Born Losers

7.

October 30
76 weeks before
10:02 p.m.

The Smiths were depressing as shit.

The summer he'd gone hard-core nerd for Edgar Allan Poe, August had also, in a fit of teenage angst, painted his bedroom walls black. Looking back he could only assume that he was trying to prove something about his intellect, but the only thing he'd wound up proving was that a room with black walls was eerily similar to a black hole, in that anything he brought into the room, including light, faced an uphill battle in ever getting back out.

To counterbalance the fact that no overhead light, lamp, or window could provide enough illumination to make his room look like anything other than an especially morbid jail cell, Paisley had strung Christmas lights all around the crown moulding at the top, with the result being that his face rippled with multi-colored swirls as August lay on top of his bed and looked at Spotify in disgust.

Deep in the cell of my heart I really want to go.

I just might die with a smile on my face after all.

I know it's over and it never really began.

"What the hell," he muttered as he clicked on one song after another and found himself craning his neck to look out his window even though it faced away from Em's house, even though she was two miles away, even though it was pitch black outside and pitch black inside, and why, exactly, did her favorite song involve the chorus "to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die"?

It was yet another thing that made him re-evaluate what, exactly, he found so fascinating about her. Sure, she was cute, and smart, and she had this way of cutting her eyes to the side before she laughed that sent a xylophone trill down the base of his spine. He even liked the way she dressed like there'd been a fire sale on Levi jeans and shirts the color of winter frost, and how her hair always looked like she'd spent less than half a second throwing it up.

He liked that she was honest about so many things, and evaded the same questions so faithfully, but seriously?

Click: I'm hoping for an early death and I need to cling to something.

Paisley had been so sweet when they'd started dating: honestly funny and unpretentious despite her good looks and her daddy's money. She could have been the kind of girl who ruled her high school kingdom with an iron fist and the flirt of her cornflower eyes, but she smiled often and had a huge heart, and figuring out the ins and outs of a relationship had been so easy with her, both of them willing to laugh at themselves and each other as they explored and perfected.

He'd had a crush on her since sixth grade, Valentine's Day. For reasons no one had ever cared to explain, the week leading up to the holiday, the Student Council sold roses for a dollar, to be delivered throughout the day by girls dressed up in glittery tutus and Cupid wings.

Paisley had had an armful by lunch: peach and ivory and burgundy and blush-tipped, a dozen other shades and twirls of color.

When the last bell rang, he and Quinn had walked out of eighth period together and found Paisley strolling out alongside them, her slender legs tan beneath her pink skirt. Her brown leather tote bag was looped over her chest, but her hands were empty.

"What did you do with all your flowers?" August had asked her, more out of boredom than true curiosity. Paisley ran with a completely different crowd, hadn't spared him a thought since kindergarten, but when she glanced at him with those twinkling sky-blue eyes, her silky hair cool-kissed where it brushed his arm, he'd found himself leaning forward despite himself.

"They love her," she said, and her smile grew. She passed them by, and when August looked at Quinn, baffled, Quinn rolled her eyes.

"She must be trying to do good deeds to get into Heaven or something," Quinn had said with mild disgust. "You know Mika Jones?"