Free Luna by Julie Anne Peters

wave as she wriggled back onto her stool. Her lab partner was Hoyt Doucet. No wonder she was stealing mine.
    When had Hoyt become a member of TWM? Shannon’s standards had taken a plunge.
    The bell rang, jolting me back to my destiny. “Are we done?” Chris asked.
    “I am.” I filled in the solution to the absolute zero equation and thrust the lab report at him. “All you have to do is sign it.”
    He scribbled his name next to mine. Regan O’Neill. Chris Garazzo. I imagined a plus sign between them. Which confirmed my unstable state of emotional delirium. As Chris rushed around to clean up our station, I hustled to the front to turn in our paper.
    On the way out I made a mental deposit in the hazardous waste receptacle. Disposed of any dreams I might’ve had of us hooking up.
    When I got home, Liam’s bedroom door was closed. I wondered how he’d spent the day, if he’d even bothered with school. Considering how my day went, I should’ve blown it off, too.
    A wave of music washed up from under Liam’s door. Then singing. My heart stopped. Dana International. Oh my God.
    Pounding the door. “Liam.”
    He can’t hear because he’s got his CD amped up to earsplitting volume. Dana International, this Israeli singer I can’t stand. Liam idolizes her.
    I knock again. “Liam!”
    When he doesn’t answer, I do the unthinkable. I barge in.
    First thing I see are the pill bottles. A row lined up neatly along the edge of his bookshelf. They’re Mom’s; they have to be. I’m thirteen and I already know my mom’s a popper.
    But that’s not what freaks me. The bottles are all empty.
    “Liam?” I punch off the music. “Liam!”
    “What?”
    His voice is faint, but it’s a voice. I run toward it, to the closet. He’s huddled in the corner dressed in his football uniform. I rush over and grab his arm; try to wrench him to his feet.
    He resists. He buries his head between his kneepads and mumbles, “Leave me alone.”
    “No.”
    “Go away.”
    “Come on.” The panic registers in my voice. “You have to throw up.”
    He goes limp. He doesn’t budge. My first impulse is to kick him, so I do.
    “Ow!” He scoots further into the closet. “Why’d you do that?”
    I fall to my knees and clench his shoulders; start to shake him. “You have to throw up, Liam. I won’t let you die!” This comes out a screech, which makes him raise his head and look at me. His eyes are
    already dead.
    “Liam. Lia Marie. Please.” My eyes well with tears. “Please.”
    His left hand reaches out and snags the football helmet beside him. He holds it up to me by the faceguard. Inside is a mound of pills. Blue, purple, orange, white.
    “I can’t do it,” Liam says. “I can’t even do it. I can’t do anything right. I’m wrong. All wrong.”
    “No, you’re not.” I feel so relieved I throw my arms around him.
    “Please, Re.” He clasps my wrists and pulls me away. “I wasn’t meant to be born.” He transfers the helmet to my right hand. “Help me die. Pour these down my throat, okay?” He pleads urgently, “Please?”
    My fingers grip the faceguard. I straighten up and charge for the bathroom. I flush all the pills down the toilet. I flush it over and over and over until all the pills have dissolved, disappeared. Then I crumple to the floor and rest my forehead against the toilet bowl. And cry. Just cry. For my brother. Liam. God, Liam.
    After a few minutes, I leave the helmet in the bathroom and return to Liam. He’s perched on the edge of his bare mattress, the shoulder pads heaped on the floor at his feet. He’s already kicked off the cleats.
    “You don’t have to play football,” I inform him. “Just because Dad’s coaching doesn’t mean you have to play. Why did you tell him you wanted to? You hate football.”
    Liam’s eyes bore holes through the blank wall.
    “Liam —”
    “You wouldn’t understand.” His eyelashes glisten. He blinks and a tear overflows the rim. I reach to wipe it away;