by Joe Shine
I was vaguely conscious of Beth, suddenly at my side. “Oh, God, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” There was laughter coming from all over. And I guess it could have been funny if you weren’t the one who’d been hit. But it had been me, so I rolled out of the bush, away from everyone.
When I stood up I was facing Trey again. Through watery eyes I saw that he was laughing too, but when he saw I was bleeding he made a sickened face and turned away. Embarrassed and covered in blood, I pushed Beth away and ran out of the backyard.
I ran out to the street, sat down on the curb, pinched my nose, and put my head back. I’d seen it in a movie once. Not long after, someone put a hand towel on my nose and held it there. An arm wrapped around me in a tight squeeze.
“You okay?” Beth asked.
“No,” I growled, muffled through the towel. I reached up and took her hand and the towel away. “How bad is it?”
She looked at me and said, “Bloody, but,” and she looked closer, “doesn’t look broken. So that’s good, right?”
I made a sarcastic cheer with my arms.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. Her eyes were wide. She not only sounded sincere, she sounded frightened.
“It’s okay,” I said. She desperately wanted her other friends to like me and vice versa. It was important to her. I loved that. I offered, “Maybe if I ran track or something, that would help.” A few of her friends were runners.
“Huh?” Beth said.
“You know, so your other friends don’t see me as total loser. I’d do it if you think that would help with merging the groups?”
“Can you run?” she asked, even though she knew the answer.
“No. Well, I ran from a dog once and I felt really fast while I was doing it.”
“Oh, right, the big dog incident of third grade. I totally forgot about that. But wasn’t the dog really, really old?” she said with a smile.
He’d also been mostly blind too, but I wasn’t going to remind her of that since the running feat was already dangerously unimpressive. We sat in silence for a few seconds before I tossed out, “Cheerleader?”
All she had to do was look at me, and I laughed. We both did. But then it hurt. After a minute of solid, semi-painful giggling, I took the towel off my face again. The bleeding had basically stopped, but I knew it was still all over my face and clothes. “Do I look badass?”
“Totally,” she said as she helped me up. “Come on. Let’s get you home and cleaned up.”
CHAPTER 3
SO IT BEGINS
After the beer can incident, I stayed inside the house for the last week of summer, icing the bruising away. I told my parents the truth about what happened. Why lie? Beth had actually been looking out for me. They just nodded, and Mom gave me a bag of frozen peas. Man, my parents were weird but kind of mellow and cool, too. I turned down the rare parent-paid-for clothes shopping, telling my mom I had everything I needed. Okay, that was a lie, but one I could live with to avoid running into anyone I knew while I still looked like a plastic surgery casualty.
By the first day of school most of the bruising was gone, and concealer basically hid the rest. You could see it if you really looked, but you really had to know it was there to even notice.
While I walked to school, it didn’t surprise me to see everyone else was wearing spanking new first-day outfits. It’s what you do. Not me. I wore some old friends, an old pair of jeans and a faded T-shirt. Classic, comfy, neutral. I wanted to draw as little attention to myself as possible, and this outfit could only help me do that. That was my goal for the foreseeable future. Be invisible until something embarrassing happened to someone else and they’d forgotten all about the beer to the face.
Yes, I was hoping something embarrassing would happen to someone else. I’m not above admitting that, like you’re any better.
The one-mile walk was uneventful and thankfully sweat-free thanks to the cool morning. The walk home in the end of summer heat would be a different story.
Once inside, I avoided the main hallways to find my locker. I’d had some orchestra concerts here during middle school, so the place wasn’t a total maze to me. Honors US History first. The history wing was on the second floor, and the only possible route was the big staircase in the middle of the school. The problem was: there was a massive open space in front of the stairs that served as the main hangout area. If you were “everyone,” you were there. If you were loosely associated with “everyone,” you were trying to be there. If you were anyone else, you weren’t welcome. From the outskirts, I spotted Trey and his friends, standing right in front of the bottom step, making it impossible for me to get by unnoticed.
I did get a good snigger in though. Yeah, Trey was saying hey to some older football players and looked the part, but his freshman entourage looked out of place and—could it be—uncomfortable? I was never a big fish in middle school, so being a little one again in high school wasn’t going to be much of a change for me. But I could see how irked they all were, back at the bottom.
“Yo, Ham-bone,” I heard a deep voice call out to my right. One of the largest men I’d ever seen was waving to some people in the main hallway. There was no way he was a student. He looked thirty at least.
Quick as you like, I followed him. He was easily four times wider than me and kept me shielded from view. I was a little fish—exactly like one of those little fish you see hanging out below a shark in nature videos, for protection. My human mountain got me to the stairs safely, where I skirted up unnoticed.
I took my seat in the second row right in the middle of the class. You’re probably thinking: Wait. A nerd like you belongs in the front row, right? Normally, you’d be spot-on, but rumor had it that the history teacher, Mr. Floyd, spit when he talked. He also apparently had a third nipple, but that was beside the point—the spit was the issue. Beth, through her connections with “everyone,” had told me that the front row of his class was nicknamed “the splash zone,” like at SeaWorld. I had a thing about drool. I wasn’t germaphobic, but drool rubbed me wrong. Beth knew it. If I saw spit fly out of his mouth I’d probably gag. If any of his spittle ever actually landed on me, I’d vomit. So I fought my nerd instincts and took my seat in row two.
Class slowly filled in around me. I got a few head nods and a “hey” from a girl I had geography with in eighth grade. When the class was all but full, Trey, of course, came in. (Oh yeah, he was wicked smart too.) The only seat left was right in front of me, in the middle of the splash zone.
He pretended to look around, but there wasn’t a choice really. I pretended to be reading an inspirational poster on the wall to avoid eye contact. He dropped his bag and sat down in front of me just as the two-minute warning bell rang.
There was light chatter between friends all around. I just kept quiet and stared at the empty teacher’s chair in the front of the room. A twist of Trey’s shoulders gave me just the slightest heads-up he was turning around. I focused once again on the inspirational poster on the wall, really pretending to be into it.
Leadership. Yes, a bald eagle sure does look like leadership. So majestic.
“Hey,” came the quietest, sweetest voice I’d ever heard. All the anger I held toward him vanished. “Hey,” he repeated.
I turned to look at him, pretending I hadn’t heard him, you know, because I was so into the poster. I doubt he bought it.
“Oh, when did you sit down?” I tried to say coolly. So aloof I am.
“You have fun at the party?” he asked.
“Uh, yeah. Until … you know.” I followed it up with, “You?”
“Awesome. Had a blast.”
“Cool,” I said. Man my voice sounded so high-pitched and annoying in my head. I hated the sound of my voice.
We sat there quietly for a few seconds. Had he forgotten about what happened? Or did he not recognize me? Had he been drunk? I didn’t have long to dwell on it because in the most dreamy voice imaginable, he whispered, “Hey, so I’ve got this probl
em with my eyes. I can’t see middle distances very well. The board’s right in my blind spot. Would you mind switching with me?”
I stared into those deep blue eyes. All speckled with gold. Maybe this middle vision thing was his penance for such beauty.
“Sure.” I was mesmerized. The word came forth without my knowing it.
“Great, thanks,” he said.
In a daze I stood up and grabbed my bag. We slipped past each other as we swapped places. As I was sitting down reality set in. What the hell am I doing?! The splash zone, you idiot! Middle vision? Blind spot? It’s not even a good lie! I had to switch back. I turned to him.
He smiled, his beautiful eyes flashing. Before I could say a word, his cell rang. “Hey,” he answered. “No, second row, all good. Thanks for the heads-up. Yeah, that would have been nasty.” He hung up and put the phone back in his pocket, his eyes never leaving mine
I was too shocked to care that my mouth was wide open. I stared at him. He knew?! He played me?! That sneaky S.O.B. I wanted to say something. I had to say something. But of course I didn’t. It’s not what I did. So I just turned around, defeated.
I was vaguely aware of the sound of a door closing to my right. Then an adult called out, “Eyes up front, please.” Mr. Spittle aka Mr. Floyd was walking toward his desk.
“Hope you all had nice long summers. Welcome to Honors US History.”
But that’s all I ever heard him say. When he hit the s in history, I saw it coming.
THE REST OF THE day was awful. After bolting for the bathroom, I was pushed back out into the wild, and trust me, no matter how many times you brush your teeth or no matter how much gum you chew, your breath still smells like vomit. Beth even wrinkled her nose when I saw her between classes. Following her advice, I refused to speak the whole rest of the day except to say “Here” during roll call. Even then I covered my mouth. No one had actually seen me throw up, but by last period the rumors were circling and people were pointing. I bet it was Trey who ratted me out. What a turd bucket.
IT’S FUNNY HOW YOUR brain will latch on to the most mundane details when it comes to memory. I couldn’t tell you anything in particular I did that last night before it happened. And there was probably nothing of note that happened anyway, but I remember everything about that last dinner with my family. The ketchup on my meat-loaf kind of looked like Elvis. I remember showing my dad, who sang a little ditty à la the King. Mom commented it was too bad it didn’t look like Jesus, because then we could sell it on eBay. We all laughed. Then my little brother successfully got me to gag when he opened his mouth like a bowl and let the dog drink gravy out of it. Like I said: drool rubs me wrong.
It had never occurred to me that I should have cherished each second. Who thinks of something like that? I wasn’t a mind reader … yet. Just kidding. Still not a mind reader. But maybe my brain, after the fact, catalogued that dinner as something I would want to look back on. And it was right. Way to go, brain. You’re tops.
After the meal I watched some TV, texted Beth that I’d do better tomorrow, brushed my teeth extra hard, and went to bed.
The last vision I have of my room is muddled. It was dark. I don’t remember why I woke up, but for some reason I did. Something just didn’t feel right. I sat up and looked around. I was too old to cry out for my parents, right? The moon cast shadows across my filthy room, but nothing seemed out of place. I squinted at the clock: 3:13 A.M. Whew, still plenty of time to sleep.
I took a sip of water from the glass I kept on my nightstand, took one more look around the room, and shrugged. Must have been nothing, I remember thinking. Nothing my ass.
The last thing I remember about my room is seeing my old USC hoodie at the foot of my bed and how comfy it looked. I started to reach for it, and that’s when the blackout bag was dropped over my head and zipped tight. A hand clamped over my mouth preventing my Hollywood-horror-movie-worthy scream from reaching anyone.
I struggled, but more hands pinned my arms behind my back. I kicked hard and caught one attacker in the face. If it did any damage, there was no response. My foot hurt like hell, so I hoped it had done something. In an instant, my arms and legs were zip-tied together, a gag had been forced in my mouth, and I was being carried. Screaming did no good. Only a muffled squeal made it through the gag and the hood. There is no feeling like true terror. I was choking on my own freak-out.
Hadn’t my parents heard something?! My mother used to check on me at night when I was young. Where is she now?! Help me, please!
I kept trying to fight even though it seemed pointless.
Someone with a fed-up, whiny voice said, “Gas her.” I barely had time to comprehend the words before there was nothing.
IN THE MORNING MY parents would wake up to find me gone. At first they would think I had just gotten up early to go to school. Eight angry phone calls and ten texts later, they would give up threatening me and become frightened. They would contact the police. They would file a missing persons report. Fear would become panic. After twenty-four hours their true terror would set in and never quite disappear. God only knows how much time they would spend looking for me. Both of my parents would develop any number of psychological and emotional issues because—regardless of what I believed—they did love me more than I could ever know.
About a month after my “disappearance” a burned body would be found in the woods about seven miles from my home. This dead girl would be unrecognizable but the teeth would identify her corpse as mine. Whoever she was (I never found out) would be the same height—similar build, similar everything. The identical teeth would be the clincher, though. There would be no point in continuing the investigation.
And thus the case of the missing person that was me would be officially closed. I was dead. Gone. Nonexistent. And thus: perfect for the task at hand.
OF COURSE, I DIDN’T know any of this at the time of my kidnapping. No, I would be told this information later when they took out four of my teeth. I asked them, “Why?” They told me about teeth as positive identification and then proceeded to steal them from me. There was no malice, just stating fact.
But I’m way ahead of myself again, and that fun stuff would happen soon after I woke up. I was only justifying a tangent about what happened to my family once I was gone and, alas, I got on another tangent about teeth. I’m done here.
CHAPTER 4
MY NEW HOME
I woke up strapped to a chair by my arms and wrists wearing only a hospital gown. The room looked like the Pap smear office, only whiter and cleaner and without any free samples. I could smell the bleach that was used to keep it so spotless.
I instantly regretted my past love of horror movies because my mind suddenly filled with all of the greatest hits of the gory death scenes I’d once laughed at. They were so obviously fake. That’s what made them safe. Only now, they all served as education. My brain worked overtime to come up with the most painful, disgusting death scene of all time. I tried to convince myself that this was all a really bad dream, a movie. But for some reason that bleachy smell triggered something in my head. This wasn’t a movie or a dream. No, this was very real and very scary.
I started to hyperventilate as I struggled against my bindings. I wasn’t very strong, so what I was hoping to accomplish I didn’t know. But going down without a fight seemed sad. Tears poured out of my eyes. For the first, true time in my life, I was absolutely helpless.
The door slid open. It made the futuristic hiss like in sci-fi movies. In any other circumstance, I would have gotten a kick out of it. But at that moment, it paralyzed me with fear. I watched, frozen, as an elderly man in a white lab coat entered. Behind him was a smaller, younger woman.
The man was holding what looked like a tablet of some sort. But it was too thin to be an iPad; besides, it was transparent—it looked like a sheet of clear glass. I could make out a picture of my face and some backward writing all around it. I saw my birthday, height, and weight before the glass went blank. Or cle
ar, I guess is more like it.
“And how are we doing this evening?” he asked me.
It was such a casual question and asked with such honest interest that it caught me off guard. Did he not know I was just ripped from my bedroom and taken here against my will? Could he not see the bindings? My tears?
Something beeped. He looked back down at the glass, now flashing red.
“Great,” he muttered sarcastically. He looked at the younger woman and asked, “Can you do this one alone?”
She nodded. He returned it with a curt nod of his own. The door hissed shut behind him.
With her short red bangs and porcelain skin, the woman looked like Beth, only older. Maybe mid-twenties. She even shied away from making direct eye contact with me like Beth did when she was about to say something that would make me mad. Only I think this girl didn’t want to look at someone who was about to be [insert horrible death here]. I cried harder. I wanted to go home. I wanted my mother.
Not-Beth busied herself at a small medical fridge making much more noise than necessary. Her back was to me but I caught her looking at me through the reflection in the fridge window. Her eyes darted back to her work.
“Please help me,” I begged. “Please.” I didn’t care that I was sobbing uncontrollably; maybe that would get a rise out of her. I knew she didn’t want to turn around and face me, but I could tell she was finished with whatever she had been doing at the fridge.
After a deep breath, Not-Beth turned.
She held a metal tray with a massive syringe on it. I’d seen horse shots smaller than this one and got light-headed. My fear of needles was about to be tested to the limit.
“Please. Don’t do this,” I continued. “Just let me go. I won’t tell anyone.”
Her face was set, determined to do her duty regardless of my pleas. The syringe was filled with a jet-black liquid. She took it from the tray.
“I know you can hear me. Please don’t kill me,” were the words I could squeeze out before the sobbing completely took over.
