Liv, Forever by Amy Talkington

black hole. All of a sudden I realized I hadn’t been playing hard-to-get; I was nervous. Really, really massively nervous. What if he’d had a change of heart? What if he’d gotten back together with his girlfriend—he must have one, right?—and he was just coming over to tell me about her. What if it was Abigail? What if he’d been drunk or on drugs that night? What if he actually had liked me, but when he approached he realized I was not pretty after all? Or if, when we spoke, he realized I was not all that interesting? Or, worst of all, what if he’d realized I was untalented and he hated my art?
    In my peripheral vision, I could see him drawing closer—a blurry apparition in a polo shirt and blazer—but I kept looking down, eyes glued to my iPhone as if I didn’t have a clue he was there. Eventually he got so close, he could see the weather page.
    “What’s the high for today?”
    Busted. I wasn’t even looking at the numbers, so it took me a second to read the temperature and reply, “Sixty eight and
not
humid. For a change.”
    “Perfect,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for this day.”
    “Oh, have you? Why?”
    “Headmaster Holiday is an unexpected day off. Happens twice a year. No obligations—no homework, no practice, no pressure. A day when you couldn’t
possibly
say you were too busy.”
    I gave him a “don’t be so sure” look, but he just smiled, almost daring me to say it. I didn’t. So, he put out his hand. I hesitated.
    “Consider it a military mission,” he said sneakily. “Two spies in enemy territory. A covert action operation. Must proceed incognito.”
    I joined the game immediately, peering around with narrowed eyes. I noticed Abigail, still watching us. I raised my eyebrows, gesturing to Malcolm that a rival was nearby. We grabbed hands, slinked through the gabbing students, and slipped right out those big Gothic doors.
    As we hurried across campus, Malcolm let go of my hand and took out his iPod. He clicked it on and then handed it to me. A playlist called Liv, Forever was cued up.
    “I made it for you. Obviously.”
    “Hate to tell you, but I’m not going to,” I said, masterfully concealing my shock and delight.
    “Not going to what?”
    “Live forever.”
    “Your art will. That means you will, too.”
    “You really talk big.”
    “It’s your fault, Liv Bloom,” he smiled. “Your epic name brings it out in me.”
    We kept walking. We took a trail behind some dorms. I began to wonder where Malcolm was leading me. He wouldn’t say. We were alone. I heard Ms. Benson’s voice echoing in my head—those strange words of warning:
Keep your eyes open and be safe. Don’t find yourself alone at night.
But it was daytime. And I wasn’t alone.
    “So, are you gonna play it?”
    Oh, yeah. The iPod.
“Yes,” I said as I glanced at the playlist. There was Nirvana, The Velvet Underground, Arcade Fire, Bon Iver, Fleet Foxes, Bright Eyes. Even The xx.
    “Not exactly what I expected.”
    “What did you expect?”
    “Something more like
you
, I guess.”
    “What am I?”
    “An Astor?” I said iffily, quoting him. “Whatever that means.”
    “Music is something I can control. It’s one place where I can do what I want. Listen to what I want. It’s invisible, so no one else can contain it.”
    “No one can control your thoughts, either,” I said.
    “That doesn’t stop them from trying. But you’re right. And they can’t control what I read or the art I like. I guessthat’s why I’m so into all that stuff. They can make me do certain things, but they can’t make me who I am.”
    I nodded. I thought I understood, but I didn’t really. I didn’t know what it meant to be an Astor or what it felt like for someone to expect something from you. And who were “they” anyway? I really needed to Google “Astor.” A normal person would’ve done that already. But part of me wanted to learn who he was the old-fashioned way, and part of me didn’t want to know