Prism

by Faye Kellerman; Aliza Kellerman

  “What does it matter?”

  “Just making conversation.”

  “It would help if I knew your name.”

  “Ozzy.”

  “Like the rock star?”

  “If you want to associate me with him, that’s cool.”

  There was an overly long silence. “Are you going to ask my name?”

  Ozzy had dark green eyes, not mint green like mine. “I would love to know your name.” He smiled impishly. “Speak to me of it, Juliet.”

  “Just for that, now you’ll have to guess, Rumpelstiltskin.” I prompted him with a wave of my hand.

  “It’s either very unique or ridiculously ordinary. And by the way, it wasn’t Rumpelstiltskin who did the guessing, it was the mother of the child.” Before I could zing him a nasty retort, he said, “Your name is either common like Ashley or quirky like Mocha or Rose. Give me a hint…like the country of origin?”

  “Good call, Ozzy. My name is Japanese.”

  “Japanese?” He threw his head back. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Not at all.”

  He took in my contradictory appearance: freckles with purple hair and a long face on a small body. “Yoshi?”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Megumu?”

  “Haven’t heard of that one, either.” I looked up at the ceiling. The perforations on the tiles reminded me of sky constellations on crack. “Kaida.”

  “Katie?”

  “Kai-da.” My body filled with warmth when I said my own name. It was also filling with heat from those gorgeous eyes. Where had he been keeping himself? I hid behind a forkful of macaroni before I could embarrass myself further and I ate a few bites. Then I decided to change the subject. “Were the phones out yesterday?”

  “I don’t believe so. Why?”

  “I saw a car crash. I called nine-one-one, but no one answered.”

  We sat still, staring at each other. His face had suddenly become grave and even a little scared. I tried out a smile, but his expression remained stiff. I felt very stupid and random.

  “So I think I’d better go.” I shot out of my chair and ran through the crowds of the cafeteria. Running away from the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen.

  He could’ve called after me. And maybe he even did. But I couldn’t be sure, so it would have been stupid to turn back.

  “Why am I so socially awkward?” I plunked myself down in a chair next to Maria.

  Her brown eyes narrowed as they bored into mine. “Who was that?”

  “His name is Ozzy.” I answered with feigned disinterest, stealing the cinnamon bun that she had gotten from the vending machine.

  “Oh, don’t be so nonchalant.” She grabbed her pastry back. “He’s hot!”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “Right, and I don’t have twelve toes.”

  This was true. Maria was extremely proud of her twelve toes. She had the nicest shoes of anyone on the planet because they had to be custom-made. “I really shouldn’t go around advertising that.” A nervous laugh. “Don’t want too many people thinking I’m a freak.”

  “And I shouldn’t have purple hair, but it is what it is.”

  “Oz-zy!” She pronounced the name like her whole tongue had been dunked in honey. “Ozzy is quite fetching.”

  “That’s enough out of you,” I said. “He just got here. He’s trying out Buchanan for a couple of weeks. I hope he likes it.”

  “Taken, are we?” She raised an eyebrow and sipped her root beer.

  “You have a boyfriend!” I said this without knowing whether my statement was legitimate. Maria went through guys like Suzanne went through diapers—daily and not very cleanly. “So really, you think he’s cute?”

  “I think he’s, h-h-h…” She sneezed and wiped her nose on her sweater.

  “You sound like someone stuck Mount Kilimanjaro up your nose,” I remarked.

  “Yeah, well,” she mumbled in a nasty tone.

  “Why the bitterness?”

  “You know why!” she shot back in an undertone.

  I shrugged. “Just take a sick day—”

  “Stop talking smack. Change the subject, Kaida. You’re not being funny now.”

  And just then I saw Ozzy walk by. His mossy eyes zeroed in on Maria and me. They finally settled on my face.

  “Hey.” Maria smiled at him. “How goes it?”

  “Not bad.” He gave us a half smile and waved. Then he walked away, turning back once more to look at me.

  Just me!

  Stifling a smile, I stood up. “I’ve got to go to my locker before next period.”

  “More like chasing after your prey.” Maria held my arm. “Don’t be so obvious.”

  “I’m not running after him, I really do have to—” We heard a hacking noise and both of us turned around.

  One of the girls from the AP calculus group had turned bright red. Her friends were hitting her back.

  “Oh, my God!” I said to Maria. “She’s choking!”

  “I know,” Maria whispered.

  It seemed like the entire cafeteria was mesmerized by some invisible force. “Isn’t anyone going to do something?”

  But nobody did. Even Maria just continued to stare. Then out of the blue, Zeke Anderson went up to her and performed a Heimlich. A piece of macaroni came flying out of her mouth, and the poor girl was suddenly able to breathe. But instead of thanking him, one of the big guys from the AP group glared at Zeke. The boy was over six feet tall and played football.

  “What the hell are you doing, Anderson?” He pushed Zeke in the chest. “Getting in my girl’s face.”

  “I was trying to help—”

  “Stay away from her!” Another push. “You hear me?”

  Zeke blushed and backed away. “I hear you.” He turned around and we locked eyes.

  I’m sure that his astounded expression mirrored my own.

  8

  I woke up shaky and disconcerted and I did lousy on a science quiz that afternoon. I knew what was wrong and I knew I had to do something about it. Perched atop a washing machine, locked in the laundry room, I did what I should have done yesterday. Now, after the choking incident, I knew I didn’t have a choice.

  There was a cordless phone in my hand and a wrinkled piece of paper on my lap.

  Zeke Anderson

  47893 Canyonette Drive

  Home number…

  I was wearing my favorite oversized sweatshirt and pajama pants. Such sloth at five in the afternoon was one of my few indulgences. The washing machine below me hummed a very dull tune.

  “Okay.” I found it calming to talk to myself. I always listened and I rarely talked back. “Here goes.”

  I hit the numbers on the phone. As it continued to ring and ring, I started praying for the wrong number.

  “Hello?” a voice answered on the other end.

  “Is Zeke Anderson available?” I muttered in haste.

  “Speaking.” He sounded out of breath.

  “Did you just run the mile or something?”

  “Who is this?”

  The clothes below me swirled and rotated. “It’s, um, Kaida.”

  There was a pause.

  “One sec.” In the background, I heard people talking and immediately recognized the whiny voice of Leslie Barker. Then I heard a door close behind him. “Kaida Hutchenson?”

  “Yeah. Do you know any other Kaida?”

  “What’s up?”

  “I think you need to come over.” I didn’t know how else to initiate a meeting with Zeke Anderson.

  “I feel the need to remind you I have a girlfriend.” He chuckled.

  My face heated up. “Yeah, everyone and the king of Spain knows that. Look. Do you want to come over or not?”

  If he said yes, I would know that I wasn’t nuts. If he said no, I’d say never mind and hang up and that would be that. I wouldn’t ever think about it again. I heard Zeke inhale sharply. “I think I get it. You live on Agatha, right?”
>
  “Yes, I’m on Agatha. It’s around six miles from your place.” Five and a half, actually. I had MapQuested the route already.

  “Okay. Ordinarily, I’d have Leslie take me, but that’s not a good idea right now. I’ll take the bus.”

  I forgot Leslie was old for our grade and already had her driver’s license—the perks of having a plus-one. “Why can’t Leslie take you?”

  “Because she’s already pissed at me because she thought I was trying to put a move on Moose’s girl.”

  “The one who was choking?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “We’ll talk later,” Zeke said. “Au revoir, mon amie.”

  He hung up. My grandfather was French and I was semi-fluent as well as the vice president of the French Club. Was Zeke alluding to this? I wondered if he’d been researching me in the Buchanan directory.

  I’d definitely researched Zeke last night. I had already known—pre-stalking—that he was on the swim team and had some prestige by being the cocaptain of the debate team. In my freshman yearbook, I saw a ton of pictures of him with Emory Dallard, last year’s debate team captain, who had headed off to Columbia University.

  Buchanan High’s yearbook had this page called Krazy Kapshuns. I didn’t know why it was spelled so ridiculously. I think the whole idea was birthed in the ’60s or ’70s when incorrectly spelling things was cool. Krazy Kapshuns featured photos of students—both normal and silly pictures—with ridiculous captions added onto them. Last year there was a picture of Zeke with Emory, both of them wearing white button-down shirts, mugging for the camera.

  The caption above Zeke said, “Emory, can you PLEASE put me in your suitcase when you go to Columbia?”

  Emory’s caption said, “Sorry, Zeke, but I have a girlfriend.”

  I was thinking about the picture because it said something about Zeke and his quest to be cool and popular and to hang with the kids who represented conventional success. He would never agree to meet me unless there was something weird going on.

  Hopping down, I took the clothes out of the washing machine and shoved them into the dryer. I switched from sitting atop the washing machine to lying across both machines. Below me the dryer moved like a beast.

  I closed my eyes and got into the swishing rhythm of the moment, the room warm and womblike. I must have drifted off into a fitful sleep. The next thing I heard was footsteps. Zeke ambled into the laundry room with my brother right behind him.

  “If you call someone up to come over, please do not sequester yourself in hard-to-find spots.” Jace was mad at me. He’d been so upset with me lately, and for the life of me I didn’t know why. We usually got along very well.

  “Sorry.” I sat upright and gave Zeke an apologetic look.

  “I figured you’d be in here,” Jace went on. “This is where your teenage girl crap goes down.”

  “So if you knew where I’d be, why are you so pissed off?”

  “Don’t close the door, Kaida. You know the rules.”

  “He’s just here for a science project.”

  Jace laughed in my face. “Yo, ho, ho, and a bottle of friggin’ rum.”

  “My periodic table or yours?” Zeke croaked out. Quite bravely, I decided.

  “Chemistry was never my subject.” Jace shrugged. “You two bore me. Have fun with the eeons or whatever.”

  “Ions,” Zeke corrected. Although he was trying to feign casualness, his baby blues were deadly serious. He wore jeans, a polo shirt, and moccasins and looked preppy neat. He waited until Jace was far away, then said, “We’re not really here for chem, unless you have a different agenda.”

  “No, I think we both know why I called you.” I felt a lump in my throat. Usually that meant I was happy, sad, or coming down with a cold. But this lump was from raw nerves. For the past few days, my stomach had been producing gallons of acid. “Before I go on, I think there’s someone else who should be here.”

  Zeke was mute, so I took the initiative.

  “On the count of three, say his or her name, okay? But whisper. Jace has been crabby.”

  “Got it.”

  “One-two-three.”

  “Joy,” we said in unison.

  “W-wow,” I stuttered. It was comforting yet terrifying to know we were thinking similarly. “Do you want to call her?”

  “You have the phone, Hutchenson. You do it.”

  Just because we had an understanding didn’t mean I liked him any better.

  Joy said she’d be over in ten minutes.

  I had also researched Joy in the yearbook. She had two sad photographs in the Buchanan annual. One was the standard black-and-white photo that everyone got, and there she looked incredibly miserable. The bags under her eyes were distinguishable even in the tiny picture, and her hair was pulled back. Apparently she had had a lip ring last year, but she didn’t have one now. One club was listed under her extracurriculars: Mathletes.

  The other picture of Joy was with a spiky-haired guy with his arm around her. I recognized him as a senior from last year who had been in French Club with me. He spoke fluently with a perfect Parisian accent. I also knew he, in stereotypical French fashion, smoked like a fiend. I had taken one puff of a Galois once and decided I could never be 100 percent French.

  When she showed up, Joy was wearing a loose zip-up hoodie and sweatpants. “I think I know why you called me down.” She was clutching her arm. “At least, I think I might know…but maybe I don’t know.”

  No one spoke. It was my house. That made me in charge.

  Move it along, Kaida.

  “We’re here because we sure as hell aren’t in Kansas anymore.”

  “Got that right, Dorothy.” Zeke twisted his lips into a crooked smile.

  Joy said, “I smoked in the school halls yesterday.” She was still cradling her arm. “Mrs. Mimms gave me a light.”

  “Kaida and I saw a car crash. We called nine-one-one, but there was no answer. No paramedics…no firefighters. Just some weird guys in white who took the body away.”

  “It’s called the cleanup crew,” I said. “That’s what my brother called them, at least.”

  “I told Leslie about it.” Zeke paced in front of us. “She looked at me like I was crazy…no, not crazy. Like okay, so what’s the big deal? Then she said, ‘It’s not good, but it happens. Be happy it didn’t happen to you.’ Leslie is not much for emotions, but this was…crazy!”

  “Same with my brother,” I told him. “The most he said was that it was gross. Not a word about that poor man…” My eyes watered. “Maybe if he would have seen it himself…”

  “Something’s missing here,” Joy finished in a hollow voice.

  “Really missing!” Zeke shook his head. “Like Mr. Darquest says in chem, let’s review the evidence.”

  “But in a private place.” I hopped off the dryer. “Follow me.”

  And they did—across the house and up the stairs, turning left into my tiny sanctuary. My space had undergone changes depending on my whims. It started when I was seven. I went through a color-on-walls phase. I had filled my room with doodles—stick figures, houses with oversized trees, lots of scribbling. It all got painted away when I went through my next phase: the coffee-shop décor with a red-checked bedspread and white shelves with a soda counter for a desk. That lasted until about a year ago when I painted my room orange. Now my space was just messy with posters and pictures, a silver lamé bedspread, and a boring desk.

  I sat on my white tile floor left over from the coffee-shop days, and Joy sat next to me. Zeke closed my door and sat in the chair by my junk-covered desk.

  “No nine-one-one, no smoking prohibition.” Zeke ticked down a finger at each fact. “And Moose thinks I’m hitting on his girl when I successfully did a Heimlich on her. I saved her life, and no one said a word! All I got was a bruise on my chest!”

  “What’s going on?” Joy asked. After Zeke explained the cafeteria incident to her, she pulled out a pack of Ma
rlboros and said, “Anarchist society?”

  “Open the window if you’re going to do that,” I told her. “And whisper.”

  “Why?” Joy’s voice was reptilian dry. “No one cares anymore. It sure isn’t illegal to buy them if you’re under eighteen. I got these at the supermarket.”

  “Legal or not, I don’t want to breathe in your smoke,” I snapped. “We have a baby, for God’s sakes!”

  “Sorry, Kaida, I didn’t know.” Joy jumped up to open my window before lighting a thin, white cigarette.

  “Maybe it’s not bad for you anymore,” Zeke proposed. “Maybe that’s what it is. Tobacco doesn’t cause cancer.”

  “So maybe there’s no such thing as cancer,” Joy said.

  “Or no such thing as disease.”

  “That can’t be it,” I said as I played with the ends of my hair.

  Joy blew out a ribbon of smoke. “Why not?”

  “Maria was coughing this morning. She was sick, although she didn’t want to admit it. She didn’t even know what a nurse was. Or maybe she did and was making fun of me. It’s hard to tell with her. There has to be disease if she was sick.”

  Zeke said, “Maybe it’s not the same kind of disease. Maybe bad things don’t happen. Like maybe…choking isn’t so bad…or something.”

  “She was beet red, Zeke. It looked pretty serious to me.” I paused. “Can we talk about Carlsbad for a minute?”

  “The upcoming trip,” Joy said. “Whoopdy-do.”

  “Upcoming trip…” I repeated. “So I guess you didn’t have a weird dream?”

  She was silent, but her eyes darted from side to side. It was the most animation I’d ever seen from her. Zeke and I exchanged glances. He said, “I had a weird dream.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said.

  “No, you go first.”

  “I dreamed we were on our way to Carlsbad and we were in a car crash—”

  “Oh, God!” Joy started to cry. “No, no, no!”

  “Shhh!” I told her. “My brother will hear you.”

  Joy clamped her hand over her mouth. Then she spoke in hushed tones. “It can’t be real.”

  “Sure as hell seemed real to me,” Zeke whispered. “There was a terrible storm and the three of us went hiding in a cave.” He turned to Joy. “You hurt your arm.”