When My Heart Joins the Thousand

by A. J. Steiger

  So I go.

  For most of the party, the other girls ignore me. When it comes time for us all to go to bed, they lay out their sleeping bags on the floor of Jessamine’s bedroom and stay up, talking and giggling together while I count the stripes on the wallpaper. The sugary strawberries-and-bubblegum smell of their shampoo and ChapStick invades my nose, itching. It’s a girl smell; a popular smell.

  “Okay,” Jessamine says in a whispery giggle, directed at everyone but me. “Now everyone has to say which boy they’d kiss—”

  More laughter, punctuated by squeals.

  I notice the plush frog on Jessamine’s bed. “You know,” I say loudly, “some amphibians will shed their skin and then eat it.”

  The girls fall silent.

  “They do it to conserve protein.”

  No response.

  “I’m going to the bathroom now.” I get up.

  As I come back, walking down the hallway toward the half-open bedroom door, I hear whispers from within. I stop, holding my breath.

  “You guys shouldn’t make fun of her. She’s half-retarded. Kristen told me.”

  “How can you be half-retarded?”

  “She’s actually, like, freakishly smart. She knows all this stuff no normal person would ever know. She’s just a weirdo.”

  “You know, her mom’s kind of weird, too. And she doesn’t even have a dad.”

  “Well, my mom said her mom drank when she was pregnant with her, and that’s why she turned out that way.”

  “Drank what? Alcohol?”

  “Duh. What did you think I meant? Milk?”

  They giggle.

  “Shhh. I think she’s back.”

  “Oh crap.”

  I walk into the room, put my hands on my hips, and say, “Mama doesn’t drink. It’s nothing she did. This is just how I am.”

  They fidget, looking at the floor. For once, they’re the ones avoiding eye contact with me.

  My head is hot. It’s suddenly hard to breathe. I want to forget this whole stupid sleepover and go home, but if I do, they’ll all start talking about me again. So I turn off the lights, flop down on my sleeping bag, and say, “I’m going to bed.”

  For a few minutes, no one says anything. Then they start whispering. I put my hands over my ears, but I can still hear them. The fruity bubblegum smell of Jessamine’s bedroom fills my nose and crawls down my throat, and I start to gag.

  I hate their smell.

  When I can’t stand it anymore, I creep to the bathroom and throw up the pizza and cake I had earlier. It comes out in foamy strings, with swirls of pink and yellow frosting still mixed in.

  It’s raining outside and my house is two miles away, but I don’t care. I walk all the way home. The air smells heavy and wet, and the lawns and trees are thick, jungle green.

  Drenched, shivering, I pound a fist on my front door.

  When Mama answers, she’s in a blue bathrobe, her eyes puffy with sleep. “Alvie, what . . . oh my God. Honey, you’re soaked. What happened?”

  Without answering, I walk into the house and curl up in a ball on the couch. She sits next to me and gingerly lays a hand on my shoulder. Normally Mama’s touch doesn’t hurt, but I feel raw, like all my skin has been peeled off; I flinch. Her hand falls to her side, and she sits there, helpless, as my body shakes and shudders with near-silent tears.

  When I look up, I see that Mama’s crying, too.

  She wipes tears from the corners of her eyes, and smiles weakly. “I’m sorry. I . . . I thought this might . . . I thought if they just got to know you a little better . . .” Her voice quivers, then trails off. “I’m sorry.”

  I don’t know why she’s apologizing.

  I sit up, pull my knees to my chest, and huddle on the couch. Rain drums against the window. The walls in Jessamine’s house have pictures of her family smiling and laughing together. Our wall just has a faded calendar tacked above the TV—a picture of a beach with palm trees. Jessamine’s house has lots of pretty things in it, too, like little statues and vases and mirrors with silver frames. I wonder if houses are supposed to have those things.

  But who even decides that?

  I sniffle, wipe my face again, and chew my thumbnail. After a few minutes, I lean toward her. “Mama. Can I tell you a secret.”

  She looks at me, eyebrows scrunched together.

  “Jessamine has BO. It was so bad I couldn’t sleep. That’s why I left.”

  Mama blinks. Her mouth opens, forming an O. Then she bows her head so her hair hangs in her face, and her shoulders shake, and for a moment I think she’s still crying. Then a breathless wheeze escapes her, and I realize it’s laughter.

  I let out a little choking hiccup. Then I start to laugh along with her. I think about the cake I threw up, frothy and pink and yellow in the spotless porcelain toilet, and I realize that I might have forgotten to flush before I left, and for some reason that makes me laugh harder. We laugh and laugh, and before I know it we’re holding on to each other. I cling to her, my head against her shoulder, as if we both might be swept away in a gale of crazy, breathless laughter.

  Finally she pulls back, flushed and breathless and smiling, with tears in her eyes. “We’ll go out tomorrow,” she says. “We’ll have our own party. With no smelly Jessamine.”

  The next morning, she takes me out for pancakes at my favorite restaurant, the Silver Dollar. As we sit, eating, she says, “You know, it might help if you went back to counseling.”

  I poke my pancakes with a fork. I’m still seeing a psychiatrist—Dr. Evans—but she just gives me medication to keep me calm at school. I stopped seeing my last counselor months ago. “I don’t want to.”

  “You were getting better,” Mama says. “You were learning to . . . how did she put it? ‘Adapt to social norms.’ If you kept at it, I’m sure you could make a friend. It would be good for you to have at least one friend.”

  What good is friendship, I wonder, if I have to pretend to be someone else? “I don’t want to go back. I don’t need any friends. I just need you.”

  Her face changes for a second. “I won’t be around forever, you know.”

  “But you’ll be around for a long time. Right?”

  “A very long time.” She tries to smile, but it looks strange, like there are wires hooked into the corners of her mouth, pulling.

  After breakfast, we go shopping, and she buys me a little yellow candle in a clay jar. It smells like honey and vanilla and clover, but the smell isn’t too sharp, so it doesn’t make my nose itch. I keep the jar long after the candle has burned down to nothing. Even years later, particles of the scent still cling to its sides, and sometimes I bury my nose in the jar and breathe in deeply.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The digital clock on the floor next to my mattress reads 5:42.

  It’s time.

  I put on a faded Pink Floyd T-shirt, along with my usual black skirt and black-and-white striped stockings. Most of my clothes, aside from my work uniform, are frayed and faded. I shop mostly at thrift stores and Goodwill, and because it’s difficult for me to find comfortable clothes, I tend to keep them until they literally fall apart.

  I walk to the park. The pond is gray and empty of ducks; the air is still and cool. Stanley is sitting on his usual bench, facing away from me. His hair is almost curly, I notice. In the back, where it’s longest, it falls into loose waves.

  I don’t know what gives me away—maybe he hears a twig creak under my foot—but after a few minutes, he raises his head and looks over his shoulder. My heart lurches into my throat. Quickly I lower my head. Sweat dampens my palms as I slowly approach and sit down next to him, not looking up.

  “Alvie?”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Hello.”

  He’s wearing khakis and a polo shirt under a blue windbreaker, and he has a crutch tucked under his right arm instead of his usual cane. His cast peeks out from beneath his pant leg. After a few seconds of silence, he draws in an unsteady breath. “I wa
s worried you wouldn’t show up.”

  “I said I would.”

  “Yeah. You did.” He holds out a hand. “It sounds strange to say ‘pleased to meet you,’ but, well . . . hi.”

  I hesitate before grasping the proffered hand, then let go quickly, as if I’ve touched a hot pan. If he’s offended by my discomfort with touch, he doesn’t show it.

  “You know,” he says, “it’s funny. You look just the way I imagined.”

  For the first time, I meet his gaze. And I can’t stop staring.

  His eyes are blue. Not just the irises. The sclerae—the whites—are tinted a misty blue gray, like the interior of a seashell I once found on the beach. This is the first time I’ve been close enough to see, and for a few seconds, I can’t breathe. My voice comes out as a thin whisper. “Your eyes—”

  There’s a subtle change in his face, a stiffening of the muscles, and I stop.

  I should say something else. I reach for words, but nothing comes.

  When I talk to someone, I have to run my answers through various filters in my brain to see if they’re appropriate. Online, the frequent pauses in my speech aren’t a problem, but this is different. I’m sitting next to Stanley, the person I’ve been talking to every night for the past couple of weeks, and I have no idea what to say.

  I start to rock lightly back and forth on the bench. I can’t help it. One hand drifts up to tug on my left braid. Several yards away, near the base of a tree, a rabbit grazes on yellowed grass.

  And then the babbling starts.

  “You know,” I say, “lots of people think rabbits are rodents, but they’re not. They’re lagomorphs, along with hares and pikas. Lagomorphs are herbivorous, where rodents are omnivorous, and lagomorphs have four incisors in their upper jaw instead of two.”

  He blinks.

  The words run out of me in a stream, filling the silence the way air will rush in to fill a void, and I can’t stop: “Another thing about rabbits. They have no paw pads. They have a layer of thick fur to cushion their feet instead. They’re one of the few mammals with paws but no pads.” I keep tugging on my braid. I know that I look and sound completely crazy, but I can’t help it. The more nervous I am, the worse it gets.

  The rabbit lopes another yard away and continues grazing obliviously.

  He clears his throat. “That’s . . . um . . .”

  “‘All the world will be your enemy, Prince with a Thousand Enemies.’” My voice comes out singsongy, like I’m saying a nursery rhyme. “‘And whenever they catch you, they will kill you. But first they must catch you.’”

  Silence.

  It’s over. It’s barely been five minutes, and already I’ve ruined this. Maybe I should just get up and walk away, spare him the discomfort of making an excuse to leave—

  “Watership Down,” he says.

  My body stops rocking; the breath freezes in my throat.

  “That book about the talking rabbits,” he continues. “That’s what it’s from, isn’t it? That quote? The sun god says that to the rabbit prince. What’s his name, again?”

  “El-ahrairah,” I murmur. I look at him from the corner of my eye, clutching my arms. “You’ve read Watership Down.”

  “A long time ago. Is that where the name in your email address comes from? ThousandEnemies?”

  “Yes.”

  He smiles. “I thought that sounded familiar, but I couldn’t figure out why. I loved that book.”

  I look down at my feet, fidgeting. Then I take my Rubik’s Cube from the pocket of my hoodie and twist it around. I know it’s rude to play with a puzzle while you’re talking to someone, but having something to do with my hands keeps me calm. If I didn’t carry this thing around, I’d probably have taken up smoking by now.

  “You know,” he says, “usually I’m the quiet one. I mean, when I’m talking with my coworkers, it’s not a conversation so much as them telling me things while I nod along. I like to think that’s because I’m a good listener. But sometimes I feel like I could be replaced by a mannequin and not have it affect the conversation much.”

  I hunch my shoulders and continue twisting around the Rubik’s Cube. “Do you feel that way with me.”

  “No.”

  The cube rests motionless in my hands.

  Fading daylight reflects off the planes of his angular face, with its sharp features and high cheekbones. His hair is not exactly brown, I decide. It’s more muted gold, the color of wheat. His eyes briefly meet mine, then his long eyelashes sweep down, hiding them, and a light flush creeps into his cheeks.

  The rabbit lopes a few yards away from us and keeps nibbling at the grass. He watches it. “I’ve always wondered . . . what do they eat in the winter? Rabbits, I mean. The grass and leaves are all dead then, right?”

  “They eat bark and dried grass,” I reply. “They also consume their own feces. Food is partially digested and expelled directly from the cecum.”

  “That’s . . . interesting.”

  I pick at the edge of one thumbnail. “It’s called cecotrophy.”

  “I’m kind of glad humans don’t do that.”

  I slip the Rubik’s Cube back into my pocket. The last traces of daylight are fading from the sky. There’s only a thin orange sliver of sunlight on the horizon, shining through the branches. Stanley’s long, thin hands are folded over his crutch. “I’m glad I got a chance to meet you.”

  There’s an odd flutter, like a moth trapped in my chest.

  The last wisp of sunlight disappears. The air feels very still, and there’s a hollow sensation in my stomach, as if I’m looking off the top of a tall building. And I realize—if I’m going to ask him, it has to be now. If I put it off any longer, it won’t happen.

  “Do you like sex,” I ask, staring straight ahead.

  There’s a long pause. “Do I . . . what?”

  “Like sex,” I repeat, enunciating the words slowly. My arms are crossed over my chest.

  “Uh . . . why do you ask?” His voice sounds a little unsteady.

  “Because,” I reply, still staring ahead, “I was wondering if you would have sex with me.”

  When I finally look at his face, his eyes are wide and a little unfocused. A few beads of sweat stand out on his forehead, and he dabs them away with his sleeve. “Y-you mean . . . are you talking hypothetically? Like if we were on a desert island or we were the last two people in the world after a nuclear war or—”

  “I’m asking if you want to have sex with me tonight.”

  His mouth opens and closes several times. “You’re serious.”

  “Do I seem like I’m joking.”

  “You want to have sex with me,” he repeats. “Tonight.”

  “Yes.” I wonder if I’ve done something wrong, if I asked incorrectly. Or maybe he’s just disgusted at the idea. I sit motionless, shoulders hunched, arms crossed.

  His grip tightens on his crutch. He takes a deep breath and rubs his brow. “Sorry. I just—didn’t expect this.”

  My breathing quickens. I take the Rubik’s Cube from my pocket and start playing with it. That look. I’ve seen that look before. The voices of former classmates echo in my skull. Weirdo.

  I twist the Rubik’s Cube faster. My fingers are slick with sweat. It slips from them and bounces off the ground, and I don’t pick it up.

  He hasn’t spoken for almost thirty seconds. I feel sick to my stomach. “Go on,” I whisper. “Say it.”

  “What?”

  “I’m a freak.” My voice comes out stiff and tight. This is bad. I have to get out of here before the situation worsens. I lurch to my feet and begin to walk.

  “Wait!”

  I keep walking.

  He’s still calling my name, following me. Soon, he’s panting for breath. His footsteps are unsteady, broken by the muffled thump of his crutch. What is he thinking, running after me with a broken leg? I turn around just in time to see his foot slip on the muddy grass, and then he’s falling.

  Before I have time to think,
my body reacts. I lunge forward and catch him. He slumps against me, gasping. His heart bangs against his ribs. It feels like a small animal trapped in a box, beating itself against the side in its struggle to escape. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been close enough to feel another person’s heartbeat.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, breathless.

  “Yes,” I reply, just as breathless. I think it’s strange that he’s asking me that when he’s the one who tripped.

  I realize that the lengths of our bodies are pressed together, and panic flashes through me. I pull away, pick up his crutch, and hand it to him, all without looking at his face. Then I turn and keep walking, but he catches my wrist. My whole body goes rigid at the shock.

  I look at his fingers, pressed against my skin. My breath comes short and sharp. My nerves are blazing, tingling; his fingerprints are soaking through my skin, down into my bones, into my DNA.

  I speak, my voice low and hoarse: “Let me go.”

  “Alvie.”

  “Let me go.”

  “You’re not a freak,” he says firmly.

  Suddenly my feet are rooted to the spot.

  He looks down at his hand, still locked around my wrist. Slowly—as if it takes an effort—he uncurls his fingers, one by one. I clutch my hand against my chest, the skin still tingling where he touched. But I don’t run away.

  My fists unclench. A wave of dizziness rolls over me, and I am left feeling like the wind has been knocked out of my mind.

  “Let’s talk about this,” he says. Then, more softly: “Please.”

  We return to the bench and sit. I grip my knees, shoulders tense, gaze fixed on my faded black sneakers. “If you don’t want to have sex with me, you can say so. I won’t be offended. That—that isn’t why I reacted that way. It’s just—the way you were looking at me—” I take a breath. “Never mind.”

  He bites his lower lip. His knuckles are white on his crutch. “Listen. I . . . it’s not that I don’t want to. But I didn’t expect you to just ask. People usually go on a few dates first.”

  “People have one-night stands.”