Free Down With the Shine by Kate Karyus Quinn Page A

you’re gonna do that? It’s kinda freaking me out.”
    “Can’t,” Smith throws over his shoulder. “It’s an impulse. Just do it. You know?”
    I roll my eyes, but don’t respond because we are climbing the stairs and as soon as my foot hits the first step my whole body gets Jell-O shaky. At the top of the stairs, we both walk as softly as possible across the creaky hardwood floors until we come to a stop outside Dyl’s closed bedroom door.
    Smith exhales a long, shaky breath before lifting his non-bloodied left hand up and softly tapping his knuckles against the door.
    “You’re knocking?” I whisper.
    “Yes,” he hisses back. “We always knock. You don’t barge into someone’s room without—”
    Ignoring Smith, I turn the knob and walk right in. Dyl’s room is unchanged from the last time I was here. The same mixture of posters and rough charcoal drawings cover the walls. Clothes are strewn everywhere except for the corner where her record player and several messy piles of vinyl take over.
    I finally turn my attention to Dyl’s bed. She always tried to be so tough, so hard. Hair dyed in various color streaks, most recently a mixture of white blond and purpley black. Spiked piercings in her lips and brow and ears. Dark red lipstick, heavy black eyeliner, and chipped black and blue nail polish. She sometimes wore the preppy clothes her mom bought, but only after attacking them with bleachand sandpaper and who knows what else, until they were completely her own right down to the homemade labels she’d sew on that read, Screw You Clothing.
    So you’d think Dyl’s bed would be something with leather and nailhead accents or, on the opposite end, a little more boho, like a simple mattress on the floor covered with a heap of mismatched quilts. Instead, it’s this magical white iron canopy bed, covered with a ruffly comforter and about twenty pillows of all shapes and sizes. Once when we were really drunk, Dyl told me the bed made her feel like a princess in a fairy tale, waiting for her prince to wake her with a kiss. I’d started laughing, certain it was a joke, and only realized it wasn’t when she went stomping from the room.
    Heart pounding, mouth dry, I take one step closer and then another and another until I am beside the bed and looking down at my best friend, sleeping peacefully beneath the covers.
    My eyes fill with tears and Dyl blurs but does not disappear. This horrible choked sound gurgles from somewhere inside me as my legs give out and I flop to the floor.
    Smith rushes over from where he’s been hovering in the hallway. “What? What?”
    He stumbles to a halt beside me, and I peer up at him. It’s impossible to get a good look at his face from this angle,but when I hear him choke out her name, his voice cracked and broken and raw, I look away, lowering my gaze to the nail polish stains on the rug. This is way too personal a moment for me to witness. Uncertain if my legs will hold me, I’m ready to crawl out on my hands and knees to give him some privacy, when Smith turns and bolts from the room. I listen to the sound of his feet pounding down the stairs, and then there is only silence.
    I pull myself up, just enough to see Dyl again, to confirm I didn’t imagine her. And there she is. Curled up small, face buried deep in her pillow and covers pulled up to her nose.
    Dyl in her bed. Alive. Exactly the way I’d wished she would be.
    Except why isn’t she waking up? Smith and I haven’t exactly been quiet.
    I lean in closer, suddenly afraid that only half the wish was granted. I mean, bringing someone back to life is way bigger than steel balls or an itching need to hold someone’s hand. I stop breathing, listening for one of Dyl’s. No matter how I strain, I can’t detect the slightest sigh or inhalation.
    Trembling, I slide my hand beneath the blankets and rest two fingers against the side of Dyl’s neck. Her skin is warm to the touch, which is reassuring, and after shiftingmy