by Anna Carey
As we walked inside, I stared at the back of Amber’s Kipling bag. The tiny monkey swung back and forth with each step. It hadn’t even been a week since that thing had fallen out of her backpack, and she’d made all these excuses, trying to explain it away. I still couldn’t get a straight answer from either of them about what it was.
And she thought I was the one being weird?
14
You can feel when people have been talking about you. After fourth period the air was thick with it, and everywhere I went someone stared at me just a half second too long, or gave me one of those conciliatory, pressed-lip smiles. I had History second period and I’d made the mistake of talking to Mrs. Chen as the bell rang, the class scrambling to find their seats. Someone must’ve overheard what I’d said, because the news had spread like lice.
It just seemed like another drama for kids to play out. They picked their roles and created storylines that weren’t there. Poor Jess Flynn, did you hear about her sister? Or I know their family, our moms are friends. Sara hasn’t left her room in months. There’s nothing like tragedy to reveal the grossest sides of people.
I spun through my locker combo, trying to ignore Deiondre Matthews, a senior who played the clarinet. His locker was a few down and he kept glancing over, giving me this deep, sympathetic stare, like he was hoping to get my attention. I tugged hard on the lock and it popped open. Our school only had half-sized lockers, otherwise I might’ve crawled inside and stayed there.
Scott Wolf gazed out from the collage on the locker’s back wall. Kristen and Amber decorated the inside of it for my birthday, and it had really just become a Scott Wolf shrine, which I tried to pretend was ironic. There were magazine pictures of him from Party of Five and White Squall, and Teen Beat posters of him smiling that dimpled smile. A paper dialogue bubble by one said I LOVE YOU, JESSICA FLYNN.
“Jess, there you are. I’ve been looking for you.”
Patrick Kramer was walking toward me. Unless I stuffed everything in my locker and sprinted in the opposite direction, there was no way to avoid this.
“Patrick, hey. I was actually just leaving. Don’t want to be late for lunch.”
“Lunch?”
Then he was right next to me. I angled the locker door so he wouldn’t see the Scott Wolf collage. “Yeah, the early bird gets the…I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“I heard about your sister. I’m really sorry.”
He put his hand on my shoulder and I was trapped. He wasn’t going to leave until I said something.
“Thanks. I really should go, though.”
“I’m here for you if you want to talk.”
“That’s okay, I don’t want to talk.”
Not to you, I thought.
He leaned down so his face was inches from mine and stared out from under a thick curtain of black lashes. His hair had a natural wave to it, and his complexion was smooth and bright. He looked like he’d stepped out of a J.Crew catalog.
“You don’t have to go through this alone,” he said.
He was hoping I’d open up, reveal how hard it had all been—that this would be the moment we finally bonded. But instead I smiled and said, “Okay, thanks, Patrick.”
I put my hand over his hand, then slipped it off my shoulder. The hall was clearing out and there was no easy way to escape him, so I just closed my locker and started walking away. It wasn’t until I was outside, cutting across the school’s back lawn, that I was sure I was free.
* * *
Upperclassmen could go off campus for lunch, but there were really only two choices—McDonald’s or Jerry’s, this pizza place with an owner who was five hundred years old and spit when he talked. I went through the break in the chain-link fence and over a few strip malls to TCBY, because I was pretty sure no one would be there. That, and because frozen yogurt has great healing properties, like vitamin C or homemade chicken noodle soup. It’s a fact.
For some reason Chris Arnold, Amber’s ex, was working behind the counter. I felt bad for him. He was so tall he always hunched forward, like he was trying to make himself shrink to fit the space.
“You work here?” I asked. “What happened to the curly-haired guy?”
“I just started,” he said. “He uh…got the flu. He’s still real sick.”
“But don’t you have to go to class? It’s the middle of the school day.”
“Yeah, it’s this new part-time thing where you can work during your lunch hour. I actually combined it with my study hall so now I work two periods straight, then after school.”
Was that even legal? I wanted to ask him more but the door jingled open behind me. I braced myself to see Kristen and Amber, or the cheerleading squad, or worse—Patrick Kramer. But when I turned around it was Tyler. He tucked both his thumbs under his backpack straps, pulling them away from his chest.
“Did you follow me?” I asked.
“Maybe.”
He put his backpack on a table by the door. Before I knew it I was hugging him, my face buried in his sweatshirt. I felt normal for the first time all day.
“You heard then.”
“I heard, yeah. How are you doing?”
Horrible. I feel like everyone’s talking about it. I’m terrified she won’t wake up. Part of me wants to be at the hospital, and part of me wants to be at school, because the hospital is the most depressing place, consumed by third-circle-of-hell-level waiting.
“I’m okay,” I said instead.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Fine, I’m miserable. Everything feels off.”
“Do you want to see her? I could drive you to the hospital.”
“I can’t go back there right now.”
We stood facing each other, an aggressively cheerful Backstreet Boys song blasting over the radio. He dug his hands deep into the pocket of his sweatshirt and shrugged, like he wasn’t sure what to say. I wanted to hug him again but I didn’t know how.
“You were going to eat TCBY for lunch?” he asked.
“Don’t say it with so much judgment.”
“No, no! It’s a good choice, considering the circumstances. But we could also go to my house and I could make us grilled cheese sandwiches. It’s kind of my specialty.”
“You’re suggesting we cut?” I raised my eyebrows.
Tyler glanced around the dingy, tiled room. Chris was trying to transfer rainbow sprinkles from a two-gallon jug into a plastic dish that was obviously too small. Half of them scattered across the floor. He seemed too preoccupied to notice what I’d said.
“Yeah, I’m suggesting that. Don’t say it with so much judgment.”
I smiled and slipped past him, racing him to the door. He maneuvered around me and got there first, putting his hands on the doorframe to block my way. I tried to squeeze through the narrow space, but everywhere I went he threw up his knee or moved his hip and penned me in. It took me punching him in the side before we broke off, laughing.
* * *
In the entire history of our friendship, I’d only been to Tyler’s house a handful of times, and we’d mainly stayed in the backyard. Whenever we hung out, it was usually at my house or during school, when we’d sit at the picnic tables outside the cafeteria. After his mom got remarried I stopped suggesting it, because his cheeks would immediately do that red splotchy thing, and he’d fumble out an um, uh, there’s nothing to do there. He didn’t need to explain it. I knew he’d tried to be out as much as possible, that his stepdad’s mere presence was enough to make him nervous. Craig had once called him a loser for getting a B on a math test.
“My not-so-secret secret ingredient is a tomato slice,” he said, plopping one down on top of the cheese and bread. He slid the whole sandwich onto the pan and we waited, watching as it sizzled against the heat.
“I’ve never had the Ty Scruggs signature grilled cheese. To
day is a big day.”
The place was different than I’d remembered it. The living room had two floral sofas and was barely decorated except for the fireplace, which had a Buddha statue and candles. In front of it was a meditation spot for Ty’s mom, with a circular pillow on the floor and a pile of burnt incense. She taught at Om Yoga on River Street.
“You know my dad’s talking about tearing down the treehouse?” I said.
Ty froze, holding the spatula in midair. “He can’t. That place is a national monument. It would be like destroying Mount Rushmore.”
“He’s says the wood’s all rotted. That it’s becoming a safety hazard.”
“But we were just up there a month ago when we watched Pulp Fiction. It seemed fine.”
“That’s what I said. Sara tried to lay a guilt trip on him, like it was an attack on her childhood. Remember when she used to crush us in Monopoly? She was like, eight, and she was already smarter than us.”
Tyler pressed the sandwich down with the spatula. He didn’t look at me when he spoke. “I don’t want to say I understand what you’re going through, because I don’t. I’m just sorry. About everything.”
“You didn’t do it,” I said, letting out a low laugh.
Tyler turned his back to me as he opened a cabinet and pulled out plates. There were only four of everything inside—four plates, four mugs, four bowls. The upper shelves were empty. I swiveled around on the kitchen stool. The fridge didn’t have a single magnet on it—no photos, no calendar pinned in place. The bookcase had a few vases and a framed picture of a sunset, but I didn’t remember it feeling so bare.
“You guys don’t really have any photos out…”
He just shrugged. “We’re not big photo people.”
“Where do you keep your drum set?” I asked.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. Something strange happened…one of the stands got messed up, so I took them to this special music guy to fix them.” He pushed one of the plates across the counter at me. The sandwich sat in two perfect halves, the cheese oozing over the edge of the bread.
“It’s not just the stuff with Sara…” I picked up the sandwich, holding it like a prop. “This thing happened last night with Fuller. With my dog. He was acting weird, and I know how this is going to sound…but it wasn’t him. There’s this dog in my house, but it’s not Fuller.”
I hadn’t meant it to be a test, not really, but his reaction scared me. His cheeks flushed. He kept his eyes down, and when he finally spoke, his voice was pitchy and strained. “That is really weird. That doesn’t sound right?”
“And two different mornings I woke up and heard people yelling, like chanting or something. Amber and Kristen keep acting like everything is completely normal, like I’m the one who’s being weird. It’s like I don’t even know them anymore. Everything feels off.”
Tyler chewed the first bite of sandwich, not saying anything until he’d swallowed it down. He pushed around some crumbs on the plate with the tip of his finger. “I really do care about you, Jess.”
“Um…I know?”
Why was he saying that now, when I hadn’t even been talking about us? Sara being sick had nothing to do with him. And why would he feel bad if Fuller was replaced, if I’d heard something strange?
Why was he acting like we were over before we’d even begun?
“I really do,” he repeated.
He covered my hand with his hand, and I didn’t have the sweet, buzzy feeling I used to. Everything in me went cold. I tried to smile and tilt my head to one side, like it was the same as it had always been between us, but I didn’t feel it. Something was wrong.
Tyler leaned in and put his other palm against my cheek. Then his lips pressed down on mine. We only kissed for a few seconds before I pulled away, trying to fake a smile, because I was worried he’d already felt my hand shaking under his.
He leaned in so his lips were next to my ear, his head resting on mine. His breath was hot on my skin.
“Let’s go sit on the couch,” he whispered. “Come on.”
“I need a minute,” I said, stepping back. Then I turned and walked across the kitchen. I tried to keep my breaths steady as I went down the stairs to the bathroom.
15
The stillness of the bathroom was dizzying. I double-checked the lock and opened the medicine cabinet, already suspecting what I’d find. There wasn’t a single toothbrush or bottle of Tylenol. At home, our bathrooms were filled with years’ worth of junk. Half-empty tubes of hand cream and old mascaras and Snoopy Band-Aids. I knelt in front of Tyler’s sink and checked the cabinet, but it was empty, too. No plunger, no hair dryer. Not even an extra roll of toilet paper. I ran my fingers along each of the empty shelves.
What the fuck was going on?
“Jess? You okay? You need anything?”
Tyler was right outside the door. There was no trash can or hand towel. The metal bar beside the sink was bare. I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself, then opened the door and let him inside.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice low and quiet. “You’re scaring me.”
I locked the door and stood in front of it, blocking his way out. If he’d looked nervous before, it was even worse now. His arms were crossed tight against his chest like it was twenty degrees.
“You don’t have anything in your medicine cabinet,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.
“Oh, yeah, we don’t really use this bathroom. Why?”
“So if I went upstairs right now, and I checked the other bathroom, the medicine cabinet would be full?”
He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then let out a low laugh.
“Why are you so obsessed with my medicine cabinet?” he asked. “That’s weird, Jess. You shouldn’t be looking in there.”
“There’s not a single photo in your entire house,” I said.
“We’re not really picture people. Come on, we shouldn’t even be talking about this.”
“This? What do you mean, this?”
He reached for the faucet and twisted it on. The tiled room filled with the sound of rushing water. For a few seconds we just stood there and watched it, how it pooled above the drain.
We were alone, in an empty house, and he was worried someone could hear us. Why else would he do that? Why else would he let the faucet run?
“There’s a this,” I finally said.
“Yeah, I guess?”
He ran his fingers up under his bangs and brushed away a thin layer of sweat. He was cringing as he spoke, as if it physically hurt him to say the words.
“Have you ever wondered about the nature of reality?” I asked. “That’s what my old guitar teacher asked me once. He was acting weird, and he wanted to know if I thought there was something more to this. To my life, to Swickley. Lately I’ve been wondering…I think he was trying to warn me.”
“You sound—”
“Right?”
Tyler stepped to one side, but I met him there. He tried to maneuver around me but I pressed my back against the door.
“Every year, right around March, I get this horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach, because I know something is coming. Every single year, it feels like everything is building toward this catastrophe I’m never able to avoid. Eighth-grade Sara was diagnosed with Guignard’s. Then the following year the town was hit by the tornado. Sophomore year our house was broken into. And now…what? Sara’s going to die? Is that’s what’s going to happen? That’s what everything’s building up to this year?”
“I can’t talk to you about this, it’s…I just can’t.” He clasped his hands together, and he seemed panicked now. “Let’s just go back outside and finish our sandwiches. I can’t have this conversation. Please.”
“If you don’t tell me what’s going on in three seconds…” I said. “I’m going to run out there and say I
know. I’m going to yell that you told me—”
“Jesus, Jess!” He held the side of his head like he’d just been struck with a brick. “Lower your voice. They’ll hear you,” he whispered.
I stared at him, and my whole body went cold.
“Who is they?” I whispered.
Tyler twisted on the other knob of the faucet, doubling the sound. There was a long, stiff silence, and then he finally spoke.
“The producers.” he said it quietly, as if that meant something to me. “They hide the cameras and mics in all sorts of things—mirrors, computers, chalkboards, streetlights. They’ve planted mics in bushes and on trees. I think there’s one on your backpack.”
“What do you mean? Producers?”
“They’re the ones in charge of everything. Everything’s being recorded, all the time. Except, you know…not in here. Not in bathrooms. I think they decided the audience doesn’t need to see every single thing.” He smirked.
“What for? They’re making…?”
He bit on the side of his nail, working at the cuticle. “They record hours of footage, all day long, then they edit it into this two-hour long show. It’s aired every single night, for an audience. People watch it on TV, on their devices, whatever. When we go back outside we’ll be on camera again.”
He studied me, waiting for my reaction. He’d said it all so simply, like, yeah, those persistent feelings of dread you’ve had since you were kid are totally legitimate. Everything you know is a lie. Everyone you know is a lie. It’s all completely fake.
