Emmy Laybourne

“Nuestro padre le había enseñado a analizar las cosas que temía.Así que ir de trato o truco con él, cuando era pequeño, era como escuchar una reunión de información técnica: —Eso no es una bruja de verdad, es una figura de plástico con luces LED para los ojos y una pista pregrabada de chirridos.Esas no son tumbas reales, sino que son de PVC moldeadas en forma de lápidas, con frases espeluznantes escritas por un escritor de bromas. Esos no son verdaderos demonios que vienen por la calle, esos son los chicos de laescuela secundaria vestidos con trajes que consiguieron en Walgreens o tal vez por medio de un pedido en línea...Y todo el tiempo Alex había apretado mi mano, como si le ofreciera el último vínculo con la cordura. Me había gustado ser su protector, el que le hiciera sentirse seguro.Razón por la cual me sentía aún peor por haberlo atacado.”

“Night came and fell hard.Not like God drawing a blanket over our landBut like someone snuffing a candle.Sudden and total.Out—just like that.Now we are waiting.Waiting in the darkTo see if someoneWill switch on the light.We can cower,We can fear,We can get lost together orGet lost alone.But the truth is:I am the light. You are the light.We are lit up together.We are silhouettes of sunlightcast against the night.Shining now, let usShining, hold the light,Shining, so that our familiesCan find us.Shining.”

“My mom believed that you make your own luck. Over the stove she had hung these old, maroon painted letters that spell out, “MANIFEST.” The idea being if you thought and dreamed about the way you wanted your life to be -- if you just envisioned it long enough, it would come into being.But as hard as I had manifested Astrid Heyman with her hand in mine, her blue eyes gazing into mine, her lips whispering something wild and funny and outrageous in my ear, she had remained totally unaware of my existence. Truly, to even dream of dreaming about Astrid, for a guy like me, in my relatively low position on the social ladder of Cheyenne Mountain High, was idiotic. And with her a senior and me a junior? Forget it. Astrid was just lit up with beauty: shining blonde ringlets, June sky blue eyes, slightly furrowed brow, always biting back a smile, champion diver on the swim team. Olympic level. Hell, Astrid was Olympic level in every possible way.”

“Your mother hollers that you’re going to miss the bus. She can see it coming down the street. You don’t stop and hug her and tell her you love her. You don’t thank her for being a good, kind, patient mother. Of course not -- you vault down down the stairs and make a run for the corner.Only if it’s the last time you’ll ever see your mother, you sort of start to wish you’d stopped and did those things. Maybe even missed the bus.But the bus was barreling down our street so I ran.”