by Amber Kizer
PP: true
Samuel ate pizza and half a box of chocolate doughnuts while he worked on building level twelve. He wanted to go live with it next month. Recovering from surgery took longer than he’d thought. He hadn’t been able to work much for months.
He checked messages.
Still no Misty.
Recovering from the kidneys and pancreas transplant wasn’t as easy as it might sound. His body had to adapt to the new organs. He had to watch his food and beverage intake, his exertion levels, his stress. It took time to get it all functioning right. The healing exhausted him more than the disease ever had, and his mother’s hovering made it all worse. She loved him. Maybe too much? He knew that too.
Almost as if she didn’t want him to get completely better. As if his being sick gave her a purpose. Totally messed up.
Samuel wiped his hands on a dirty T-shirt because he’d forgotten to grab a napkin.
Ew.
He slid his chair around, switched between screens to update The-Daily-Miracle. He liked his game almost as much as he liked his blog, but his blog was what got him out of bed in the morning.
He believed that people would rise to whatever expectation they were held to. That was his faith, that was what he loved about religion. Faith asked people to be better than themselves, bigger, more.
After deliberating, Samuel typed in his latest miracle, titling it: “Kid versus Gorilla—we all win.” He wrote up the story as succinctly as he could; he wasn’t a writer, didn’t want to be. A kid fell into a gorilla pen at the Berlin Zoo and hit his head. The closest gorilla was the old silverback, notoriously bad tempered and territorial. With families of both species watching, the gorilla carefully picked up the child, cradled him in one arm, and carried the unconscious toddler to the door the keepers used. He gently deposited the child next to the door and backed away, as if he understood the keepers might be leery of opening the door. The child regained consciousness soon after the rescue. He sustained only a minor concussion and bruises, and he made a full recovery.
And thanks to technology, there were a dozen videos, from all angles, from witnesses who pulled out their devices to record the incident. Samuel wished that once, only once, someone would put down their camera phone and jump into action instead. No one leapt into the gorilla cage to save the kid. He shook his head. Could have been a whole other story.
PigskinPaint pinged again from the virtual game board. Samuel switched back and read the question.
PP: how’d you decide making video games was what you wanted to do?
S: deep question
PP: sorry man
hoping for advice
S: give me a second to formulate
Samuel paused and downed another cold soda while deciding how to answer. People asked his advice all the time; thing was, most people assumed he was some video-game Yoda getting moldy in a tech fortress somewhere instead of a seventeen-year-old who’d spent most of his life hunting his own miracle. Not much life happened to him in hospitals and prayer circles. At least, not much he was willing to share with strangers.
S: i played video games
a lot of games
i beat them all
i lost hours in that vortex
PP: i see that
S: got to the point when i surfaced i lost time and felt gross
sounds idiotic to say but it was all pointless
PP: no i get it
wasted time
Samuel took PigskinPaint’s words to heart and opened up a little more.
S: i needed a reason to get up every day
a purpose
PP: and you found it with the game?
S: some
i like seeing where people spend their cash building a house isnt as sexy as taking out zombies
but zombies dont feed people in Bangladesh either
i also post a blog about daily miracles
Sam attached the link to the screen.
PP: will check it out
thanks man preesh it
S: anytime
Misty pinged and Samuel checked the time. One a.m. What time zone was she in?
Pacific Standard.
M: hi Samuel?
how r u?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
S: hoping to find you here
Misty swallowed hard. The silence of books huddled around her like a blanket. Comforting instead of scared. Alone but not so lonely. Seconds ticked by. She didn’t know what to say. She messed things up. Everything.
M: really?
u look for me?
S: y
2 much?
She exhaled a tiny feather of the guilt, the disbelief that ruffled her heart making it impossible to relax.
M: no
glad to find u 2
There were so many words she wanted to type. So many things she wanted to know about him. So many things she wanted to tell him.
S: what time is it there?
M: idk
L8
The blinker cursed at her. Waiting. Hoping. Judging.
Where do they go from here?
M: do u ever look at your hands and wonder why they’re not busy?
S: i guess not
why?
She didn’t want to tell him that everyone around, always at school or even during library hours, seemed to be texting, typing with their fingers flying. Or playing games. Or something. Their hands were occupied. Hers felt as though they simply hung at the ends of her arms, vacant and irrelevant.
S: do u know origami?
M: is that paper folding?
i wish i knew
S: y
do you know sum people link a miracle healing to folding 1k paper cranes?
M: really?
S: many cases
say it works
M: cranes?
Misty perked up. Healing?
S: sure
1k paper cranes bring health and happiness either to the person who folds em or the person they are folded 4
M: sweet
The cursor seemed to stumble and tilt across the screen.
S: i can teach u
i did a whole blog about it
i got pretty good at it
M: 1k?
S: n
i only folded 144
How hard can folding one thousand pieces of paper be?
M: does it have to be special paper?
S: n
thats the cool part
use anything—candy wrappers
foil
napkins
just has to be square
M: can u tell me how?
S: ive got a camera on screen
i can walk you through it live
Misty panicked. She started shaking. Trembling. She fisted her hands and bit a knuckle.
She didn’t want him to see her.
Calm down. You’re going to rupture something important.
Misty forced herself to breathe past the fear. He couldn’t see her unless she let him. She didn’t have to. Gulping at the frenzy, she finally plunked back an answer one key at a time.
M: there’s no camera on this comp
S: u sure?
most have built in these days
M: really old
Misty’s dry mouth mocked her, she tasted metal shavings each time she moved her tongue.
Focus on something else.
Come on, Samuel, distract her. I held my fingers crossed that he wouldn’t push harder. She didn’t want anyone to see her. I understood, except I wanted everyone to see me.
S: o
ok
will go step by step when youre ready
do u hve paper?
u need a square
start big
M: why?
S: easier big
to learn
Misty pulled out an assignment sheet from her backpack and folded it until she could rip the crease straight off. Samuel walked her through folding a crane, waiting each step for her to type next.
M: if u weren’t talking to me what would u be doing?
S: research
M: on what?
S: its not very happy
Misty understood unhappy better than happy.
M: that’s ok
tell me?
S: im researching accidents and obituaries of people in the western US
Way to sound like a serial killer, Sammy! I wanted to roll my eyes at his honesty. Now she’ll never reach out again.
M: oh
S: im not crazy
or sick
or anything
S: say something
S: anything
Misty chewed on her bottom lip.
M: why?
S: thnx
becuz im trying to find a particular dead person
Misty swallowed, wondering if she was too sick to know when she should be afraid. But she wasn’t fearful, simply curious as to what seemed the safest possible question.
M: why?
S: for answers
idk
complicated
M: isn’t everything?
S: someday i will tell you
ok?
M: sure
someday you can tell me
right
S: what do u mean?
M: never mind
S: dont do that
hate when girls do that
M: do what?
S: say something important
and then act like it wasnt
M: oh
i just don’t think you’ll tell me
that’s all
and I’m sleepy
S: u r forgiven
M: i’m sleepy
i need to go
S: ok
night
Misty yawned as if she hadn’t slept for days, maybe months. But her stomach rumbled so she navigated her way to the front desk looking for snacks, or candy, or something. She found a stash of old Halloween candy. Tootsie Rolls. Individually wrapped. Half a bag, tossed behind hand sanitizer and a box of tissues. More riffling produced a can of diet shake.
The irony wasn’t lost on me.
She didn’t have her complete dose of meds with her, but she swallowed the yellows and grays and a couple of the whites. There were too many to name. She’d take the rest before school in the morning. She’d just go back to the apartment early. That was only a few hours away. No way that would hurt anything.
Are you sure?
The morning janitorial crew came in weekdays at six. She’d sneak out of the library then.
Leif turned up the volume on Kenny Tislane’s newest country album. He’d listened to it enough that he sang along without even realizing it.
I sang along and I hated country music. Why does he have to love country?
Leif trolled the Internet looking for “how to play guitar” videos and “how to play Kenny Tislane” blogs the way I suspected he used to troll for porn. I wanted to grab the guitar and hit him over the head with it.
I knew nothing about the instrument, or what it took to play it. Well, I used to know nothing, now I knew a lot. Thanks, Leif.
Like chords. His chords sucked. I didn’t know if they were flat, or sharp, or just plain wrong, but they hurt my ears and sounded nothing like Kenny.
Like strumming versus plucking versus whatever he was doing. At least he’s graduated from holding the guitar like a football.
His brow furrowed and dug deeper into his sight line with concentration. The last note played in the playlist and he sighed. “No freaking closer.” Frustration dripped out, and off, his fingers.
He mimicked his dad’s favorite phrase. “Closer just is ‘See a Loser.’ ” His dad was almost as full of crap as his mom. It’s no wonder this kid walked around without deigning to speak to mere peasants. Everything was a competition, and if he wasn’t on top, he was on the bottom.
Leif dug his cell phone out of his pocket. His parents took the landline phone out of his bedroom, but forgot to confiscate his cell. Shows how often he disobeys them, doesn’t it?
“Art and Soul, this is Cassidy.”
Leif winced. He wanted Vivian to answer. “Uh, hey.”
“Hi. Can I help you?”
“Is Vivian working? It’s Leif.”
“Oh, Leif.” She drew out his name as if there was a full stadium of meaning in there. I wanted to giggle.
“Yeah, so is she there?”
“No, she’s not working, but here’s her cell.” Cassidy rattled off numbers and he grabbed a marker, wrote the digits on his arm. “Got it?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“She’s in the middle of a portrait, so she’ll probably be in later tonight.” Cassidy’s voice sounded full of smiles and double entendre.
“Great. Thanks.” Hanging up, Leif stared at the phone. Should he call her?
He dialed the first five when he heard, “Hey, son, dinner’s ready.”
He tucked the phone into his desk drawer and headed down to face the winner’s circle, aka the dinner table.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Misty hesitated outside the cracked concrete steps of the apartment building. Every time she returned, part of her hoped magic had turned it into a home, but it was as desolate and depressing as always. Most of the inhabitants were either still asleep because they worked late or were already at work and not back to sleep during the sun’s reign. Uh-oh.
Her grandmother was up and doing her creepy usual. Even from the outside hallway, Misty heard the chants and prayers and muttering. Her feet cramped, her toes tangled in protest. Immediately, the feeling of loathing crawled up her spine and tickled the backs of her eyes until her head throbbed. The old lady would glare and spit and point. It was their routine.
Misty hesitated. Her pills were inside the apartment. She had to replenish the Ziploc bags she carried with her.
You need your pills. You have to go inside.
She waited. Debated.
Her hand clenched the key to the deadbolt.
Someone’s footsteps skittered down the stairs above her. A big rat or a small dog?
I wanted to squeal and hop around, but Misty didn’t even react to the sounds. Her gaze glued to the door and what she knew was on the other side.
She turned around. Away from the door, from the apartment, from the pills.
Wait. No, you have to take your pills.
Misty!
Misty!
I shouted and waved and couldn’t make her even hesitate a second.
She never glanced back. I couldn’t shake the sick feeling that this was a horrible decision.
Family dinners with Leif’s parents seemed a legitimate part of his grounding punishment. They gathered at one end of the glass and chrome dining-room table that comfortably sat the starting lineup for the Packers. The dishes were glass with silver edges and matched the tumblers and silverware perfectly. His parents even wiped their mouths with perfectly pressed squares of white linen threaded with silver accents. Together, it felt cold, calculated, chosen solely for appearances.
“What is it you’re listening to up there?” his dad asked with a jab of his fork.
Leif tucked his napkin into his lap. “Music.”
“Not twang country? Crossover rock and roll?”
“What’s wrong with country music?” Leif asked. It wasn’t classical for his brainwave development. Or rock like his dad preferred, those urban notes that stayed on the surface and didn’t slither in the mud of humanity.
His dad jabbed again, shaking his head. “Those aren’t our people.”
Anger bubbled up but Leif stuffed it deeper. He felt as though in letting one beat of emotion go he’d lose control of all of them. His dad’s view of the world seemed to narrow the older Leif got. Maybe Leif just widened his eyes
and his dad didn’t change.
After setting the filled plates down before them, his mom launched into the conversation Leif dreaded most. “We need to talk about the upcoming fall schedule and your training regimen.”
That’s months away. I cringed for him, but he tried not to react outwardly. Inside, he boiled and raged and screamed for a break.
Leif shrugged noncommittally, keeping his eyes on the plate of perfectly baked salmon fillet, a bare chicken breast, blanched kale, and broccoli trees. Yummy. If he was lucky, he’d get a protein shake for dessert. The menu for winners in this family required lots of vegetables and mostly protein; carbs were complex and came with a fiber minimum per serving. His tongue begged for the everything pizza at Vivian’s.
His dad continued where his mom had left off. “I’ve been fielding calls from scouts all spring, son. They’re waiting on offers until they see if you can play up to your potential.”
It’s as if they’re afraid to speak about his injury directly.
“Because of my leg?” Tension vibrated from each obvious word. He’d been hoping they’d lay off. Give up. Let him breathe. Leif set his fork down. His appetite was gone. Until then, they’d ignored the new loud country music in his room, the secondhand guitar he’d dragged home, the crayons and paints that littered his desk and bedroom floor.
“All athletes have to lose occasionally. It’s how the great ones evolve,” Mom stated.
He didn’t lose, he was injured. I half expected her to add, “Confucius say.” Condescending much?
Leif lifted his gaze, hardened and flinty, as if daring her to continue. I shuddered.
The pent-up frustration inched closer to his surface. “And what, I’m a great one?”
“In this family you are. Certainly not a loser.” His dad’s voice rose with the elevating tension.
“What if I can’t?” Leif asked.
His mom gasped. “We don’t use the word can’t, Leif. You know that.”
He shoved his plate away. “What if my leg won’t work the way it used to? Would it be the end of the world?”
She paled, her fork clattering to the table. “Give up football? You’re kidding.”
