The muscles of his face tighten. “Nothing.”
I don’t move. Am I doing something bad? Lightly—very lightly—I touch his thigh. I brush my finger over the tiny metal tongue of his zipper, then tug it down a half inch. He remains perfectly still. I tug it down a little farther, and his eyes slip shut. A sheen of sweat gleams on his forehead.
Once I start, I don’t know what will happen. I don’t know how it’s supposed to happen.
When I speak, my voice trembles a little, despite my effort to hold it steady: “I’ve never done this before, so you’ll have to let me know if I do anything wrong.”
His eyes snap open. “What?”
I realize at once that I’ve made a mistake. I bite my tongue.
“What did you just say?” he asks.
“Nothing.” I start to pull down his zipper, but he catches my wrist. I flinch.
He releases me, but immediately he sits up, looking at me directly. “You’re a virgin?”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“Please. Just tell me.”
I don’t know what will happen if I tell him the truth, but I can’t lie. I’ve never been a good liar. So I don’t say anything.
He covers his face with his hands. “Oh my God,” he whispers.
I wait for a few seconds, but he doesn’t say anything else. My chest is tight and uncomfortable. “Do you want to keep going,” I ask.
He lowers his hands slowly. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I thought—I mean, in the park, when you asked me if I wanted to . . . I thought you must have done it before.”
My chest isn’t tight anymore—it’s empty. Numb.
I’m almost relieved. This is a world I know and recognize, a world where the doors of human contact are closed to me. The reason doesn’t matter. The point is, it’s over. I turn away.
He says my name, but I don’t look at him. I pick up my bra and slip it back on.
He stands and reaches out to me. “Wait. What are you—?”
I step away. “It’s all right. I’ll go.”
I pick up my shirt. My whole body suddenly feels stiff, and it hurts to move, but I put the shirt on anyway. My head is buzzing oddly. I need to get out of the room. I need to go home, crawl into the bathtub, and wrap myself in blankets.
He says my name again, louder, but his voice is muffled, as if I’m hearing it through several feet of water.
I walk toward the door. He blocks my path. His unzipped pants start to slip down his thin hips, and he hastily zips them back up. “Listen to me! Please. If I’d had any idea this was your first time—”
“I don’t see why it matters.”
“Of course it matters! What sort of person do you think I am? Did you really think I’d just—” He stops, face flushed. “Maybe I should have told you.”
“Told me what.”
His jaw tightens. The flush in his face grows brighter. “I’ve never done this, either.”
I stare. Somehow it never occurred to me that he might be as inexperienced as I am. He’s older than me, for one thing. And while he might be an introvert, he’s definitely not autistic; his speech comes too easily, too fluidly. Suddenly I don’t know what to think or how to react. I never even paused to contemplate what this experience might mean for him. Or rather, I believed that he’d simply take advantage of the opportunity, assuming he didn’t find me too unattractive.
“You’re a virgin,” I say, though that’s already been made clear.
He looks away. “I know. It’s ridiculous.”
I study his expression, trying to glean something from it. “Why.”
“Why have I never had sex, or—?”
“No. Why do you think it’s ridiculous. You’re only nineteen.”
He sighs. “Well, you know how it is. Guys aren’t supposed to be virgins. We’re supposed to lose it like two minutes after we hit puberty, and if we don’t, there’s something wrong with us.”
“That’s absurd,” I say. “There’s obviously nothing wrong with you. You’re normal.”
He laughs. It’s a strange sound—empty and monotone. “Normal, huh?” His voice is low, like he’s talking to himself.
“Yes. Aren’t you.”
He ignores the question and starts to place his hand on my arm. I flinch, and he withdraws. I cross my arms over my chest and study the pattern in the carpet. For a moment, neither of us moves.
“Sit with me,” he says. “Please?”
I tug one braid. “Be careful. About touching, I mean.”
“I will.”
We sit side by side on the edge of the bed. My hands are clasped tightly in my lap, the skin around my nails whitened from the pressure. I don’t know where to go from here. The plan has gone completely awry, and I never came up with an alternative strategy, aside from just leaving and going home. This is uncharted territory.
“Will you do me a favor?” he asks quietly.
I swallow, trying to moisten my dry mouth. “What.”
“This will sound weird, but just look at me for a minute. Tell me what you see.”
I look.
His hair is a bit mussed, and his shirt collar is crooked, but aside from that, he looks the same as ever. We’re very close; close enough that I can see the little ripple patterns in his irises, like the veins in marble.
Eye contact is too intimate—it feels like we have our hands in each other’s guts, feeling around where it’s tender and bloody—but I force myself to hold his gaze.
“I see you,” I say. “I see Stanley Finkel.”
He averts his eyes. I have a feeling that wasn’t the answer he was looking for, but I don’t know what else to say.
When we finally leave the motel, it’s almost midnight. I drive him back to the lot where his car is parked, and I park next to it. The engine idles. The pale green glow of the dashboard bathes his face. “I want to see you again,” he says.
I know he’s not talking about text-chatting. My hands are locked tight around the steering wheel. “I can’t.”
“Ever?”
I close my eyes. “Trust me. It’s better if we just keep talking online.”
“I don’t understand. If it’s something I said or did—”
“It has nothing to do with you.”
“Then why?” he whispers.
He’s not going to give up, I realize. Even if we go back to Gchat, it won’t be the same. This was a mistake.
“Listen,” he continues. “I know you’re self-conscious about being—different. I know that’s why you didn’t want to meet at first. But I don’t mind.”
My breathing space has shrunk down again, confined to a tiny cavity inside my chest. Everything is hot and tight inside. I hear a sound like scraping rocks in my head—my molars grinding together—and I force the words out between them: “You don’t know how fucking different I am.”
A light drizzle patters on the roof of the car; the only sound. Droplets slide down the windshield, casting shadows that trickle down his cheeks.
“I’ll be in the park again tomorrow,” he says. “Same time.”
I don’t answer. I wait until he gets out of the car and gets into his own car. Then I drive away. A dull rumble echoes up from the Vault, and I shudder. I don’t ever want to look inside.
It’s horrible, and dark, and filled with the roar of water.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Dawn creeps in through my curtains and spreads across my walls. I glance at the clock. 6:17 a.m. I haven’t slept.
I’m lying on my mattress, my T-shirt sticking to my sweaty skin. I sit up and peel off the damp cotton. My fingers tremble as I pick up my Rubik’s Cube and twist it around.
I keep replaying the details of last night in my head. The memory of Stanley is a constant itch under my skin. Particles of him are swimming through my blood, my brain. Whenever I close my eyes he is there, in the darkness behind my eyelids.
I didn’t even have sex with him, but somehow he got inside me anyway.
&nb
sp; Stupid. So very, very stupid for me to think I could meet him and not suffer any repercussions. I broke every rule of my personal code, and now I’m paying the price.
I push the thoughts away, drag myself to my feet, and shuffle into the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face. I need to get ready for work.
“Hey!”
I turn, squinting. I’ve just finished mucking out the gibbons’ cage. Toby is leaning on his broom and dustpan, his jaws working a bright purple wad.
“You aren’t supposed to chew gum during work hours,” I tell him.
He smirks. “What, you gonna report me?”
Maybe in his mind, he’s being cool. Perhaps this is even his backward way of trying to flirt, like a little boy pulling a girl’s pigtails. I’m not amused. “Spit it out,” I tell him.
He spits the gum into his palm and sticks it on the underside of a drinking fountain.
Briefly I consider dumping the bucket of gibbons’ feces and rotten fruit rinds over his head. I’d be fired, of course, but it would almost be worth it. “Is there something you wanted to say to me,” I ask.
He tips up the brim of his khaki-colored cap and flashes a chipmunk-toothed smile. “Ms. Nell wants to see you.”
When Ms. Nell wants to see me, it usually isn’t good. Of course, it’s always possible that she wants to promote me. Possible, but not likely.
I arrive in her office and sit down. She squints at me. “Are you sick? You look like a dog’s dinner.”
I shift in my chair. She’s used this expression before. It means I look bad, though I’m not sure what that has to do with dog food. “I didn’t sleep well. That’s all.”
She taps one oval-shaped, Pepto-Bismol-pink nail on the desk, then shifts to a familiar, lecturing tone that signals I’m going to be here awhile. “You know, I’m trying to run a respectable business here. People all told me I was crazy to believe that I could turn a profit with this rinky-dink zoo. ‘No one makes money on zoos anymore,’ they said. But I proved ’em wrong. I bought this place when it was about to close down for good, gave it a fresh coat of paint and some new animals, put out some ads, poured in a few buckets of good old-fashioned elbow grease, and now Hickory Park is turning a profit for the first time in years. Decades. Do you know how I did it?”
She just told me in detail how she did it, but I recognize this game by now. “How,” I ask.
“One word: reputation. Reputation is everything. You think people come here to see animals?”
“Yes. I mean, no.”
“If people want to see animals, they can do it at home, in billion-pixel high-def, just by turning on a damn nature show. And on TV, the animals are doing interesting things. Here, they just sit around picking fleas off their furry balls. You think anyone wants to look at that?”
I consider pointing out that most of the animals here don’t have the opposable thumbs necessary for that particular activity, then decide to let it slide.
She continues: “Our guests come here for the experience. The whole package. We’re competing with movie theaters, with sporting events, with any other damn thing people can do on a Saturday, and that means we’ve got to deliver. If guests come in and see you looking like a bucket of crap, the experience suffers.”
Exhaustion creeps over me, making my body heavy. She keeps talking, but the words slide through my mind without leaving a mark. My vision wavers, and the world swims.
After a moment, I realize Ms. Nell is saying my name over and over. Her voice seems to slow, as if someone’s playing a recording at half speed—Alviiiiie . . . Aaaalviiiie. I can see the words floating through the air, shining faintly, like they’re traced in silver paint. My gaze follows them with detached interest.
“Hey!” She snaps her fingers.
My vision jolts into focus. “What.”
She frowns, but her eyebrows are tilted down at the outside corners. That usually means someone is worried, not angry. “You sure you’re not sick?”
I shake my head. “Just tired.” And preoccupied.
Duke the parrot lets out a sudden squawk from his cage, and I give a start, almost jumping from my chair.
Ms. Nell’s frown deepens. “Maybe you ought to go home early. Get some rest.”
I open my mouth to protest—I feel calmer here than I do in my apartment—but I recognize the futility of argument. So I close my mouth, nod, and push myself to my feet.
At home, I sit on the couch, fiddling with my Rubik’s Cube. I close my eyes and focus on the smooth, cool plastic under my fingers. This is just another puzzle. If I can find a way to stop thinking about Stanley, my problems will be solved.
I open my laptop and type stopping obsessive thoughts into the search engine. I scroll down through the results and start clicking on links. I do more searches. The rapid-fire click of keys echoes through the silence; a comforting sound. My gaze latches on to a name.
Bupropion. It’s an antidepressant, but it’s also used to treat addictions. And attraction, after all, is just another form of addiction. It activates the same centers of the brain as cocaine.
The thought stops me. Am I attracted to him? I remember being disappointed when he wouldn’t let me take off his clothes. I enjoyed touching him. Maybe I am capable of attraction, after all—and now I’m trying to put an end to it. Ironic.
I’ve always avoided prescription medications, but I’m not against taking pills so much as seeing doctors. There are ways to buy prescription drugs online, but most of them aren’t strictly legal, and I’d rather not take the risk.
Again, I consider the idea of calling Dr. Bernhardt and asking for his help. I don’t like it, but at this point, I’m desperate enough to try almost anything.
I flip open my cell phone and scroll through my list of contacts, which includes him, Ms. Nell, Stanley—my gaze lingers on his name—and an old employer whose number I never bothered to delete. I select Dr. Bernhardt’s name and call.
He picks up in the middle of the second ring. “Alvie?” He sounds utterly baffled. I’ve never actually called his cell phone before.
In the background, a man’s voice says, “Who’s that, Len?”
“Hang on,” he mumbles. I hear footsteps, then he asks, “Is everything okay?”
“I have a favor to ask you.”
“Uh . . . of course. Go ahead.”
“I need some bupropion.”
There’s a pause. “You realize I’m not a psychiatrist, don’t you? I have a doctorate in sociology.”
“I know that.” Already, this is starting to seem like a bad idea. “I just thought . . . maybe you knew someone who had some samples, or . . .”
“In the past, you’ve been very adamant about not going back on medication, or seeking any kind of help, for that matter. Why now? Why bupropion?”
I grit my teeth. If I want his help, I’ll have to give him some sort of explanation. That much is clear. “It’s sometimes prescribed to people who want to quit smoking or who can’t stop playing video games.”
“So have you taken up smoking, or are you addicted to video games?”
“Neither.” I guess I could have just lied about that and said yes to one or the other, but I’m no good at lying, and I hate doing it, anyway. “I’m addicted to something else.”
“What?”
I shift my weight on the couch. “It’s nothing illegal. So why does it matter.”
“Because even if I could write you a prescription myself, which I can’t, it would be irresponsible of me to hand out pills like candy without even knowing why you want them. So what are you addicted to?”
“It’s a person,” I mumble.
“A person,” he repeats.
“There’s a person I can’t stop thinking about. Someone I met recently.”
After a few heartbeats, he replies, “Was it a bad experience?”
“No. It went better than I expected, actually.”
“So why do you want to stop thinking about it?”
“B
ecause I’m showing clear signs of obsession. I got no sleep last night. My reflexes are shot. I almost got into an accident driving to work this morning. If this continues, I’m going to lose my job, and I don’t want to lose my job. I like being around the animals. I—”
“Alvie, it’s all right. It’s all right. Calm down.”
Only then do I realize my voice has escalated to a shout. I exhale a shuddering breath and slump on the couch, limp, like a broken puppet. “Sorry.” This is bad. I’m slipping, losing control. “I should go.”
“Wait. I can help you schedule an appointment with someone, if that’s what you want.”
“I’d prefer not to.”
“Then I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do.” Another pause. “Is this the same person you mentioned to me before? The one you were talking to online?”
“It doesn’t matter.” My throat tightens. “Sorry to disturb you.” I hang up.
I shouldn’t have called. Why did I do that? If Dr. Bernhardt thinks I’m unstable, he might tell the judge that I’m not ready for emancipation. I could lose my chance.
For a while, I try unsuccessfully to nap. After an hour or so, I roll out of bed and throw on my hoodie.
It’s almost six o’clock. Stanley said he would be waiting for me in the park.
I could, of course, just not show up. I could stop going online, ignore his emails, return to my safe, isolated little life. That would probably be smarter.
But I can’t do that to him. After the kindness he’s shown me, I at least owe him some kind of explanation.
I pull up my hood and walk down the sidewalk with my hands shoved into my pockets and my breath pluming in the air. The days are getting shorter and chillier, and the horizon glows red with sunset. I breathe in deep, feeling the prickle of cold air in my lungs, and release it through my nose.
When I arrive at the park, he’s already there, sitting on the bench, wearing a gray fleece jacket. My heart lurches. Even from this distance, I can see him shivering. I duck behind a tree, press my back to the rough bark. Take a deep breath. I am going to tell him now, tonight, that this has to end. What he wants is something more than I’m capable of giving.
I need a minute to get myself under control before I face him, so I turn away and force my legs to move. My steps are stiff and jerky, mechanical, as my feet take me away from him and across the street. I slump against a wall and close my eyes, more sweat beading on my forehead. My hand slips into my pocket and grips the Rubik’s Cube. I turn it over and over, focusing on the cool smoothness.
When My Heart Joins the Thousand Page 7
