by Katie Klein
A few of my more ambitious classmates immediately start running—these are the soccer players, the volleyball and basketball players, the coordinated, the girls who consider Nike athletic pants and wristbands couture.
I begin to jog, trying to at least keep up with the girls lagging behind: the awkward, overweight, and out of shape. Within moments my lungs are burning, accompanied by a sharp pain jolting the organs behind my ribs: a cramp. I hold my side and continue jogging. Push through it, I tell myself. But even the ungainly are passing me now. I slow my jog to a quick walk.
With every few steps I take a new breath, each heavier than the last. To my right, further past the football field, those girls—the athletes—are still running, sticking together. In a different world—in a different time or place—I might have pulled off athletic pants and ponytails as wardrobe staples. I could’ve been jogging with them, leading the way for everyone else. Instead, I’m bringing up the rear, not even halfway done and already cramping—muscles aching—needing oxygen that, for some reason, I can’t find. Shivering as my bangs drip with cold rainwater.
I am going to catch pneumonia, and I’m going to die.
With every step forward, I fall further and further behind, until I’m the last person to finish the mile. Mr. Collins has returned to the gymnasium by the time I make it back. I walk past his office without stopping, knowing I’ve failed the run anyway.
Inside the locker rooms, there are only a handful of girls left: showered and fresh, make-up reapplied and hair dry. I walk to an empty shower stall and turn on the hot water, which is lukewarm, at best. I realize, standing there, naked and shivering, trying to wash the rain and sweat and grime away, that it would’ve been better had I not showered at all. I take a few ragged breaths before shutting off the water. I grab my towel and inhale again as I wrap it around my body. I wait for my heart rate to slow, but it doesn’t. It continues to race as if I’m outside, sprinting. Something heavy pushes against my chest. I emerge from the shower, alone in the locker room. I dress quickly, but the more I move, the harder it becomes to find air. I suck in what I can until I’m wheezing. My body shakes. My head feels light, and the room begins to swirl, the fluorescent lights sparkling. I stumble to the sink, grabbing on to the porcelain before I fall.
My lungs are on fire.
No matter how hard I try to fill them, I’m drowning from the inside out. I sway until my body touches the wall. I press my weight into it, sliding to the floor. Breathing. Gasping. Suffocating. I bury my face in my hands, a wave of panic washing over me. I want to cry, but inhaling alone is taking every ounce of my strength. My skin tingles, vision blurring.
And then, on my shoulder, a gentle touch.
My head jerks up.
There’s a guy. A strange guy in the girls’ locker room, crouching by my side.
I should scream, but my chest tightens. I gulp, choking.
“Are you okay?” he asks. His dark brown eyes fix on mine, anxious.
I shake my head, unable to speak.
“I didn’t think you had asthma.”
His voice is low and soothing, his words left floating between us.
Another raspy breath. Another. I shake my head again.
“I’m going to get you out of here, okay?” he says. “Do you trust me?”
Do I have another choice?
I nod.
He scoops me in his arms. The motion is effortless, and in a moment he’s on his feet. I wrap my arms tightly around him, burying my face in his neck, breathing in the smell of wind and pine.
He pulls the door open and moves quickly through the hallway.
“What’s your name?” I ask between breaths.
His jaw tightens as we enter the gymnasium. “Mr. Collins!” he calls out.
I lift my head in time to see my gym teacher jogging toward us.
“Seth,” he whispers into my ear as he carefully lowers me onto the bottom bleacher.
“Seth,” I repeat. “Don’t leave me.” Unexpected tears fill my eyes.
“I won’t,” he replies, tearing my arms away.
“Genesis?” Mr. Collins asks, kneeling in front of me. “What happened?”
I shake my head.
“She’s having trouble breathing,” Seth explains.
He lifts my chin, examining my lips. “Go in my office and call for an ambulance,” Mr. Collins orders. Seth jumps up and sprints across the gymnasium, the motion so fluid he appears to fly.
“Breathe through your nose, okay? Try to take slow, even breaths.”
I obey.
“You shouldn’t have dressed for PE today, Green. I had some papers in my office you could’ve filed for me instead. Of course, you have to decide which is worse: filing papers or running a mile. Breathe.”
I take another deep breath. “They both sound pretty great,” I choke.
Mr. Collins smiles, his youthful, tan face lighting up. “That’s good. Your sense of sarcasm is still intact. Breathe.”
I inhale.
“Hang tight. We’re gonna get you checked out, okay?”
I nod.
A few minutes later a paramedic enters the room. That’s when I realize: Seth is gone. He left to make the phone call, but he never came back.
The events following happen in such a rapid succession it leaves me reeling. I’m strapped to a gurney, oxygen mask draped over my mouth and nose. The scene is packed full of melodrama, and I’m thankful that everyone who matters is either in class or at lunch. An audience would be overkill.
Outside it’s raining harder. The drops of water pelt my cheeks, my eyes, my hands. I take deep breaths, sucking in the pure air pumping through the mask. Inside the ambulance the fluorescent lights cast a dingy white glow on the paramedics and their tools. An IV needle slips into my arm, stinging as it pierces my skin. Mr. Collins climbs in and the back door slams shut, blocking out the daylight.
Around me, the paramedics talk in code. I close my eyes. Already the drowning sensation is subsiding. When I open them again, the guy—Seth—he’s here. The monitors register as my pulse quickens. Seth brings a single finger to his lips, urging me not to speak. I watch as the paramedics work around him, as if they don’t even see him. Then I realize: they can’t see him. Not at all.
His voice . . . it sounded so familiar, but I can’t place it. I’ve never seen him before. He’s not a classmate, or someone I’ve waited on at Ernie’s. . . . Who he is, where he’s from, and why he’s here, I have no idea, but part of me sings, grateful just the same.
FIVE
“Here’s the thing. You are definitely experiencing some lung problems right now,” the doctor says, licking his thumb and flipping through a stack of papers. “As far as a cause, the results aren’t conclusive. We can’t tell if it’s related to your smoking habit, or your recently quitting. The physical exertion may have been a contributing factor, and stress can be a trigger as well. This may very well never happen again, or it could become a regular occurrence. Either way, I’m going to talk to your mom and recommend we get you on a temporary treatment plan, just in case. We’ll check you out again in a few weeks to see how you’re doing. You’ll probably be back to take care of that thing, too,” he continues, referring to the cast on my arm. “We can do it all at once.”
Even though my breathing was controlled by the time we reached the hospital, the doctor, older and pudgy around the middle, still wanted to run tests. Sounds to me like these “tests” were a waste of time. But all of this barely registers. I’m more aware of the fact that, at some point between the ambulance and the examination room, Seth disappeared entirely.
“Great,” I reply, forcing my eyes not to roll. Like I need any more problems.
He clears his throat. “Your mom is in the lobby,” he goes on. “We can discuss this more in my office, and, of course, I’m happy to answer any questions you may have.”
I slide off the examination table and follow him to the waiting area. In an instant, my mom is by my side.
“Genesis? What happened? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I mutter.
“I’m Dr. Brookshire,” the doctor says, shaking her hand. “I’d like to talk to you in my office for a few minutes if that’s all right.”
Mom adjusts her purse strap on her shoulder, eyeing me warily. “Yes, that’s fine.”
We leave Dr. Brookshire’s office, keeping pace as we move briskly down the hallway.
“I need to get you home fast,” Mom says. “My shift starts in half an hour. Ernie is harassing me about getting you back to work, and I don’t know how much longer I can hold him off.”
“He can put me back on whenever,” I tell her, shrugging my shoulders. “The sooner the better.” If nothing else, we need the money.
“Are you kidding me? After today?”
“I’m fine,” I reaffirm. “It was just a stupid thing.”
She sighs. “You’ve got to stop scaring me like this.”
“Like I’m doing it on purpose,” I grumble.
Mom pushes through the waiting room door, and I’m surprised, when I enter, to find Carter.
“Hey,” he says, scrambling anxiously toward us. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I assure him.
He scratches the corner of his eyebrow. “When you didn’t come to lunch I got worried. Then I heard someone talking about an ambulance taking you away. I came straight here and found Mr. Collins.”
“That’s sweet of you, Carter,” Mom says, checking her watch. “And I hate to break this up, but I’ve got to get to work. If we’re going to get this prescription filled. . . .”
“If you’re in a hurry, I can take her home,” Carter suggests.
Mom raises an eyebrow in question. Carter goes on. “I mean, we can drop off the prescription. And I can take Gee home so she can rest. I know my track record doesn’t look great right now, but I’ll be careful, I promise. I’ll pick up the prescription, too.” He turns to me. “And I’ll let my dad know you were here again.”
Mom’s expression softens. “This isn’t your fault, Carter.”
He lets out a tiny laugh. “It would be nice if I could actually believe that,” he says, shoulders slumped, unable to meet my gaze.
She sighs. “Well, I’m in a bind, so if the two of you want to drop this off at the pharmacy and head home it’s fine with me.” She hands Carter the prescription. “Genesis?”
“It’s fine,” I confirm.
“Be careful,” she warns Carter. “And I’ll see you at home later.” She touches my shoulder. “If you need anything call me at Ernie’s.”
As we move toward the exit, I search the room, looking for Seth. Straining my neck, peering around corners. . . .
“Are you looking for someone?” Carter asks. He pushes the door open and holds it, allowing me to walk through.
“No,” I reply, keeping a watchful eye.
“Because Mr. Collins was leaving when I came in,” he goes on.
Mr. Collins? “Oh. Right.”
We cross the parking lot. I follow Carter, who doesn’t stop until we reach a black SUV similar to the one he totaled. A newer model. He clicks the keyless entry remote to unlock the doors, then opens the passenger side for me. I climb in and fasten my seatbelt.
I run my fingers along the tan, leather seat. “Wow.”
Carter cranks the engine. “Yeah. This baby is hooked up: CD changer, sunroof, navigational system. . . .”
“It’s nice. I like it.”
It takes Carter forever before he finally pulls out into the road, and, once he’s driving, his hands never leave ten/two position, like the perfect driver’s ed student. I glance at the speedometer. He’s just barely at the speed limit. And when a stoplight changes to yellow as we approach, instead of gunning it and tearing through the intersection, he slows, comes to a complete stop. The car behind us honks.
“It’s okay,” I say, glancing over at him. “I’m not nervous riding with you.”
“I would be,” he replies.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I remind him. “It was an accident.”
“I know.”
The light changes to green and we’re moving again. “Good. Maybe you’ll stop beating yourself up over it.”
An intense quiet settles between us. “It’s just that, everything changed that night,” he finally says.
I stare out the window, watching the stores pass by. “It’s fine.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him glance in my direction. “I don’t think it is.”
When we reach the pharmacy parking lot, he unbuckles his seatbelt and reaches for the door handle. “I’ll just be a minute. Do you need anything?”
“No,” I reply, shaking my head.
I watch as he disappears inside the building.
“I’m going to be honest with you. I don’t like this guy.”
I jump, feeling a spike of terror. “Holy shit!”
“Since when is shit holy?” Seth asks, smirking.
I whirl around, and there he is. Stretched out in the back seat. Comfortable.
“It’s you,” I say, breathless.
“It’s me,” he replies, eyeing me carefully. “You’re looking much better.”
“Who are you?” I ask.
He raises an eyebrow, his lips turned upward in a devious smirk.
“You have to tell me,” I continue, keeping my voice low.
“I told you already.”
“You told me your name was Seth,” I counter. “I need to know more than that.”
“No. You don’t,” he replies, shaking his head.
I ignore this. “No one else can see you. Why can’t anyone see you?” I ask.
He sighs. “It’s complicated.”
“So they can’t see you.”
“They can’t see me,” he confirms.
“But I can.”
“Apparently.”
“Why?”
He looks away, shrugging his shoulders.
“I’m going crazy. I know it.”
Seth glances back at me, smiling this time. “You’re not going crazy. I’m really here. You really see me.”
“Then why can’t anyone else see you?”
Another sigh. “You aren’t the only one. Other people can see me. Sometimes.”
“Mr. Collins saw you.” My mind flashes back to the gym, to Seth’s voice, his strong arms. . . . “Who else?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Will you stop saying that?” I hiss.
He leans in closer. “Look,” he says, voice low. “I’m not supposed to be here. This is twice, in what? A month? You’re not supposed to be able to see me. You’re not supposed to know who I am, or why I’m here. We are not supposed to be having this conversation.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, we’re already having this conversation,” I point out.
At that moment, Carter emerges from the store, bag in hand. He raps on the window, signaling for me to open the door. I play with the buttons on the passenger’s side panel, trying each one until the car unlocks.
“They said it would only take thirty minutes.” He opens the plastic bag and passes me a chocolate milk. My favorite.
“Thanks,” I say, taking it from him.
I steal a quick, subtle glance to the back seat. Seth is gone.
“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Because if you are we can grab a quick bite to eat and then come back.”
“Not really,” I confess. “But if you are, I don’t mind if you pick something up.”
Carter stops at a drive-thru, asks me at least a half a dozen times if I’m sure I don’t want anything to eat, and then orders himself a double cheeseburger combo. He drives a few blocks down the street and parks in a beach access lot half covered in sand. Behind the dunes and sea grass the ocean is dark and angry, reflecting the dismal, gray sky.
“You can have some fries if you want.”
I shake my head. “Thanks, but I’m okay.” I stare out t
he window, occasionally taking a swig of my chocolate milk.
“Your hair looks good,” Carter says, mouth full.
I look over at him, leaning into the seat. “You finally noticed.” I turn my attention back to the sand dune in front of us, the grass blowing in the salty air.
That was such a snarky thing to say.
I sigh. “Thanks.”
He crams half a dozen French fries into his mouth. “Does it hurt?” he asks, nodding toward the side of my head.
Instinctively, I reach up and touch my hair. “Oh. No. Not really. Can you see it?” I pull open the mirror and tilt my head, studying my reflection.
“No,” he replies. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t know it’s there.”
“It itches sometimes, but I’m trying to leave it alone. The stitches are supposed to dissolve in a few weeks,” I go on, examining them. “As soon as it’s better . . . I’m coloring these roots.”
“And your eyebrow ring is gone,” he points out.
“It closed.”
“That bites. Are you gonna get it re-done?”
“I don’t know. Maybe one day. Maybe not.” I trace the length of my eyebrow. It all seems so insignificant now.
He polishes off the rest of his cheeseburger, then balls up the wrapper and tosses it to the floorboard. “You’re like a completely different person now,” he says.
“Yeah,” I reply softly.
“I miss you.”
I drag my teeth across my lips, not wanting to speak.
Carter exhales loudly. “Right. Taking it slow.”
Possibly not taking it at all.
I don’t quite know.
He checks the digits on the dashboard. “Your prescription should be filled by now. Are you ready?”
“Yeah,” I answer automatically, but he’s already shifting the gear to reverse.
SIX
Despite his numerous protests, I talk Carter into letting me off in the driveway. “Are you coming to school tomorrow?” he asks as I climb down from the SUV.
“Planning on it.”
He hesitates, and I’m certain he’s going to start all over again about how he should at least walk me inside; how I shouldn’t be alone . . . except he doesn’t.
