The Inevitable Collision of Birdie & Bash

by Candace Ganger

  I bite my lip and nod.

  “Go home, get some rest. She needs hers, too.”

  “Few more minutes?”

  She grins, nods.

  I give a thumbs-up as she leaves us and turn back to Ma, her mask filling her body with oxygen. I wonder how many more times I’ll be able to sit here with her, look at her, feel her next to me. For as afraid as she is to leave me, I’m afraid to be left. Despite all the shit I’ve given her, she’s the only person on the planet to never give up on me—to see I am worth something (although, I’m not even close).

  I lean over her and close my eyes, inhaling her scent. “I’m going to turn myself in,” I whisper. “Take responsibility, be the man you raised me to be. When you go, I’ll have nothing left anyway.” As I lean on her, my phone vibrates. I pull it from my pocket and see Kyle sent a few texts I didn’t get until now because it’s a cheap-ass phone and we’re in the dead zone everywhere.

  KYLE: DAD’S CREW IS GOING TO THE HOUSE NEXT WEEK.

  KYLE: HE’S MOVING FORWARD WITH THE PLANS TO KEEP BUILDING.

  KYLE: WE HAVE EVIDENCE THERE.

  KYLE: CALL ME ASAP!!!

  I shove the phone back into my pocket so I can just look at Ma for one more minute. The lights from the small Christmas tree flicker against her pale face. I brush her stray hairs back and kiss her forehead. “Love ya, Ma. Always.”

  As I walk away, she pulls the mask off her face one last time. “Whatever you did, just fix it, Sebastian.”

  I stop dead in my tracks, my eyes bulging.

  Busted.

  birdie

  Dr. Morrow’s pulling the plug. Dr. Schwartz agrees.

  Two people, completely different Ivy-league schooling, completely different families and beliefs (probably), and they’re in agreement about one thing—unhook him, see what happens, see if he can make it without the tubes and needles. Insurance is done, we’re broke, and Mom and Dad have begged, borrowed, and scrambled to come up with enough money, barely, to fly a specialist in for another opinion.

  Time seeps into one runny mess, like the yolk of an egg filling the sides of a cool pan. After some discussion, they make the decision to do the exclusive interview Julie Sturghill’s station has been asking for. Dad’s worried about how desperate it makes them look, while Mom is still stuck on the whole Bessie thing from that brief clip last week. Right now, we need all the press and donations we can get, and everyone agrees. It’s for Benny.

  I watch from Benny’s bedside chair, his hand in mine. On air, Mom, whose voice cracks when she speaks, pleads for three things: (1) to find the driver of the car that hit Benny, (2) donations to cover the cost of Benny’s specialist and hospital stay, “but most of all,” she says, (3) “whether you believe in God or not, pray for us.” Old Bessie is composed, hands crossed, good posture, big, bright eyes like she hasn’t been hunched over a hospital bed all this time. You wouldn’t know by watching this that on the inside, she’s completely, irreparably broken. But in those cracks of her voice, I hear it.

  Dad fidgets with the cuff of his shirtsleeve, his worry not so easily masked. He keeps swallowing, blinking, and wiping the beads of sweat from his brow. But even through his pain, he does most of the talking so Mom doesn’t have to stay so strong. Every time her voice even threatens to hitch, he jumps in to her rescue, without so much as a stutter or stumble. They’ve always been like this. Where one falls, the other catches. Even when all else seems lost.

  I squeeze Benny’s hand. It twitches every now and then. They say this is normal, doesn’t mean anything. I don’t believe them. I know he hears me. He has to. I look at the clock. It’s nearing the end of the school day, so I decide I should go. Just as I do, every little finger on his hand wraps tighter around mine. He’s squeezing back. I gasp. This is not a reflex, a normal part of a coma; this is real. He wants me to stay, so I do.

  “Hey, rascal,” I whisper into his ear, “if you can hear me, you have to open your eyes.” I wait for some sort of divine response, for minutes, an hour, but he doesn’t squeeze again. It’s enough, though. Enough for me to believe he’ll make it, and that is everything.

  A nurse, Shelly, glides through the door. She’s petite with golden ringlets that spiral down to her waist, held back from her face by a flower barrette. She’s the most delicate with Benny of everyone I’ve seen, smiling with sympathy at us, but not in the pitiful way. More like a hopeful kind of way.

  “I’ve heard of people being in a coma for years and then one day, they just wake up,” she says, adjusting Benny’s levels on his monitors. The cords are intertwined between her fingers. She grabs Benny’s hand, the one I let go of, and holds it for a moment. I watch how gently she wraps her fingers around his. For sixty seconds, her eyes are firm, steady on her watch as she counts his pulse. I watch the tube pushing air into his lungs, breathing for him. His lashes flutter the way they do when he’s sleeping.

  A few years back, I saw a segment on the morning show Dad watches about a woman who’d been in a coma for weeks. The day they pulled the plug, her body became restless—something known as the last rally. It’s what happens when your body approaches death. But her movements didn’t stop, and her words became louder. She was not dying, but instead, screaming to live, and from what I remember, asking for Mexican food.

  I will not let Benny endure the last rally.

  Shelly pats my shoulder on her way out. “Miracles happen every day.”

  I linger over him, inhale his scent that’s lost in the starched hospital sheets. Brynn’s right—he’s a tiny doll, so fragile, he could break right here beneath these tubes and cords and casts. “If you don’t wake up, I’m keeping your blankie.”

  * * *

  The 22 SKATE CLUB sign splashes a sultry glow across the highway. Its deceptive beam makes me forget everything else, and that’s okay with me. Bash, who sees me struggle to get through the door between gusts of snow-blowing wind, is sitting in the swivel chair, hunched over a thick textbook. I make a point not to acknowledge him when I eventually make my way in—on my own—and flop into the other vacant chair. Minutes pass before he cranes his neck in my direction. “Hey.”

  “What are you reading?” I ask.

  He grunts. “Chemistry. It’s killing me.” His face suddenly deepens seven shades of red before turning back toward the book. “I’m sorry—that wasn’t cool. I mean with your brother and everything.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. I glide the chair close and pat his arm without thinking. Maybe because from the second I met this strange boy (who I thought I’d never, ever see again) at that horrific party, I’ve wanted to touch him. He looks at my hand on his shirt—the same plaid shirt I’ve seen him wear nearly every day here—and I quickly remove it. The room is quiet again.

  “Chemistry is kind of my thing,” I say. “If you need any help, you know.”

  “Obviously.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Some of us carry our hearts on our sleeves. You carry your brain.”

  I scoot away. “It’s not a bad thing to be smart. I have a plan, a future.”

  He laughs. “Well good for you.”

  I bite my tongue, unsure as to why he’s being so rude. “I just meant, if you need help, I’ve tutored before. That’s all.”

  He’s staring at the book, his hands now gripping the edges. They shake, nearly ripping the page straight out. I keep my distance, pull out my phone to pass the time, and scroll through the various feeds of nonsense that only distract me from life. The Christmas music streaming from the computer speakers breaks into a commercial, blaring louder than the music. Bash turns the knob to low and flings the hair out of his eyes like you’d see in one of those dumb hair commercials. And I can’t look away. But I don’t want him to notice me noticing him. Now his legs are jittery, his heel bouncing off the ground in rapid succession.

  “What are you stuck on?” I ask, reluctant.

  “Reactions and shit. I mean, not shit, but, you know.”

>   “Let me see.” I scoot my chair close enough for our elbows to touch—zap goes my heart—and lean over the thick book where all the words look so comfortably familiar. I inhale the smell of Bash and old ink as my eyes scan the page, and I feel him looking at me the same way I just looked at him, the same way he did the night of the party. I felt it then; I feel it now. The intensity grows—an electric spark that could ignite in the space between our hearts—but when I look up, he turns away. We play this game a few times, but I’m not sure who is the cat and who is the mouse in this scenario. I suppose we are both the mouse, afraid to make the first real move that doesn’t include small talk or sarcasm. Especially because, no matter what becomes of us, of whatever this is, we still have to work in this tiny space together. So maybe it’s best not to make any move.

  Staring into the spine of the book, I make two columns in my head. I list the qualities he has going for him and against him. Here’s what I’ve concluded: Judging by the way I can’t actually focus on those two lists or on the numbers between these two pages (because he’s touching me, and when his eyes catch mine, I feel like I could fall into him and melt away forever), I’d say that the list is null and void and I have no answer.

  “You need to balance the equation,” I tell him, finally looking up. Facts. I have those. And while the numbers don’t exactly settle into my brain, seems like the most logical response in most situations.

  He stares at me blankly.

  I angle the book. “Here,” I say, grabbing a pencil, “I was taught by an awesome teacher a few years ago and learned this method. Draw boxes around the chemical formulas and do an inventory of how many atoms you have of each, in a table format, both before the reaction and after. Makes it easier to see the work you need to do.”

  I ramble for a bit, get lost in chemistry’s glorious rules, sketching all over his once-blank page. His eyes briefly watch what I’m writing but soon find their way back up to me. “Cool,” he says with a sharp tone. “Thanks.”

  “Now you try.” I hand him the pencil and hover as he slowly learns the process, erasing, and backpeddling the first few times. When he’s finished, he holds the paper out in front of him, but he’s not smiling. His brows are arched like he’s looking for some sort of approval.

  2H2(g) + O2(g) → 2H2O(l)

  Impressed, I lean back and prop my hands behind my head. “You know how to do it; you just need someone to push you.”

  The excitement fades as he puts the paper in the book and claps it shut. “Yeah, well, my teacher might not agree. Or the principal. Or my guidance counselor. Or really anyone.”

  “You’ll get it.”

  “I don’t have any other choice.”

  Vinny pops his head in from beyond the office door. “Hey,” he says, knocking the little white Santa hat ball to the side of his face.

  “Hi,” I say, waving.

  “We saw your parents on the news today, and Evie wanted me to be sure and tell you she’s sending a check to the hospital. We want to help with the cost of that specialist. It’s not much, but—”

  I stand from the chair and throw my arms around him, holding back tears. “Oh, my gosh! Thank you so much! My parents are going to be so happy!”

  He pats my head the way a father might, then peels me off. “Glad I can help a bit.” He looks to Bash. “We’re about to open. Put your homework away and look festive. We’ve got a shitload of kids coming from some youth group in Indy.”

  “It’s not Teams 4 Dreams, is it?” Bash asks, a wash of fright coloring him.

  “How would I know?” Vinny points to the two Santa hats on the desk and motions for us to wear them. Bash is reluctant, but slides it over his dark hair with a look of annoyance. I do the same, but with an enthusiastic smile. Vinny pats me on the back. “Thatta girl.”

  Bash slides his book into a ratty backpack that’s buried beneath the desk and, as soon as Vinny leaves, pulls off the hat.

  “He wants us to wear them,” I say.

  “You want to kiss ass, be my guest. I’m not sticking that hot, germ-infested sock on my head. It’s gross, and with all the people who’ve worn it, unsanitary.”

  He tosses it aside, and I can’t help but giggle. “What’s with you and germs?”

  “What do you mean?”

  I slink back into the chair. “You wear the same dirty shirt every day, and I’ve seen your hand stuffed into those dirty skates. You don’t make sense.”

  “You don’t make sense.”

  I’m shaking my head at him, speechless. He wins.

  A while later, a swarm of fifth graders from a basketball youth group, Teams 4 Dreams, busts through the door with their coach. Bash is friendly with the guy, explaining “Big L” is his guidance counselor at East Clifton and I immediately want to know more about this other side of him. After shushing my stream of questions about classes and why his guidance counselor swears so much, Bash grabs a roll of tickets, and together we work to get everyone in the right size skate and into the rink. I watch him from afar as he interacts with these kids not much younger than Brynn; he’s gentle in guiding their feet inside the skates, helping them to the railing along the wall, and even cracks a joke or two that has the kids falling over with laughter. He’s this whole other person I haven’t seen since that party, a switch that just flipped on again, and I find myself looking at him a little harder, wondering the same thing I did when we met, Who is this boy?

  With kids inundating the rink and arcade areas, Bash takes to the microphone to introduce the Hokey Pokey. I watch from the carpet because skates and I don’t mix. Not since puberty made my body an uncoordinated, awkward mess and even before, my ability was mediocre, at best. He, on the other hand, glides across the shining floor, crouches low, one leg pushed out, and seamlessly stands tall to skate backward. It’s like he’s being transported to another place and time. As I look at the holes in that dirty shirt, I think maybe he is.

  When it’s time for the chicken dance, the lights dim and the disco flashes across the wide-open space. The sight of pulsing colors, red and blue mostly, catches me off guard and forces the breath out of me. Police sirens, the ambulance, the night Benny was hit, and every thought and feeling of that night rush to the surface before I can understand what is happening.

  My stomach gurgles, chases a stream of food up into my throat. I barely make it to the tiny bathroom stall, where the door won’t latch. I throw up everything I’ve eaten today. Toast with grape jelly. Noodles. That weird hamburger that really isn’t hamburger at school. The sounds echo around me. There is no main door to this bathroom. Only a short hallway. I can hear everything beyond the toilet rim, so I know everyone can hear me. I hold my long hair back with one hand until I catch my breath and hang here, my knees on the cold, tiled floor, until everything settles.

  “Birdie?” a voice says. “You okay?”

  It’s Bash. “I’m fine.”

  His skates roll up behind me. “You’re not, though.”

  I look up at him, my eyes still watering. “You’re in the girls’ bathroom.”

  He scoffs. “Does it look like I care?”

  I try to stand, but the moment I do, my legs buckle beneath me and my stomach pumps the very last bit of food out of me. Bash pushes forward to grab my hair so I can grip the toilet freely. “Did you eat something rank?”

  “No.”

  “Pregnant?”

  I flinch. “Ugh. Not even possible.”

  “Not possible, like you’re not getting any, or not possible because you’re getting some but know for sure you’re not?”

  “Not possible, like I might punch you in the throat.”

  He laughs, a sound that carries.

  “The lights. They remind me of the accident.” I move from the stall, turn on the faucet, and splash a handful of water into my mouth, using my shirt sleeve as a towel. He helps me find balance when I’m a little unsteady.

  “You okay to walk back to the office where you can sit?” He’s propping me u
p and, even on his skates that threaten to give way, is strong. A pillar. I let him help me into the office, to the chair I’d abandoned. He fills a cup of water from the cooler in the corner of the room and offers it to me.

  “Drink,” he says. “You’re probably dehydrated now.”

  I look up at him and drink the water, fast. He stops me. “Sip, don’t chug, or you’ll puke again.” His eyes on mine, connected by an invisible string, I drink slower. He plunges a hand into his pocket and tosses me a stick of gum. “This is more for my benefit than yours.”

  “Thanks,” I say, embarrassed.

  “Work the door. I’ll do the rest. Go home if you need to.”

  “I’m okay, really.”

  “Well, do whatever then.”

  As he disappears behind the door, I realize he’s not so tough, after all. He’s just hiding, pretending. Maybe we all just hide, pretend to be things we’re not, because it’s too scary to let people see the real person, the bruises and scars, the broken heart, the gaping, restless soul that’s too afraid to let anyone in. Because it might sting. And suddenly, without really knowing why he’s flunking, what his mom does, or even his last name, I feel like I know him.

  I sit here, alone, until the end of the night. Vinny splits early, so Bash does all the gum peeling and skate disinfecting. When he counts the drawer, he makes a point of counting out loud, holding up the bills high when he’s finished, so I know he’s not stealing. I pretend not to pay attention, my eyes pressed on next week’s schedule.

  “Done,” he says grabbing his backpack from underneath my feet. He slings it over his shoulder, and we head outside, where he twists the door’s lock before we separate to our cars. He doesn’t ask how I’m feeling, if I’m okay again. It’s like it never happened.

  “Later,” I say.

  “Yep.” He thrusts his body against his car door. It takes a few whops before the thing swings open. A bright light coats the interior of his car—beater, really—from the phone he’s holding in his hand. The look of concern on his face pulls at me—not that I’m trying to stare—and as I watch him peel out, without thinking (something that is getting me in more and more trouble lately), I follow him, ignoring the little orange engine light that pops up on my dashboard.