by Eric Smith
“Oh, God,” Shawn muttered, coughing again.
“I’ll give you a few minutes,” Leila said, patting his hand and leaning against him. She could feel him holding back his coughs, his body shaking as he held his mouth shut. She saw his eyes water as he stared forward with determination.
“You can, like, cough and stuff, you know,” Leila said as he held in another cough. His body quivered, and his throat made a weird sound as he held it back.
“What? No. I’m fine.”
Leila patted him on the back.
“I’m—”
And then Shawn threw up all over the Philadelphia Museum of Art’s steps.
_____
“You know, I have to hand it to you, this is a nice spread,” Leila said, smiling at the array of nibbles Shawn had placed on the picnic table. Just a few feet away from the end of the Reading Terminal Bridge, all the way up Kelly Drive, were a number of small picnic tables and benches, a perfect place for taking a breather and having a bite. The wood on the table was old and splintering, with cracks and holes from decades of rain on the untreated wood.
“I do make a mean picnic,” Shawn said, grinning. “And you know what I really love about this spot?”
“Oh? What’s that?” Leila asked. She could guess. It seemed like a cliché spot for making out, though that was absolutely out of the question after the incident on the museum steps. This, though, this was beautiful. The historic stone bridge in the background, the overlook above the water, the handful of people nearby and cyclists on the bridge pedaling off to places unknown. There was so much life here.
“These picnic tables,” Shawn said, proudly. “All natural, these guys. Old. They might be falling apart, but they’re real. Did you know that some picnic tables, the ones that are made of processed, treated wood, have deadly chemicals mixed in with the lumber? That stuff leaks out in bad weather, hits the aquifer, and gets into the water. It poisons children and animals. Oh, I could go on.”
“I’m sure you can,” Leila said, smirking.
“But enough of all that,” Shawn said, waving his hand dismissively at the table and grabbing a slice of apple from his snack spread. “Back at the stairs, before I got all, well, you know,” he grimaced. “You brought up something about being adopted? Living around the city?”
“Uh, yeah,” Leila said as she finished chewing a bit of cheese. “I basically grew up in a group home. I had a few near misses with foster families, but, you know. Sometimes things just don’t work out.”
“How so?” Shawn asked, leaning on the table, looking at her intently. Leila flushed a little. He looked at her with such interest, like she was the only person in the world, his hazel eyes so focused.
“It’s just—” Leila stammered.
“I’m sorry if I’m prying. It’s just, you know, not my world,” Shawn said in an almost-question. “I want to know you, you know?”
“Sure, yeah, but I’m not quite sure we’re there yet, Shawn. I, um, it’s hard, some of that stuff. Things I left behind that I’d rather leave back there. I’m happy now, though, that’s what matters. I have a family, a home. And this is nice.”
“Sure, sure,” Shawn said, lifting his hands up. “I won’t push.”
He grabbed another slice of apple and chewed it, looking off to the side thoughtfully. He swallowed and turned back to her, his eyes once again intense, this time bright with curiosity.
“Okay, I have to ask, though, do you ever think about, you know, them?” he asked. “I feel like I would.”
Oh hell no.
That question.
He had to go and ask that question, in that way.
“What do you mean, them?” Leila asked, even though she knew fully well who he meant. He was officially prying. It was them that everyone always asked about. She knew what them implied. Every adopted kid or foster kid knew exactly what that meant. She didn’t need an explanation.
But she wanted to hear him say it.
“You know, your, like, real parents or whatever,” Shawn said, starting to look noticeably uncomfortable.
Leila smiled.
He was uncomfortable.
Good.
“First of all,” she started, leaning on the picnic table, the splintering, old wood pushing into her arms, “don’t say that. Don’t say ‘real parents.’ That implies my current parents aren’t real.”
“Oh God, Leila, well no, obviously that’s not what—”
“I’m sorry, was I finished?” Leila asked, holding a hand up. “It implies my current parents aren’t real. If you were raised by someone else in your family, a grandmother or a close uncle or aunt, would you ever use the phrase ‘real parents’ around family that’s taken care of you your whole life? Don’t you think that would devastate the person you’re calling unreal?”
“Well, yeah. Okay, I see your point.”
“You can’t quantify real or not-real in relationships, particularly family, Shawn. This isn’t The Hunger Games.”
Shawn stared at her.
“Never mind. It’s a book.” She swiped a piece of cheese off the picnic table and flicked it into her mouth. She nibbled away in silence as Shawn sat there awkwardly. Suddenly, this wasn’t going as well as she had hoped. Thanks to Shawn’s insensitive prying, the day was taking an epic downward spiral. The swoon-filled moment of meeting him in the café, the way he stared at her during the first meeting of B.E.A.C., all of those feelings that had swirled around inside her chest were quickly dissipating, replaced by the same disappointment she’d felt from every other boy she’d met. And not just every boy, but most people.
“I know The Hunger Games,” Shawn said, his tone upset. “Look, I’m sorry if I don’t understand your . . .” he motioned around with his hands, looking frustrated. “I don’t know your world, or whatever, but I’m asking questions, aren’t I? To get to know it? I’m trying, is that so terribly wrong?”
“It’s the way you’re asking,” Leila said glancing over at her bike. “Look, maybe we should—”
“It’s cute when you’re all worked up, you know,” Shawn said with a sudden grin. He put his head in his hands, his elbows up on the table, and peered at her like he was trying to be cute.
Leila scowled at him, and he smiled more.
“See?” He grinned. “That little patch of skin over there, on your cheek, changes color a little, gets all red. What is that, anyway? Is there a story? Is it a scar? Have you ever thought about maybe putting some makeup over that?” He reached out to touch her cheek and she smacked his hand away.
“I’m going home,” Leila said, standing up and walking away from the picnic table, picking up Marigold.
“Wait, what?” Shawn said, walking towards her. “Why? What did I—”
“Take. Me. Home.” Leila stressed. “Oh, fuck it, fuck this, fuck you, I’ll just find my way. The road is closed off, right?” She swung her leg over the bike and unclipped her helmet from the frame, fastening it on her head and pressing it down on her hair. The road from the bridge continued forward a bit, and then curled off onto what looked like a main street.
“Yeah, sure, but, come on, Leila,” Shawn pleaded. He grabbed his bike and hustled over towards her as she began to pedal away.
“Wait!” he shouted as he biked behind her. She pressed down on her pedals, hard, standing up, getting faster and faster. The street was clear of cars, entirely closed off, and just a few other cyclists joined them on the road, including a couple riding a tandem bicycle that wobbled precariously despite their beaming smiles.
She glared at them, and then tore her gaze away from the happy couple to focus on the trees around her, the bright colors and summer smells. She pushed away the shouts from Shawn and blinked at the angry tears that kept threatening to stream out as the wind buffeted her face and her bike. Shawn pedaled behind her, pleading for her to slow down,
to stop, to listen to him.
She’d listened enough, heard his inappropriate questions and horrible suggestions. A few small buildings started to pop up in the middle of the trees. She recognized a handful as park cafés and facilities, the old stone structures more like cottages than anything else, and she squinted, trying to make them out as she rode by.
“Wait, is that . . .” she murmured, staring hard at a small, gray building with a number of old-looking wooden structures dotted around it.
She slowed down.
A young man stood near the wooden boxes and was reaching inside with a gloved arm. He pulled his arm out of the box, and a small owl sat on it.
Leila gasped as the man tossed something up in the air, and the owl took off, or at least attempted to. It shot up into the air awkwardly, one of its wings a different color and shape than the other, and fell back to the ground. The man rushed to where the owl fell and scooped it up, holding it tenderly, muttering something she couldn’t hear as he cradled the creature in his arms.
The wind picked up, hard and fast. Leaves rustled by, tickling her ears and neck. She swayed on her bicycle.
He’s the one.
The whispers. They were loud. Clear. And they were speaking to her about something.
He can help.
She could hear entire sentences, each word clear, as if someone was speaking right next to her, whispering in her ear.
Go. Speak to him.
She couldn’t close her eyes, not while she was riding. She slowed down a little, taking in deep breaths. She whispered to herself.
“Bike. Park. Trees. Street.”
The voices pressed, and she looked back towards the man with the owl. He looked up abruptly, right at her, and she gasped as he made eye contact.
She reflexively squeezed the brakes on her bicycle. Hard.
Too hard.
She lurched forward, the back wheel rising up and sending Leila hurtling over the handlebars and onto the black asphalt. She held out her hands and arms as she made impact, skidding across the pavement, and her head hit the hard ground and rattled around inside her helmet.
She pushed herself onto her back and looked up at the summer sky. The cool wind circled around her, as if trying to wrap her into a hug. Bike tires screeched against the road, pebbles kicked up and smattered against her, and she heard the sound of feet hitting the ground. A few faces peered over her, blocking her view of the tree canopy that hung over the road and the clouds above them. Their voices blended together with the whispering on the wind.
“Hey, are you okay?”
Go to him.
“Someone call somebody, who has a cell phone?”
He’ll know. He cares.
“What’s your name?”
He can help save us. All of us. All of you.
“It doesn’t look like she’s bleeding or anything.”
He wears the chosen colors of the caretakers.
“Oh my God, Leila!” Shawn’s face appeared over the skidding of his bicycle. He loomed over her, as strange and unfamiliar as the rest of them. He was sweating profusely, to the point that droplets of sweat trickled off his face and dripped onto her. She tried to move her head away, but the pain thundered in her skull.
I’ve been here, all this time.
“Say something, please?” Shawn pleaded. He started fumbling with his jacket and pulled out a phone.
And now, at last, you’ve returned.
Leila felt tired, dizzy. She felt like she was struggling to keep her eyes open.
I’ll be waiting.
“Leila? Leila!” Shawn shouted. She felt someone grab her shoulders. “No, no, don’t close your eyes, don’t go to sleep. Yes? Hello? There’s been an accident. Kelly Drive. Bicycle. I don’t know just, send someone, anyone—”
You’re so close, so very close.
Leila closed her eyes, and let the world go dark.
See you soon.
THREAD: Get Well Soon WithouttheY!
FORUM: GENERAL
Get Well Soon WithouttheY!
Posted by A Dash of Paprika
AUGUST 14th, 2017 | 1:02PM
As some of you may have heard, WithouttheY was involved in an accident. She’s fine and recovering, has a slight concussion, but could use some help. I made a lil’ GoFundMe page. And if you can’t give, just send some well wishes here. She’ll be on here again soon, no doubt about that.
RE: Get Well Soon WithouttheY!
Posted by Jill the Birder
AUGUST 14th, 2017 | 6:45PM
Oh no! Sorry to hear about that. I pledged a couple dollars. Wish I could do more. Hang in there!
RE: Get Well Soon WithouttheY!
Posted by Shannon Christopher
AUGUST 14th, 2017 | 7:00PM
I always appreciate her insightful comments on local developments and environmental policies. Get well soon, WithouttheY! We’ll miss you on the board! Come back to us ASAP!
RE: Get Well Soon WithouttheY!
Posted by Casually Weird
AUGUST 14th, 2017 | 7:09PM
I pledged! Feel better! And here, I made you a playlist to get you through things. bit.ly/2yNS770
RE: Get Well Soon WithouttheY!
Posted by a Dash of Paprika
AUGUST 14th, 2017 | 7:11PM
Girl that mixtape is FIRE. Nice work. Thank you.
RE: Get Well Soon WithouttheY!
Posted by Toothless
AUGUST 14th, 2017 | 7:15PM
Pledged. Sent you a DM, WithouttheY.
RE: Get Well Soon WithouttheY!
Posted by A Dash of Paprika
AUGUST 14th, 2017 | 7:16PM
If you were mean to her, I will strike you down with the force of a thousand suns.
ECO-ACTIVISTS MESSAGE BOARD: PERSONAL MESSAGES [USER: WITHOUTTHEY]
FROM
SUBJECT
DATE
TOOTHLESS
FEEL BETTER, A QUICK NOTE
Hey WithouttheY. I know most of our communication on this board circles around me saying something snippy and you responding in turn, and going back and forth picking on one another, but I have always thought of you as, you know, like an Internet friend or something. I’m actually not a monster, you know.
Anyhow, I hope you feel better. I’ll be thinking of you over on my side of the computer, and if you ever want to get coffee and pick on each other in person, I’m always around. We are in the same city, after all.
8/16
WITHOUTTHEY
RE: FEEL BETTER, A QUICK NOTE
Thanks, Toothless. That was a surprisingly sweet message. ;-) And thanks for your insanely generous pledge on Paprika’s page. The fact that she launched that was a surprise as well, and I’m stunned by everyone that’s come through on that.
8/17
TOOTHLESS
RE: FEEL BETTER, A QUICK NOTE
Cool, yeah. And be careful with your emoticons. Winks imply, like, flirting. You probably meant a smiley face there. Probably. Right? Right.
I am awkward and now hate myself.
8/17
WITHOUTTHEY
RE: FEEL BETTER, A QUICK NOTE
;-)
8/17
IX
Leila stared at herself in the mirror, a plush, beige towel snuggly around her, and scowled.
A bandage was wrapped around her forehead, tied off in the back, that pushed her hair up and over the white-tan strip. A bit of dried blood flecke
d the left side, a cut where her helmet had impacted her head. She thought of Shawn and the terrible date, and shook her head to rid her mind of the memory, then winced at the dull ache that pushed itself against the front of her skull.
“Damn it,” she muttered, rubbing the sore part of her head. She pulled her hand away and looked at her fingers, rubbing them together to get the dried blood off them. She wiped her hand on her towel, and fished around in her dresser for an outfit and a decent head scarf to cover up all this nonsense.
For the field trip.
Over a flurry of text messages, not a single one from Shawn, Sarika had somehow convinced her to still go. She’d go despite the fact that she’d have to see Shawn and return to the park where the voices had suddenly come in full blast, to the place where she saw the guy with the bird, and where the whispered voices had tried to direct her someplace. Those voices. This time, they’d had instructions.
And apparently, they were in trouble.
As Leila wrangled up an outfit for the day, her mind reeled over the whispers’ pleading. Was she really thinking of going back there? All because of . . . what? Voices she’d heard dozens of times throughout her life? And some guy trying to fly an owl like he was a falconer or something? What had the voices ever done for her, besides distract her, scare her, and make her feel crazy? They’d given her a dark secret that she had to hide from everyone except Sarika. She shook her head again, wincing and cursing under her breath.
She pulled on a pair of distressed-wash, dark-blue jeans and her favorite David Bowie t-shirt and made her way downstairs.
_____
“There is no way you’re still going on that”—Jon used air quotes—“field trip.” He turned and talked to Lisabeth as Leila fussed with her light box, pulling it up onto the kitchen table. “Field trip,” he grumbled. “Come on. If I walk a few blocks down the road, I can see the Fairmount Park trees. Field trips are for, like, Washington, DC, or going to a museum. Or you know, something interesting, like a Broadway show. You’re sixteen. Trips like this are just a waste of time.”
“We are kind of going to some special places in the park, it’s not like we’re holding hands and checking out the swings,” Leila stressed as she turned on the light box and looked away from its glow, keeping her voice down. She’d quickly discovered that speaking too loudly made her head hurt. “There’s this Japanese teahouse in the middle of the park—”
