by S. C. Megale
I played with the foam dispenser and we talked about her dad’s veterinary office while she petted François, and both of us said, “Sup,” to the girls who walked in and out.
“Are you still getting another cat for Christmas?” I asked.
She wanted to name it Laces and eventually get a cat named Buttons so she can have an entire clothing-clasper collection of cats. I guess it’s hard not to be indoctrinated with a love of animals while having a veterinarian dad, but Mags wanted to start a shelter for her thesis project in environmental science at UCLA if she got in. Film would only be her minor, which made sense to me.
We weren’t always in the same library, let alone on the same page about men, but I told her a little about my date with Cole at the mini golf course. She still thought he was a jerk and that I should leave some of his texts on read receipts to take back the power, so her comments were minimal, but I got an “I’m glad he helped you over the bricks” as she rolled her eyes playfully and punched my arm.
I laughed and flapped François’ ear.
“Have you ever tried eyeliner?” said Mags. “Not that you need it. It’d just look cool on you.”
I wasn’t much of a makeup person in general, but there were special occasions … “Lipstick is the only thing I can reach high enough to apply.”
Mags held up a finger and jumped off the counter. “I have some in my backpack. Hold on.” She pulled it off the floor and rummaged.
“Oh God.” I laughed when she popped open this black stick the way one breaks open a nunchuck.
Mags smiled and approached me. “Try not to blink too much.”
“Okay.”
I tilted back my head. With gentle hands, she carved some shadow onto the sensitive skin around my eyes. Despite her request, I blinked a lot.
“There.”
I looked down and into the mirror. Mags hung her arm around me and smiled into our reflection too. My eyes popped and accentuated my face. I looked older and more defined.
“I’m beautiful,” I said with enthusiasm.
Mags shrugged. “You were before.”
When the bell rang, we realized we’d stayed too long and left the bathroom to go our separate ways to separate classes. I moved my chair a little faster and with a little more confidence as additional students flashed around my periphery holding books as they crowded the hallway. I was pretty glad the Pokémon GO phase with everyone walking into me was over, and now they just filled my ears with dialogue and slang almost too fresh to even put in a script. It took me a while to figure out alright bet.
I made for music theory.
Bang!
A locker slammed right in front of me. I halted. Nate 2.0 was there. He munched on a random stick of celery and shoved his falling lunchbox back atop the locker with one hand.
“Hey, Maeve.” His voice was as placating as ever.
“Hi.” I tried to swerve around him.
“Hangin’ out with Maaaaaagss?” He drew it out in as juvenile a way as possible.
“Yeah,” I said. “You know we do that.”
“Getting some more special attention?” He chewed. “Making sure everyone knows?”
Was that why he hated me? Because I got a little special treatment? Because I required a little more from the world?
“Playing the cards I was dealt, Nate,” I said. “You know, in case I’m a virgin forever.”
“Awww, Maeve. You know I didn’t mean that.”
“Didn’t you, though?”
“Mags certainly doesn’t think so.” He winked. “But maybe you could tell her that next time you use your disability to sneak out of class. No one would dare stop you.”
“What’s going on?” KC stepped up just then. He looked from Nate to me and back again with a dark expression.
“Nothing!” Nate was chipper. He brushed his hands off. “Just getting back to class, KCeeeee.” The same drawing out of KC’s name.
The hallway was thinning out as students found their classes.
“You don’t like me because I get attention,” I said.
“Never said that.” Nate clicked finger guns at me and started to walk past KC.
“No,” KC said right to Nate’s face before he could slip away. “You don’t like her because she’s powerful.”
* * *
“THROW A MONKEY! THROW IT NOW!”
Some twelve-year-old boy from Michigan hollered in my headset after school that day. I stared dumbly at the screen at my Call of Duty character, white controller in my hands. Thumbs clacking against the two joysticks. With a button, I threw a stuffed monkey into a horde of glowing-eyed zombies to draw them off my teammate.
“Thanks!” said the boy, and he scrambled away on screen. I noticed that everyone on Xbox Live, without exception, was either a squeaky-voiced twelve-year-old boy or a creepy deep-voiced deadbeat-father type.
I pumped my shotgun and sprinted into the next room.
I’d been playing video games since maybe before I operated my first wheelchair. I loved the anonymity. I loved the deep camaraderie with guys all over the country. I loved the shooting and leading and jumping and all the things I couldn’t do. Michigan Boy had never heard my voice (because I don’t have a mic), but we’d been playing together for months, all different games, and he told other players with mics about me: “No, no! Keep him! He’s good!”
He was right. I am good. In Gears of War I once sniped the head off the last surviving enemy player while he was literally jumping off a balcony, and Michigan Boy went “OHHHHHHHHH!!!” and the other players went “WHAT THE FUCK!” and it was pretty much the proudest day of my life.
They had no idea what I looked like. They just knew I was good.
Elliot’s gamertag popped on screen to let me know he was online, but he was pretty hooked on Fallout and hadn’t been playing live lately. His gamertag was Filmshooter89. Mine was Roadsmith1116. Much better than Hotwheels215, but similar concept. You know, I create roads anywhere I go. Something like that.
My phone buzzed. I unloaded the rest of my ammo on some zombies and then checked it.
COLE STONE
Text Message
I smiled and rested the controller on my knee.
Ugh. So no mention of the three-day silence/ignoring my messages. Okay. But the last thing I wanted was to come off bitchy.
“Roadsmith, come on!” Michigan Boy shouted. I scrambled the controller into my grasp and ran away before the zombies could whack my screen entirely to red.
That was cute at least. I struck a zombie with the butt of my shotgun.
My blood tightened. I hoped the rejection I anticipated wasn’t about to hit.
I helped Michigan Boy back to his feet to escape the hellhound chasing him before I checked Cole’s response.
It dawned on me that maybe I was still “bribing” Cole to want to see me. Really didn’t sit right in my gut.
Bold. I made an explicit effort to play the zombie game hard while Cole chewed on that.
While that statement would have been so much better with a period, I grinned. I’d take it.
I think I played my best game yet of zombies. Fifteen minutes later, Michigan Boy and I were on wave twenty-two.
Just as we were upgrading our weapons, more texts came in.
I raised an eyebrow.
My mouth felt heavy. I didn’t know how, or why, or how much, but I knew KC hurt. And that made me hurt too.
I’d forfeit the game if he needed me.
I barely even noticed what I was doing in the game anymore.
My controller vibrated nonstop as I took damage, but I focused on my phone in one hand.
“Roadsmith! Throw a monkey! Throw a monkey!” My screen was being pummeled to red as the zombies bashed me.
“KC,” I whispered aloud in reply. His last message buzzed in.
My mouth fell, and the zombies overpowered me.
22
One time I read that people with Parkinson’s have really clean teeth.
The toothbrush enters their mouths and they let their arms jerk and spasm and hop berserk against their molars. I shake, but not that bad, and the dentist keeps upping the wattage on my electric toothbrush because I’m weak. I wondered now, as I lifted my tea to my lips, if the wobbling hot liquid would fall on my shirt. If maybe I was heading for Parkinson’s level one day. But today, I shook for reasons beyond medical.
It was a day after KC confessed his feelings for me. A blender roared behind the counter as baristas in green aprons capped latte cups and called out names. The exotic musk of coffee beans clashed with the frigid weather outside. Behind my table, the glass door opened and a gust of cold air rushed in. Someone sighed and stamped their feet on the welcome mat. I looked up as the petite person walked around and pulled out the chair across from me. Mags.
“Hey,” she said. Cheeks flushed from the cold and lips a little chapped. She wore a van Gogh printed scarf and pink, fingerless gloves. I’d asked her to meet me here after she clocked out of work the next day; Mom had to go to the bank again last minute anyway and dropped me off for a quick half hour. Tomorrow was Thanksgiving, and today was only a half day of school. I didn’t see KC.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
Mags snorted. “You’re already apologizing. What’s going on?”
“Do you want coffee?” I said.
“Just tell me.”
“KC has feelings for me.” It burst from my throat.
“Ohhh…” Mags leaned back. Her eyes rested on the table. I was confused by her reaction. Why was she thoughtful, not shocked? Why didn’t her mouth drop?
“Oh, what?” I said. “Wait, did you know?”
“I mean…” said Mags. Out the window next to us, flurries wisped through the air, but if you weren’t looking right at them, you wouldn’t see.
“You knew,” I said.
“It was always obvious to me,” said Mags. “I thought maybe you were dodging him.”
“No.” I shook my head.
“Okay, then, how do you feel about it? What did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything, I didn’t know what to say because I don’t know what I feel. I mean, he’s been my friend since kindergarten.”
“I know,” said Mags. “But you have to say something.”
Silence stretched. The tea clutched in my hand was cooling. Why was it so easy to desire nearly every man I came across, but with KC, I couldn’t figure out how I felt? I’d been attracted to him. But I’d never thought of him romantically until now. We were just too close. For too long.
“You know … he’s a nice guy, Maeve.”
“I know,” I said, but it was almost a snap.
And then there was Cole.
“Just text him back and ask him if he can meet up with you,” said Mags. “If you need some time, he might understand.”
Might.
“You have to make a decision between him and Cole for yourself, though. If Cole is even really in the running.”
I ripped at the cup sleeve with my thumbnail. My heart sped.
“This sucks.” Mags tried to validate the situation. We paused.
“On the bright side”—I swallowed and forced humor—“I have a taste of what’s it’s like to be you.”
“Maeve.” Mags groaned and tugged off her scarf. “That’s not a bright side.”
* * *
Al Roker interviewed a little kid in the bleachers on TV. The boy stared blankly at him in his fluffy black earmuffs and wouldn’t answer any questions. Behind them flowed the Thanksgiving Day Parade. I watched on the miniature kitchen TV while Mom ran the sink.
“What’s the next ingredient, Maeve?”
The turkey was already basted and roasting in the oven. Mom knew exactly what the next ingredient for the sweet potato casserole was, but she wanted me to learn. I glanced at the Southern Living recipe snippet and read out the next dosage of brown sugar. She ripped open the bag.
Seems like now would be the perfect time for my domestic fantasies to rage. Dad was in the next room watching ESPN after putting up some early Christmas lights in the front yard. “Smells good, Mom,” he’d said after coming inside. So much material for domestic daydreams.
They were blank.
Per Mags’ advice, I replied to KC and asked if we could meet up, nothing more. He kept his cool and said sure but that he was going to his aunt and uncle’s for Thanksgiving and couldn’t meet sooner than tomorrow. The holiday provided a convenient detour from this, a chance for me to collect my feelings.
Never in a million tire changes did I think I’d be in this position. It dawned on me that maybe I was hiding too much behind my default; maybe it was arrogant of me to blame the lack of interest from men on my disease so quickly, now that it was hitting. Mags could have been right all along. I was not immune to this mess.
The Admiral was supposed to join us for Thanksgiving, but he called this morning and said he was going to haul his tractor up to Middleburg tonight instead to get it fixed tomorrow. Mom rolled her eyes and Dad huffed and we three sat at the table and said grace. Mom expressed sincere thanks for the new BiPAP machine that had arrived this week to replace the one I claimed malfunctioned. Dad nudged my arm without any of us opening our eyes.
Then we began. Platters steamed. The food was aromatic, but I had a hard time tasting it.
Finally, late that afternoon, when Dad was clinking dishes into the washer and Mom was upstairs changing into her pajamas already, I got a text.
COLE STONE
Text Message
My heart fluttered. Today?
I blinked. Hmm.
I gave a start and sort of hid my phone when Dad set a plate of pumpkin pie in front of me.
I could go outside.
That was the day I promised to meet KC. Why did I just offer it up to Cole?
I blinked.
I was smiling. With my fork, I carved off a piece of pie and ate it. The taste was spicy and sweet and smooth.
I texted him the park address.
Shit. What was happening?
* * *
I managed to escape the house without too much interrogation. Being partially true, I said I was just going for a walk with “one of my film friends.”
“Sounds fun,” Mom had said, lying on the couch with the Hallmark Channel on. Dad glanced at me with a little sharper curiosity but didn’t object. Tonight was only supposed to dip to about fifty degrees, otherwise I wouldn’t have gotten out of Mom’s grip unfussed.
Dusk drew down behind the tops of trees, and I waited by this little park bench, shivering. The dusting of snow had melted, but more would probably come this week. Before me was this little playground made up of four sturdy sycamores and tree houses accessed with ladders, but one had a staircase that wound around the trunk. I used to be jealous of the neighborhood kids who could play in them. The ground was bark pellets like the inside of a hamster cage.
Houses lit up the grass a few hundred yards ahead now. It was 6:48. Night almost lapped over the twilight.
A quiet motor thrummed from up the street and I looked over to it. Headlights beamed across the dark asphalt and a beat-up silver car jolted a few times before it parked at the curb. I watched as it shook there for a moment, and then the engine cut. The lights disappeared to blackness.
The car door popped open and an enormous silhouette swung out. I couldn’t see any of his features from here, but I heard a lanyard jingle.
He strolled towards me, taking his damn time. His stride was as rocky and boastful as his driving. I felt like my blood had retreated and left only helium in my veins. I couldn’t catch a breath and may have needed this three-hundred-pound shell of metal to keep me steady. Did I wave? Did I watch his approach silently?
Did I check my phone to pretend I almost didn’t care?
Cole appeared in front of me. He wore a navy-blue camo jacket just like his dad in the photo. His brown-black hair was combed forward, and his beard was trimmed just enough to see some o
f his jaw through it. Perfect length.
“Hey,” I said. Dammit, I sounded breathless.
My ears involuntarily switched frequencies to prepare to catch Cole’s booming reply. Instead, he nodded and bent down to me. With one arm, he folded me against himself. I closed my eyes, and my head buried into just where his ribs were. The jacket was warm and smelled like a garage. I imagined old rusty tools leaning on the wall next to where it always hung.
When he pulled back, he wasn’t looking at me. Just gazing at the sycamores and the tree houses.
I opened my mouth to speak. To say something like, “Are you okay?” but he beat me to it.
“You ever been in there?” With his hands stuffed in his pockets, he gestured to the staircase tree house with his elbow.
“No.” I sort of laughed. “But I was always jealous of the kids who were. So I pretended to lay siege on them sometimes.”
Cole turned to me. Those premature lines under his eyes were a flaw by any other standard, but to me they hooded him gently. They gave something more for me to love.
He didn’t reply again. I wasn’t used to Cole being quiet. His gaze held me in a way that was intimate but oddly impersonal, as if he were studying me and thinking about me like I wasn’t there. I don’t know if I was imagining it. But I think there was a little light in his gaze that wasn’t there before. If he were thinking about me, I think they were good thoughts.
