Looking for Alaska

doesn't turn you on, Pudge.\" I couldn't. She laughed. It was fine,she said. Healthy. And then she got up,stopped the tape, lay down on herstomach across the couch, and mumbledsomething. \"What did you say?\" I asked,walking to her, putting my hand on thesmall of her back. \"Shhhh,\" she said. \"I'm sleeping.\" Just like that. From a hundred milesan hour to asleep in a nanosecond. Iwanted so badly to lie down next to heron the couch, to wrap my arms aroundher and sleep. Not fuck, like in thosemovies. Not even have sex. Just sleeptogether, in the most innocent sense ofthe phrase. But I lacked the courage and

she had a boyfriend and I was gawkyand she was gorgeous and I washopelessly boring and she was endlesslyfascinating. So I walked back to myroom and collapsed on the bottom bunk,thinking that if people were rain, I wasdrizzle and she was a hurricane.

forty-seven days before On Wednesday morning,I woke upwith a stuffy nose to an entirely newAlabama, a crisp and cold one. As Iwalked to Alaska's room that morning,the frosty grass of the dorm circlecrunched beneath my shoes. You don'trun into frost much in Florida — and Ijumped up and down like I was stompingon bubble wrap. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Alaska was holding a burning greencandle in her hand upside down,dripping the wax onto a larger,homemade volcano that looked a bit like

a Technicolor middle-school-science-project volcano. \"Don't burn yourself,\" I said as theflame crept up toward her hand. \"Night falls fast. Today is in thepast,\" she said without looking up. \"Wait, I've read that before. What isthat?\" I asked. With her free hand, she grabbed abook and tossed it toward me. It landedat my feet. \"Poem,\" she said. \"Edna St. Vincent Millay. You've read that?I'm stunned.\" \"Oh, I read her biography! Didn'thave her last words in it, though. I was alittle bitter. All I remember is that shehad a lot of sex.\" \"I know. She's my hero,\" Alaska said

without a trace of irony. I laughed, butshe didn't notice. \"Does it seem at allodd to you that you enjoy biographies ofgreat writers a lot more than you enjoytheir actual writing?\" \"Nope!\" I announced. \"Just becausethey were interesting people doesn'tmean I care to hear their musings onnighttime.\" \"It's about depression, dumb-ass.\" \"Oooooh, really? Well, jeez, then it'sbrilliant,\" I answered. She sighed. \"All right. The snowmay be falling in the winter of mydiscontent, but at least I've got sarcasticcompany. Sit down, will ya?\" I sat down next to her with my legs

crossed and our knees touching. Shepulled a clear plastic crate filled withdozens of candles out from underneathher bed. She looked at it for a moment,then handed me a white one and alighter. We spent all morning burningcandles — well, and occasionallylighting cigarettes off the burningcandles after we stuffed a towel into thecrack at the bottom of her door. Over thecourse of two hours, we added a fullfoot to the summit of her polychromecandle volcano. \"Mount St. Helens on acid,\" she saidAt 12:30, after two hours of me beggingfor a ride to McDonald's, Alaskadecided it was time for lunch. As we