Page 86 of Styx & Stones

“What?”

“That’s not all,” Dean shouts, as if he’s in the middle of a Coachella crowd. The noise in the background is deafening. “I don’t know if you know this, but she had a lot of fans.”

“Yeah, she did,” I say, choking back the lump in my throat.

And I was her biggest.

Tears fall from my lashes, and my mom sits on the edge of my bed, stroking my back. I don’t have the heart to tell her that it hurts. Everything hurts now—a side effect of chemo, sepsis, and maybe even a broken heart.

“They’re all here, man. We’re just waiting for you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just get down here,” he says and hangs up before I can ask any more questions.

***

Mom parks the car halfa block from the alley, and Dad helps me into a chair they rented from the hospital. I can still walk, but not without a lot of pain and not without expending a hell of a lot of energy—something I have very little of these days.

I don’t have any idea what Dean was talking about, but as we get closer to Clarion, it becomes apparent that it’s busier than your usual Saturday morning. Like three-hundred-people busier. Individuals move aside to let us pass and a cheer goes up from the crowd as I’m wheeled through it.

Dean stands on the scaffolding they usually put up when they repaint the alley. He holds a loudspeaker in his hand and smiles down at me. “Alright, people, listen up. Now that our guest of honor is here, I wanna take a moment to thank you all for coming.”

“What the hell are you doing?” I shout, but he just grins. “I had the absolute pleasure of watching Alaska Stone work in this alley. And this guy”—he points to me—“is the one who made it all possible.”

Another cheer goes up, and I glance at the faces around me, spotting familiar smiles in the crowd: Harley, Carissa, Jan, Wan, and several other people from our chemo sessions. Alaska’s friends from school, my neighbor, Joe, and Uncle Carlos. Even Mr. and Mrs. Stone are here. Everyone.

I shake my head. “I don’t understand what the hell is going on.”

“Alaska wasn’t just a gifted artist; she was an awesome kid. I felt smarter just standing next to her, and though she was taken way too soon, she’ll never be forgotten. So, does everyone have their spray cans ready?”

A collective “yeah” comes from the crowd.

“Then put your masks on and get fucking tagging. Write whatever you want, to Alaska, to Styx, to someone you might have lost from this shitty illness.” Dean jumps from the scaffolding and greets my mom and dad, then he holds his hand out to me for a fist bump. A woman gives him a spray can and paper mask, which he offers to me. “Hey, man. We’ve got a special spot over here for you.”

Mom leans down and whispers, “Told you that you’d want to take that call.”

Dean leads the way, quickly getting lost in the crowd as Dad eases my wheelchair through the tight spaces between bodies. “Did you do this?” Dad asks.

“No.” She smiles down at me. “This was all Dean. Alaska made an impression on everyone she met.”

“Yes, she did.”

“We were really lucky to know her.”

“Yeah,” I sniff back tears.

“But she was lucky too,” Mom says. “She was lucky she had you in her last few months.”

I’m not sure that’s true, but I smile up at my mom anyway because I can’t stand the thought of her seeing the anguish reflected in my gaze. She squeezes my shoulder and I put my hand over hers and squeeze back. I ignore the way her face blanches when she realizes how weak I am.

We finally catch up to Dean and he pulls a sheet off the wall. I glance up at the mural Alaska painted.

It’s of me, and of her. We’re locked in an embrace—I’m a punk-rock angel with bright blue wings tucked in against my back, and she’s a blue-haired queen with a broken crown.

I stand in front of the piece and stare up at the beauty of it. Of her. Of us. Through my tears, it blurs, the colors running together in a neon swirl.

“It’s all yours, man,” Dean says and steps aside. I glance at the wall and then at the people around us—friends, fans, strangers, and loved ones, all gathered for one girl.

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