what am I doing staring at the ceiling in the middle of the night when I’m supposed to be sleeping? Well, Lake, this might surprise you, but my days aren’t exactly filled with the sort of stimulation that tuckers me out and sends me crawling to bed exhausted but satisfied from a hard day’s work. But after Mom and Dad are sick of me, they put me to bed. Once I wake up, here I am till morning. And, since you asked, it doesn’t help that now the sole purpose of my

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