by Amy Martin
Chapter 3
Mrs. Gillette is definitely the last person I want to show my note from Coach Denton, but since I can’t get past the front desk without a reason, I don’t have a choice. Showing the note to her means I’m showing it to Marcy by extension, so by lunchtime, everyone in school will know I visited Kieran Lanier in the nurse’s office. Although considering most people probably think I tried to kill him in Advanced English this morning, I guess checking on him in the least I can do.
I hand the message over the counter to Mrs. Gillette, and once she’s read it, she returns the paper to me and waves me back to the two tiny rooms that pass for Titusville’s infirmary. Nurse Foster, a white-haired woman in a baby blue smock and khakis who left retirement age in the dust approximately a million years ago, glances up at me from where she sits at a metal desk scrawling notes on a legal pad. “Feeling ill?” she purrs.
“No…I…” Rather than stand here stammering, I hand over the note from Coach, which she reads before heading to the infirmary room behind her with the paper still in hand. “One second,” she tells me, and I rock forward and back on the balls of my feet as I wait for what seems like an eternity for her to return. Once she does, she steps aside from the door and nods over her shoulder. “Go on in.”
I turn my head toward the doorway but don’t make another move. “He’s really okay?” I can’t help but ask, not sure what I’m expecting to see once I enter, remembering the word condition from Coach’s note. Maybe he’s got some weird disorder that causes him to pass out and makes his flesh peel off? Am I going to walk in and discover that he’s turned into a drooling, brain-eating zombie, in which case I’m probably safer out here with creepy Nurse Foster, who’s about two steps away from zombiefication herself?
“He’s fine, Zara. I’m keeping him here through the end of this period, and then he can go back to class.”
Taking a deep breath, I decide to stop being a total idiot and go in. I push the door open wide enough to slide my body through into the first patient area, the white sheet on the cot not yet wrinkled by any sick students. To my left in the far patient area, I spy a set of hiking boots at the end of a cot, toes pointed toward the ceiling. Hoping those boots are attached to Kieran’s not-yet-zombiefied body, I walk over and stand against the wall next to the curtain. Kieran’s lying on his back with his hands tucked under his head, a grin spreading across his still-human face once he sees me.
“Hey,” he says, raising himself up on his elbows.
“Hey.” I fold my arms tightly in front of me and hunch my shoulders almost up to my ears. Wow—this is awkward. I have no idea what to say. Thanks for scaring the living crap out of me last period, maybe?
His grin widens. “Okay. So people in this town don’t bring flowers when they visit the sick?”
My shoulders relax a little. “Well, I am in the middle of a free period right now, but juniors aren’t allowed to leave school, so…” I let my voice trail off and since he doesn’t stop smiling, I continue with our friendly banter. “Some performance you put on earlier. Really award-worthy stuff.”
“Thanks. I wanted to make a big impression on the first day of school.”
“Mission accomplished. Everybody probably knew your name ten minutes later.”
Kieran rolls his eyes. “Yeah. ‘Narco Boy’—that’s me.”
“‘Narco Boy’?” I ask, eyes narrowing.
He shifts his gaze to the chair next to the cot, his gray hooded sweatshirt slung over the back. “Have a seat. Sorry I can’t offer you anything to drink. Real lack of amenities around here, and Nurse Foster doesn’t strike me as the type who would be willing to fetch us some beverages.”
At a loss for a response that seems quippy enough, I silently accept his invitation, sitting down on the cracked cushion and leaning against his hoodie. “Is that in your way?” he asks.
“No. I’m fine,” I insist, but he sits up and tries to reach over to the chair anyway. He can’t extend far enough, so I sit up and grab the hoodie to hand to him. Kieran balls up the sweatshirt and holds it against him like a stuffed animal as he lies down on his side, facing me.
“I have narcolepsy. I don’t know if you know what that is.”
“It’s a sleep disorder, right?” I ask, recalling something I must have read once. “Like, you fall asleep at random times?”
“Exactly. Had it as long as I can remember.”
“So that’s what happened this morning.” I’m almost overcome with relief that I didn’t do something to “break” him, as Cassie so eloquently said.
“Yeah. I was actually awake when you hit me, but I couldn’t move.”
“Sorry.” When you hit me…God, I’m so embarrassed.
“No—it’s okay,” he insists. “I probably would’ve done the same thing in your position. By the time they got me out in the hall, I could move again. The paralysis thing doesn’t happen to me a lot—only in really extreme circumstances. I guess my brain decided to go all out this morning, first day of school and all.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Thanks. And, look—I’m sorry you had to see that. Kayla kind of filled me on everything. Must’ve been pretty scary for you not knowing what was going on.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him, because what else are you supposed to say to someone with what I’m assuming is an incurable disorder?
“No, really, I should’ve warned you.” He shakes his head against the pillow. “I mean, my parents told me all the teachers knew, but…well, it’s not exactly what you want to open with when you’re trying to meet new people. ‘Hi, I’m Kieran, and I’m probably going to pass out on you without warning, but don’t worry—it’s all good.’”
“You know,” I start, cracking a smile so he’ll hopefully read my idea as the joke I’m intending it to be, “if you get the information to Mrs. Gillette before 1:30, they’ll make an announcement to the whole school at the end of the day. Might save you some trouble.”
His grin reemerges. “You have an amazing sense of humor, Zip McKee. I figured you’d be pissed as hell over this.”
“Nothing to be pissed about,” I say. “I was worried. That’s why I’m here.”
He won’t stop grinning, and I feel my face burn on admitting I was concerned. Pretending to be interested in something on the side of my vinyl snow boot gives me an excuse to avoid his eyes.
“So, I didn’t get the chance to ask you your real name before I went face down on your desk,” he says as I continue my preoccupation with some imaginary whatever on my boot.
“Zara. Zara Elizabeth McKee,” I tell him, sitting up and taking advantage of the rare opportunity to use my full name.
“Wow. That’s really beautiful.”
Dude, you’re killing me, I think, as my face grows hot once again. “Thanks,” I say out loud, looking down and fiddling with the end of my ponytail since he’s probably going to wonder what’s wrong with me if I keep messing with my boot. After a few seconds, my cheeks cool to their normal temperature and I’m confident enough to raise my eyes, but when I do, damned if he isn’t still giving me The Grin. It’s like the boy never stops.
“Seriously, though—if you call me ‘Zara,’ I’ll kill you,” I warn, trying to see if I can wipe the grin off his face with an empty threat. “I mean it. Teachers call me ‘Zara,’ and that’s how I introduce myself to people when I go visit my dad, but that’s pretty much it.”
“A big ‘no way’ on the ‘Zara.’ Understood.” Nope—still grinning.
“I’ve always been ‘Zip,’ you know?” I feel the need to explain. “‘Zara’ sometimes seems like somebody else.”
“That’s so cool, though.” He squints, his perma-grin fading a little. “You sort of get to be a different person when you want to be, like a superhero. You’re lucky. Most days, I don’t even like being the one person I am.”
Lost as to how to respond to such a frank admission, I change the subject. “Yeah…um…so, whe
re did you move here from anyway?”
My question perks him back up. “North Carolina. Asheville. Ever been?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head, the ends of my ponytail brushing either shoulder of my gray Titusville Titans shirt as I do. “I’ve never been much of anywhere besides Chicago, though—that’s where my dad lives.”
“Well, you seem kind of familiar, so I thought I’d ask.”
I’m not really the “you seem familiar” type. My whole life, no one’s ever compared me to any famous singers or movie stars or athletes, although some people say I remind them of my mom, which makes sense. I’m a few inches taller than she is, but we’re both slender and share the same green eyes, dark blonde hair, and freckle-covered stub nose, so we definitely can’t deny that we’re a matched mother-daughter set.
“I’ve never been anywhere near North Carolina,” I assure Kieran. “So whoever you’re thinking of isn’t me.”
“Well, if you get the chance, you should go. Asheville’s a cool place. We only moved here because my dad got a job at Sumner College.”
“Yeah—I know.”
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and he raises his head up off the pillow and gives me the same confused look he had this morning when he first found out my name. “O-kay,” he says, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “So you’re a mind-reader?”
“No,” I say through a slight laugh before offering him an explanation. “Welcome to Titusville. There are about four-hundred students in this school, not counting the junior high, so stuff gets around pretty fast. And there’s less than nothing to do here, so people like to talk—including the adults. I found out about your dad from my friend Cassie, who heard it from Marcy Gillette, who heard it from her mom who works in the front office. And, according to Cass, we’re next-door neighbors.”
News of our neighbor status brings The Grin back again. “I had no idea.”
“Yup. My grandparents live in the place on the other side of ours.”
Kieran nods slowly, taking everything in. “Okay—what else have you heard about me? I’ll tell you if you’re right or not.”
I think back to what little Marcy said this morning. “Well, you’re supposed to be a senior, right?”
His expression darkens, and I immediately regret bringing up his age. “Sorry. If that’s private...”
“It’s okay,” he assures me. “Just kind of sucks, is all. You can imagine that when you randomly fall asleep during the day, keeping up with stuff is hard sometimes. I fell way behind in sixth grade, and people started being really mean to Kayla and me because of…well, because I’m so weird. In grade school, everyone was kind of okay with the whole thing, but when we went to middle school, everything changed.”
“Probably because kids suck at that age,” I say, although high school kids can suck pretty bad, too. Around here, it seems like the junior high’s always having some special program about respecting differences, so apparently there’s something with turning eleven and twelve that makes kids want to be completely stupid all of a sudden.
“Anyway, my mom pulled us out and homeschooled us because it was just easier to deal with me that way, but I never got caught up to where I should be. When Dad sat us down and told us he wanted to apply for the Sumner job, Kayla and I said we’d only go along with it if they put us back in regular school after we’d moved. I mean, my condition isolates me enough, and you add in the homeschooling…Mom and Dad gave in because Titusville’s so small they thought we’d get lots of attention.” He pauses, smacking his lips together. “Attention in the classroom, I mean. Not attention because I’d be passing out every five minutes.”
“So, the sleeping’s totally random?” I ask. “You can’t control it at all?”
“I try to stay on a regular sleep schedule, but other than that, not really. Certain situations seem to bring it on, like if I’m really stressed out about something.”
“Like the first day at a new school?” I suggest, and he nods.
“Exactly. I was freaking myself out about having episodes at school and how people were going to react, and stress pretty much guarantees to bring on an episode…it’s sort of vicious cycle.” I don’t know what to say, and he fills the silence with more explanations. “This scar?” He points to a barely noticeable recess above his right eyebrow. “When I was eight, I fell asleep on the couch and caught the edge of an end table when I slumped over. And I broke my nose in fourth grade trying to play soccer. Sometimes I get this thing when I start getting tired that’s like my muscles turn to rubber. Usually I can put my hands out to catch myself if I fall, but that time I wasn’t fast enough and I took a header right into the field. So no more sports for me—too dangerous.” He sits up on the cot but doesn’t look at me. “Lucky for me, my mom was a doctor before she started hovering over me full-time, so I’ve got in-house care unless something major happens. I’ve tried every drug that’s supposed to help, but nothing works. So I just deal. I don’t have much of a choice.”
Kieran leans forward, elbows on his knees. “It would be one thing if it only affected me, you know? But, like, my parents won’t let me drive because they’re too afraid of what might happen. I’m too afraid of what might happen. So Kayla chauffeurs me everywhere. My parents pretty much force her into babysitting duties when they’re not around, and it’s not fair to her.”
As he’s been talking, I’ve pulled my knees up to my chin, heels resting on the edge of the chair cushion, arms hugging my legs. “What happens when you leave home?” I ask, so drawn in by his story I don’t stop to consider whether my question might be out of line. “You know—go to college? Start your own life?”
“Well, it’s funny—or maybe it’s not—but my parents and I have never talked that far into the future before. I think we’re all pretending that if we don’t talk about it, the future’s not going to happen. At least, that’s my excuse, anyway. I can’t even picture anything after next year. Maybe I’ll be one of those guys who lives in his parents’ basement and plays video games for the rest of his life. Or maybe they’re expecting me to follow Kayla around forever, but I don’t see how that’s supposed to work. She’s really smart, so she’ll want to go to a good school somewhere. She doesn’t need me messing things up.”
My ears perk at this tiny bit of information about Kayla. “She’s smart?”
“Super smart.”
“Like valedictorian smart?”
“Yeah. Probably.” I can tell from his smile that he already knows the answer to his question when he asks, “You know someone else who might be in line for that honor?”
“Maybe not anymore,” I mumble.
“I’ll tell her to go easy on you. And I’m sorry I kind of had a pity party moment there. I’m usually pretty okay with everything, but sometimes I get frustrated.”
Nodding, I don’t say anything right away. “What are you thinking?” he asks, eyes narrowing.
“Well…it’s…I guess I don’t understand why you’re telling me all of this. You met me, like, an hour ago basically.”
He stares away from me at a microscopic piece of fuzz on the sheet covering the cot. “Well, you were the one who was with me when I had my episode this morning. You deserve an explanation.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about, although I appreciate it. But I could look up ‘narcolepsy’ in a book or online and learn about it if I wanted to. I’m talking about all the other stuff—you and Kayla and how frustrated you get with things sometimes. And I’m not saying I didn’t want to hear that stuff, but I guess I don’t understand how you’re so comfortable sharing all that with me. I don’t trust anyone I don’t know.”
Kieran pushes some hair up off his forehead. “You’ve got a trustworthy look about you. And I thought you seemed familiar, remember?”
“Seriously, though.”
“Well, seriously—something about you screams ‘trustworthy, upstanding citizen’.”
“Great.” I roll my eyes.
“Should I take that as a compliment?”
“Well, I meant it that way.” He lowers his gaze again and picks at the sheet, his thumb and forefinger grasping the material and letting go over and over. “Maybe I decided to tell you all that stuff because you’re here. Most people would’ve stopped by for a minute to check and make sure I was okay, if even that. I mean, those two guys who carried me in here sure didn’t stick around for very long.”
“They wouldn’t,” I tell him. “Cody and Doug aren’t exactly known for being caring, sensitive types.”
Kieran looks up, and our eyes lock as he breaks into another one of those grins that seems to be his default setting when he’s staring at me. “But you came to check on me,” he says. “And you stuck around. You have no idea what that means to me.” His grin fades and he stares at me so intensely I’m wondering if something’s wrong, like maybe I have a booger hanging out of my nose. To be safe, I look down and swipe my hand across my nostrils a few times.
“Just so you know,” Kieran begins, finally breaking the silence, “if anyone asks you questions, you can tell them stuff. I’d rather you tell the truth than have people going around making things up about what’s wrong with me. It would be awesome if at least a few people didn’t think I was a drug addict or something.”
“Okay.”
Someone knocks on the door and in seconds, Nurse Foster’s ancient face peeks around the curtain at us. “The bell’s about to ring, so I thought I’d check on you,” she says to Kieran. “Ready to go back to class?”
“Can’t wait,” he assures her, his voice dripping with sarcasm that she doesn’t catch.
“Zara, do you need to return to study hall?” she asks.
“No. Mrs. Denton said I could just go to my next class.”
Nurse Foster turns her attention back to Kieran. “So I’ll see you after the third lunch period today, correct?”
“It’s a date.” He flashes her a toothy grin, and Nurse Foster opens her mouth to say something but, evidently flustered by Kieran’s comment, decides not to and turns on her heel to go out to her desk, but not before I catch a slight blush rising in her cheeks.
“You have to come back?” I ask, stifling a laugh.
“If I can get a short nap sometime during the day, then the episodes don’t come as much,” he explains. “So while everyone else gets a study hall, I get naptime. Awesome, huh? Like being in Kindergarten all over again.” His smirk tells me he doesn’t think it’s awesome at all.
The bell rings to end second period and Kieran stands, slipping back into his hoodie and zipping it up halfway. “Where you headed next?” I ask, slinging my backpack on my shoulder.
Kieran grabs his backpack from the floor next to the cot and fishes a crumpled schedule from the front pocket. “Algebra,” he groans. “The day just keeps getting better and better.”
“Math and I don’t get along, either. Mr. Wilmstead?”
“Yup.”
“His room’s here on the first floor. My trig class is in the room next door, so I’ll walk you.”
We head out of the infirmary, saying goodbye to Nurse Foster and zooming past Mrs. Gillette, who’s no doubt thrilled over the gossip she’ll have for Marcy. A perverse desire strikes me to reach for Kieran’s hand just to give her something really juicy to talk about, but since Kieran would probably freak out, I keep my hands to myself.
Kieran steps in front of me to open the door to the main lobby and I walk out ahead of him. Before us, our fellow students race like confused ants at a picnic, some running upstairs, some rushing to the back hallway by the cafeteria, and some heading to the main hall, which is where we’ll need to go to get to our respective math classes.
“Ready?” I smile at him.
“Ready. Lead the way.”
I take a few steps forward and merge into the herd, Kieran right behind me. Once again, I’m hit with the urge to reach for Kieran’s hand, but this time the sensation is no joke. I want to hold onto him, want to make sure he doesn’t get lost in this crowd of strangers. Restraining myself, I wipe my sweaty palms on my track pants and choose instead to plow ahead down the crowded hallway, hoping he can keep up with me and we don’t get separated.
“Unfortunately, our rooms are at the end of the hall,” I say to him over my shoulder, my voice nearly swallowed up by the noise.
“I’ll stay as close to you as I can,” he assures me.
Making my way down the overcrowded hallway seems easy compared to enduring the stares I get from walking with The Weird New Guy right behind me, everyone’s eyes burning my face with laser-like precision. I almost wish I could burst into flames and leave everyone standing here wondering what happened as I flicker out into a pile of ash. I’m not used to this kind of attention—no one stares at me unless I’m holding a basketball, and I’m usually too preoccupied with setting up plays and smoking defenders to care what anyone thinks. Kieran, on the other hand, must be a pro at being stared at, because when I glance behind me, I find he’s giving everyone a dialed back version of the disarming grin he kept flashing at me in the infirmary, the corners of his mouth not quite as wide as they were for me.
After a few minutes of struggling against most of Titusville’s teenage population, we arrive at Mr. Wilmstead’s room. “This is your stop,” I announce, backing up against a locker with chipped navy blue paint.
Kieran leans in so I can hear him over the shuffle of students, although the closer we get to the third period bell, the less crowded the hall becomes as people arrive at their various classrooms. “Thanks for an interesting morning,” he says, his lips inches from my ear. “Talking to you was more fun than staring at the ceiling.”
“Glad I could be of service, but I should probably be thanking you for the interesting morning,” I point out. “Mrs. Harvey’s class hasn’t been that thrilling in a long time. Or ever, basically.”
Something distracts him from my pathetic attempt at banter and he glances down the hall toward the last room on the right, where trigonometry will be starting in less than three minutes. I follow his gaze to see Kayla approaching us from the opposite direction. She gives Kieran a little wave and he yells, “Hey” back at her, but instead of walking over to us, Kayla stops and tilts her head at the door next to her, indicating she’s going to be in my trig class.
“I’d better go,” he says. “Don’t want to make you late. You’ve had enough trouble from me for one day.”
“It’s okay, really. I’m glad we had time to talk.”
“So when do you have lunch? Maybe we can sit together.”
Frowning, I remember Nurse Foster’s comment about seeing him after the third lunch period. “Second lunch period, unfortunately. I usually eat with some of the girls from the team anyway, though. I don’t know how you’d feel about dining with a group of gigantic Amazon women, with the exception of Yours Truly, that is.”
I’m the shortest girl on the team at five feet eight, and judging by Kieran’s height, which I can estimate fairly well at the moment since he’s practically standing up against me, he’d still be shorter than some of my teammates even though he’s a few inches taller than I am.
“Well, dining with Amazonians would be something different, I guess.” We’re standing so close together I can see the muscles in his neck contract as he laughs. “Maybe I’ll see you around this afternoon, though. Or maybe sometime after school, since we’re neighbors and all.”
“Yeah.” I catch sight of the clock on the other side of the hall ticking off the last minute of our time together. “Well, like you said, we should get going.”
Neither of us moves, his mouth still closer to my ear than it needs to be, the tip of his left hiker grazing my right snow boot, his scent—not aftershave or cologne but something nearly perfume-free, like soap—tickling my nostrils. I hold my breath, half-afraid he’s about to fall asleep and fully afraid that if he does, he’ll stumble into my arms and press up against me right here in front of the thankfully dw
indling crowd.
“Okay. Yeah. Right. Class,” he says, standing up straight and looking through the window of Mr. Wilmstead’s room as he reaches for the doorknob. “Later, Zip McKee.”
“Later,” I say, angling my head to look down the hall, where Kayla’s still standing outside the door to our trig classroom, staring at me with a vacant expression. Pushing myself up off the locker, I start toward her. “Hey! Kayla!” I call out, ready to make my second new friend of the day.
Kayla responds by turning away and slipping inside the room, my greeting bouncing off the lockers in the nearly empty hallway and boomeranging back to me where I stand alone.
