LEANING AGAINST THE SMOOTH mahogany walls of the descending elevator, ears popping as chimes indicated the floors, Mary wondered if she had lost her mind. All her thoughts were going in tight little circles, faster and faster, as the elevator dropped toward the ground. It was obvious that she wasn’t dead; she had already figured that out, but she was beginning to accept that she had gone crazy somewhere along the way. Somebody help me, she thought, pressing her sweat-covered forehead against the glossy wood wall. It was all so real: she could smell the lemon in the polish that somebody had used not that long ago to bring out the expensive mahogany glow, which right now showed Scott’s fat, reddened face, reflected back at her from inches away. Help me, help me; I want to wake up.
The elevator suddenly stopped and a quivering jolt shook her bones. Another chime rang out as the big wooden door rolled open. If she was dreaming, the dream was amazingly realistic—impossibly realistic.
“All right, my man Scott,” a loud male voice called out—Mary saw what looked like a United States Marine in a crisp uniform and cap but was actually just a sallow-faced Manhattan doorman. Stumbling out of the elevator, she noticed a red shaving nick on his pale chin, above the starched white broadcloth collar. “What’s the matter—tough day ahead?”
(Tough day)
What was it about that phrase? It reminded Mary of something. The memory seemed very recent; it flashed into her head all at once, vividly: she could feel a pain in her shoulder and fatigue through her body—she remembered standing in a cold, brightly lit reception room talking to a woman with a headset, a woman she knew.
(Tough day)
“TOUGH DAY?”
“You have no idea,” Scott agreed.
Two weeks ago, Scott was coated in dried sweat (not an unusual sensation for Scott, unfortunately and lamentably), facing Sheila, the receptionist at McDougall Sanders Construction’s worldwide headquarters on the forty-fourth floor of the Blakeman building on Sixth Avenue. Expensive air-conditioning chilled the sweat in his hair and on his arms and back.
“What are you carrying?” Sheila asked, squinting critically at him while reaching for the phone headset. It must have been easy to see why Scott was covered in sweat: his book bag was stuffed. As it happened, he was carrying two complete loads of books—his own and somebody else’s. The book bag’s straps were cutting into his shoulders like knives. The pain was exquisite; Sheila could see it in his face.
“Don’t ask,” Scott had told her. Sheila laughed politely.
Because I can’t explain, he had finished, privately. He never could explain, ever. It was the curse of his divided life. His experiences were unique.
To Scott’s friends (using the word lightly; Scott thought of them as “the math guys” or “the sci-fi guys” or “the comic-book guys,” manfully weathering the inevitable Simpsons reference), Scott was a good gamer, a fair comic collector and a way-cool Star Wars fan (not to mention the builder and owner of an airplane fleet to fill a modeler’s heart with lust), but he had done something heroic, something amazing, something they all worshipped him for.
He’d become friends with Mary Shayne.
Scott Sanders had actually managed to score a friendship with the most jaw-droppingly, smokingly, sickeningly, desperately hot girl at school; the one who you tried not to stare at … honestly, how hard you tried … but it was impossible. She was Megan Fox. She was Aeon Flux. She was Angelina Jolie (back when Angelina was young and wild). She was Wonder Woman. She was all of them at once, and she was real, right in front of you during physics class, every day; you could talk to her (if you dared); she breathed the same air as you. It was insane, unbelievable; there was just no way to handle it. She was the heroine in whatever book you were reading in English, when the teacher was droning on about the Romantic Age in literature and reciting Shelley or Keats.
She’s just normal, Scott would tell his friends, to their constant frustration. It’s just like talking to anyone else. And no. I certainly won’t introduce you, like, ever, so stop asking.
And that was why nobody understood. Spending those fleeting moments with Mary was bliss, was ecstasy, not because she behaved like a “babe”—whatever that meant—but because she was a normal person. The eye candy was unbelievable, nearly religious, to be sure; but, in the end, they were friends.
What Scott wanted more than anything else was to be real friends with Mary—to be part of that crowd, that living, breathing Abercrombie & Fitch ad that surrounded her like drone planes around an aircraft carrier. He knew he didn’t fit in; he didn’t have the look you needed in order to become part of that particular club, the one everyone at Chadwick hated and disdained and desperately wanted to be part of. Scott didn’t care about clothes or gossip or sports or any of that, but he still thought his friendship with Mary might be the entry ticket he needed. If he kept getting closer to her, then he figured he would start being accepted by her crowd.
Dude, you do her fucking homework, Brian Anderson had sniped, when Scott had shyly admitted his ambitions. Don’t kid yourself—you’re part of her pit crew, nothing more than that. In three months you’ll never see her again. But Brian was just jealous; that was obvious. Mary was a good friend.
Mary’s personality wasn’t bad either, was the thing. It wasn’t spectacular; she was no Rachel Maddow, that was for sure. And she obviously had no patience at all; everything had to be done for her. But she was funny. She could be clever. And she said interesting things, sometimes, when she wasn’t so busy playing the starring role in her opera. (Scott figured that Mary’s life was too grand for soap opera—he’d long ago decided that she was the epicenter of a full-on opera, with expensive sopranos and tenors and the kind of thousand-dollar ticket that his dad gave his mom for Christmas.) It was exactly like what happened with movie stars: if you knew who they were, then you knew whom they dated, who broke up with them, whom they’d gone home with, accepted, toyed with, refused, pined after, dumped. You knew it all. You couldn’t help it; even if you didn’t want to follow the story, you had to, because they did it all in front of you. The more attractive and popular the kids were, the more they played out their biggest scenes in plain sight, right in front of you when you were at your locker or trying to get by. It was the world as a stage.
But Scott couldn’t blame Mary for that, either. So she was the star of the show. Who wouldn’t want to be the star? It’s always the best role: you get to laugh and cry and fight and kiss and everyone’s on your side; they’ve all got your back.
And Mary was a great star. She played it to the hilt. She didn’t solve her problems—she experienced them; she reacted to them, grandly. If life was a Broadway show, Mary would get all the big numbers—the Tony-winning songs people wanted played at their weddings. Mary’s problems were epic. They became global projects everyone was encouraged to participate in.
Which was why Scott was carrying a two-ton book bag that day.
Scott had agreed to come down here, to West Fifty-second Street, walking the whole way, because it was part of the deal to keep Dad happy. He had to walk because his father wanted him to “observe” the buildings that flanked the wide avenues on his way down, noticing their facades, their “footprints,” their “zoning envelopes”—all the perfectly boring details of the Manhattan real estate market that his father insisted he pay attention to. He’d tried to get out of it, once or twice taking the subway rather than walking, but he’d never gotten away with it. His dad would always quiz him about the buildings he’d observed on the way, and he just couldn’t bring himself to fake it. Today, even with a two-ton book bag, he’d walked the full thirty-six blocks—and here he was, dutifully pushing the heavy glass door that opened into the enormous mahogany-faced conference room where Dad was about to present to a client. Scott had agreed to assist, but he wished he could be anywhere else. And, of course, “anywhere else” just meant one place—the real destination he was headed, after this meeting—Mary Shayne’s Upper West Side apartment.
&nb
sp; Mary had been absent from school that day. Scott had noticed immediately; he caught himself strolling down the fifth-floor hallway where Mary’s homeroom was, casually glancing at the crowd flocking out of the room as the bell rang, and not seeing her. When Scott’s cell phone blasted “Femme Fatale” that noon, he rejoiced, forcing himself to be cool and to nonchalantly answer on the second ring. Mary had sounded awful—the hoarseness of her voice created an alarmingly sexy effect that he almost complimented her on, before getting a grip on himself. Mary outlined her request—she needed him to get several of her books out of her locker (Scott wrote down their titles and her locker combination number, straining to hear over the crowds in the Chadwick corridor) and bring them to her house after school. Could he do that?
Scott could. And finally, two hours after the meeting with his dad, here he was, feet aching, heart pounding, shoulders screaming in pain as he entered the Shaynes’ apartment building.
I’m here again, Scott thought excitedly as the elevator rose to the fifth floor. It didn’t matter that the fake wood paneling was peeling off the elevator walls: this was Mary Shayne’s building, and that made it a palace. When he alighted from the elevator and rang the Shaynes’ doorbell, he felt like he was walking on a cloud. Maybe she’s feverish, he thought, standing nervously in front of the scuffed metal door and trying to compose his features into the correct expression. Maybe she’s weak and feverish and lying in bed in a gauzy nightgown, and she’ll need me to bring a glass of water to her lips.
Then the door latch snapped over and the door swung open and Scott realized that he wasn’t going to be bringing any glasses of water to anyone’s lips.
Mary was holding her phone with one hand, pressing it against her ear, while she pulled the door open with her other hand. She was smiling, dazzlingly. She wasn’t even remotely sick—Scott had never seen a healthier girl in his life.
“No, Trick’s not coming until seven; if we get carded we’ll just go somewhere else. Hang on—someone’s here,” Mary said into the phone. “I’ll call you back.” Scott was trying not to stare at Mary’s flat bare stomach as she beamed at him, raising her lovely eyebrows. She was obviously dressed to go out: she wore tight leather pants and a scanty sequined top that covered her chest and shoulders while exposing her midriff. He could smell some kind of seductive perfume wafting from her. “Scottie!” Mary sang out happily, beaming at him. “You gorgeous guy, you—thanks so much for coming!”
“Um—” Scott couldn’t think of anything to say. Mary looked so beautiful that he could barely breathe. It was like she had stepped off the cover of a magazine and into this dingy Upper West Side apartment, right in front of him. “I brought all your books.”
Aching at the effort, Scott swung his book bag around and dropped it between them on the floor. Mary stood waiting as he fumbled with the straps, extracting her books. She’s not sick, Scott marveled. She’s going out—she’s about to go out. He wasn’t angry—not exactly. He just couldn’t find the anger inside himself, not while Mary was standing there, arms crossed, the perfect pale skin of her abdomen visibly expanding and contracting as she breathed.
“That’s the lot,” Scott said, rising to his feet—he had produced a big stack of schoolbooks. “You’re all set.”
Mary looked delighted. It was a good look for her. “Scottie—thank you,” she sighed, staring yearningly at him. She leaned toward him, her soft black hair brushing against his cheek as she gave him a kiss that almost touched his lips. Scott trembled; it felt like he’d just brushed against an electrical cable. “Thank you so much. Listen, I’d say come in, but I’m actually about to go somewhere.”
“Go somewhere?” Scott repeated weakly. His cheek was still tingling from Mary’s kiss. She’s not going to invite me along. Of course she’s not.
“Alas.” Mary raised her eyebrows prettily—and Scott realized that that was his cue. “Thanks again, Scottie. I really don’t know what I’d do without you.”
You’d find someone else to deliver your books, he thought bitterly. You’d find another sucker.
“Please—it’s nothing,” Scott said magnanimously, shouldering his book bag, now a much more manageable weight. “I’m happy to be of service.”
Mary smiled again and then swung the door shut, and Scott turned away, toward the elevator. He could hear Mary resuming the conversation he’d interrupted.
So much for my Tour of Midtown Manhattan and Points West, Scott thought. He was trying to be cavalier, whistling as he exited Mary’s building. But by the time he was collapsed exhausted, defeated, in the rearmost seat of a crosstown bus (while Mary, no doubt, was zooming downtown in a taxicab), he was starting to feel sick—sick like he wanted to get into bed and hide under the covers and not move until he finally fell asleep. Then the morning would come and his mother would bring him Pop-Tarts and he wouldn’t feel so bad; he’d go back to Chadwick, and count the minutes until he saw her again.
Tough day.
“—HEAR ME? I ASKED if you’ve got a tough day coming, Scottie.”
Mary stood there, blinking, confused. What the hell?
An entire, detailed memory had come into her head right then, just as the doorman had used that phrase. She’d been reminded of something that happened and suddenly the entire experience was recalled to her, all at once.
But that was Scott’s memory.
The sensation was bizarre, almost hallucinogenic: a piece of Scott’s past had just dropped into her brain, as easily and seamlessly as if it were her own. It’s because I’m Scott, she realized with growing wonder. I’m not just in his body—I’m experiencing his memories, too.
No time had passed at all. Mary was still standing in the same spot, facing Scott’s doorman. That whole thing just occurred in a millisecond. Just like in real life (as opposed to this insane dream or hallucination or whatever it was), memories didn’t take up any time; they just appeared in your mind when prompted—even when they were somebody else’s memories.
The doorman was still right behind her, gold buttons gleaming, watching her stand there like a chess piece waiting to be moved. What should she do? Go back upstairs? Stay here? The fear made it difficult to think.
She remembered the phone call—the one she’d been on both ends of, without realizing it. She remembered the beginning of the day, making the call and hearing herself—
Hearing what I just said, she realized. What I said just now.
Maybe I can stop it, she thought suddenly. Maybe I can change what happened.
I’ve got to get there—I’ve got to get to school.
Pulling up the slipping strap of Scott’s book bag, Mary blundered outside, the seven A.M. overcast light gleaming in her eyes as her feet hit the sidewalk. The building’s awning had a round convex mirror bolted beneath it, and Mary saw her own reflection moving—saw a fish-eye view of Scott Sanders in an unusually rumpled sweatshirt, blinking comically.
Where the hell am I?
Mary gazed up at the white morning sky. She didn’t remember where Scott lived. It was embarrassing to realize: she knew Scott had told her, more than once, but she was drawing a blank. In the distance, the MetLife Building gleamed in the morning haze. East Side—somewhere in the fifties, she realized. That seemed correct: she vaguely remembered that Scott took the Lexington Avenue subway to school.
Don’t think—just move, Mary told herself doggedly. It was starting to feel like she would genuinely lose her mind if she kept thinking. Even if you’re dreaming, just follow the dream—follow it wherever it goes.
Like she had a choice. Mary pulled the slipping straps of Scott’s JanSport book bag up higher on her—his—soft, sloping shoulders. Walking north—still trying not to lose her footing as she propelled herself on Scott’s short, overweight legs—she crossed East Fifty-eighth Street (nearly getting sideswiped by a loudly honking taxicab whose driver cursed at her furiously in a Middle Eastern language) and ran away from the grinning doorman and the fun-house mirror, hurrying toward
the Chadwick School.
IT WAS ALL SO real, but it moved like a dream. She was not herself—literally not herself—painfully biting her cheeks with Scott’s large teeth, stumbling over the cuffs of his rumpled sweatpants, feeling his soft, doughy stomach quivering as she walked, rather than her own tight abdomen (and the narrow band of skin she made sure was occasionally visible), or the cold air on the bare back of her neck rather than the cascade of jet-black hair that was supposed to be there. It was like wearing a heavy Halloween costume, but vastly stranger.
There was something else, too: there was something wrong with the pedestrians around her. She’d been noticing it since she stepped onto the street. She couldn’t put her finger on it; it was like one of those body snatcher or zombie movies where the ordinary people in the crowd were not what they seemed. But, crossing Sixtieth Street, she suddenly figured it out.
Nobody’s looking at me.
It was true. The difference was subtle, but she noticed it. Businessmen and kids and mothers and random passersby: nobody was looking. What did it mean? Am I a ghost? But that was ridiculous; Mrs. Sanders and Scott’s doorman had seen her, reacted to her.
But nobody’s looking.
It wasn’t just that nobody was checking her out—nobody was noticing her at all.
It made her feel invisible; it was somehow more unreal and unsettling than being transported back to the beginning of the day. No girls were whispering about her as she went past, furtively scoping the brand names on her clothes; no men were trying to sneak a look at her chest or her ass while she went by. Nobody cared.
Because I’m Scott.
Mary had never experienced anything like that. She was used to avoiding people’s glances, never returning the leers and stares of men she passed in the street—even if you wanted to look, you couldn’t, in case they got the wrong idea. She was so used to that rule, she obeyed it without thinking. Now she found herself trying to make eye contact, but it was impossible. It reminded her of the memory she’d just experienced—Scott’s memory. Is that really what happened? she thought. She remembered that night, of course; she’d faked being sick and made plans to go clubbing with Amy and Trick—and she remembered how sweet Scott was for bringing her books over.
7 Souls Page 16
