You Are the Everything

by Karen Rivers

  Can that really be undone?

  Well, with intent. Yes. That’s what he says, and he is the expert.

  The intent of the Program is to fix you. The part that is on you is to continue to live life until it feels like life is not something you stole from the two hundred and sixteen people who died on the mountainside, or before the plane even fully crashed, or in the explosion afterward. Normal is sometimes easy (when you’re with Josh Harris) and sometimes impossible (when you aren’t).

  Existing as just yourself feels like a lie.

  Without Josh Harris touching you, you feel as though you don’t exist.

  You aren’t scared, exactly. At least you don’t think you are. It’s just that without him, you feel too exposed. You compensate for that by wearing layers of clothes, even though it’s still summer-warm. Today: dark jeans; knee-high, laced-up boots (Docs); a hoodie over a T-shirt over a tank top. A cowboy hat, a real one, the first and only thing you’ve bought since moving to Wyoming.

  The hat is because your hair is freshly purple. Purple seemed like the right choice for a new school, not to mention the new person you are now that you are no longer a virgin. It seemed like it would say, “I’m upbeat, yet slightly dark. Optimistic, but skeptical! Quirky, but with depth!” Also, it just shows up a lot more than white and maybe you want to be seen. White is for ghosts. Purple vibrates with life.

  Purple is pretty.

  “Purple is trying too hard, is what it is. Especially with those glasses, Schmidt. It’s like you Googled ‘manic pixie dream girl’ and went for it. And you know how we feel about that.”

  “I know how you feel about that,” you retort. “But I’m not you.”

  You have been a person with blue hair Before. (Kath didn’t like that either.) So you can be a person with purple hair now. You understand that sometimes colorful people blend in better than people with no color at all.

  “You look sort of like Barbie, if Barbie had had a manic episode and dyed her hair an unnatural and terrible purple only ever seen before on the tail of a plastic My Little Pony. Not that any purple hair is natural, but there are gradations, one through ten, normal through My Little Pony’s tail color of choice.”

  Now, in the quiet of the feedstore, you grin and touch your hair self-consciously then tuck it behind your ear. Even the texture feels different, more slippery. Like a doll’s hair or a wig. Maybe later, you’ll wash it with dish soap, try to get it to look like something closer to lavender than violet.

  Well, the hat covers most of it.

  Suddenly, you want to get out of there. You want to go home to your perfect bedroom, climb between the cotton-smooth sheets. Hold very still. When your hair was white, it was camouflaged against the pillow. You truly fully disappeared into the bed. Was that what you wanted?

  You feel dizzy. Off balance.

  You just have to order the stupid horse food! Act normal, remember? INTENT. Get control of yourself! Keep it together! you tell yourself.

  It’s not fear, not exactly. It’s more just an overwhelming desire to escape.

  “Nike: Just do it,” murmurs Kath, right in your ear, like she’s somehow shrunk herself down and is sitting on your shoulder. You twist your head, trying to see.

  Of course, she’s not there.

  Of course.

  She can’t be.

  That would be crazy and you are not crazy, you are normal. Intentionally normal. And Kath is dead.

  You touch a notice on the board and fix your gaze on it, like it’s not the only thing between you and free-falling through time and space. Anchor. You chant the whole rhyme in your head, but that word sneaks out and fills the space around you. You cough to cover it up. To make a sound that isn’t nuts.

  All this talking to yourself is almost definitely not going to make you popular at school. You mentally pencil it in as the first major change you need to figure out how to make, stat, in order to pass as normal, to be okay.

  You tap the board, hard enough to hurt your finger, like you’re carefully considering something posted there. It is covered with ads offering riding lessons, horse boarding, house-sitting, babysitting, and one used truck for sale. Your eye drifts around, not really seeing, trying to grab something to focus on. The truck, the truck, the truck. You try to make it come into focus. It’s bright red. The photo is a Polaroid, shiny and out of focus. You blink. You see yourself in the truck.

  You blink again, and you’re gone.

  You want the truck.

  Of course: Your first car should be red; it should be a truck.

  “I’m not sophisticated,” you tell Kath. “That’s your job. I’m a girl who drives a pickup truck. Bright red. I’m a girl who goes to country concerts. And I like it.”

  “Country is music for people who have no imagination beyond feeling like Eeyore about heartbreak and their dead dog.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe I am Eeyore,” you whisper. Then you tear off the loose tab with an email address on it.

  You are seventeen, after all.

  It’s time: to drive, to own a red truck, to have all the freedom that comes with your license. All the others died before they got this far. You’ll do it for them.

  Why not?

  You scrunch the paper up into a tiny ball and jam it into the front pocket of your jeans where you’ll have the option to forget about it.

  Or the option to buy it.

  “I’ll go out more, I promise,” you imagine telling your parents. “I’ll drive myself places. Alone. You’ll see. So normal.”

  Normal! The holy grail! Goal achieved!

  They’ll high-five each other or even hug (reconciled by your efforts!) and smile at you proudly and you’ll drive to school like everyone else, your ticket to freedom parked in the lot beside the gym or wherever it is. It’s not like you don’t know how to drive. You don’t grow up on a farm, even if it’s a peach farm, without knowing at least that. You suddenly yearn for that truck with such a fierce longing that it catches you off guard. You have to have it. Maybe it’s your inner country girl coming out. It was always in you, buried beneath your pony dreams and your search for the perfect colorful leather cowboy boots. Kath would laugh at you so hard. She’s a sports car girl, to the bone. Her first car would be a Ferrari. A Maserati. Something with a gold logo involving a stallion.

  You text the photo of the truck to her. “Too country?” you type.

  Behind the counter, a boy around your age (who looks a lot like a young Benedict Cumberbatch) is chewing on a pen cap and staring like it’s not rude. You pretend you can’t feel his eyes burning a hole in the back of your skull. You keep studying the board like there’s an answer to a question you didn’t ask.

  Everything is like this now: fuzzy, slow-motion, like a heart trying to beat when your veins are filled with mud.

  Why? Why? Why?

  And then, there, in the bottom corner of the bulletin board, like a light is shining on it: a flier no bigger than a Post-it note. SURVIVORS’ GROUP: FOR EVERYTHING THERE IS A REASON. WHAT IS YOURS? Then an address, 1430 Old Main Road, back entrance. And a time, 7:30 p.m.

  “Probably just Bible thumping,” you say, out loud. “Touchers. That type.” The boy clears his throat and then thumps on the counter, one, two, three times. You pretend not to notice.

  The date on the notice is today’s date.

  “Duh, it’s a sign.”

  You take a photo of the information with your iPhone for no reason. It’s stupid. It’s not like you’d ever go to a Survivors’ Group. It sounds too much like something your parents would get excited about, or at the very least, something from a John Green novel, and this isn’t that. This is your life.

  On the other hand, Dr. McDreamy would be so proud. So much intent!

  Before you can stop yourself, almost like your fingers have an intent of their own, you text the photo to
Josh Harris. “B there or b ☐?” you type, then hit Send before you can change your mind.

  The boy behind the desk thumps on the counter again, drumming to a song that is not the one playing through the speakers. You get it, he wants to get your attention. “Thump, thump, thump,” like how on the plane on the way to France, the Right Max kept kicking the back of your seat. Each time, you swung around and glared. Every time, he said, “Sorrrrryyyyy,” in a tone that meant he wasn’t even a little sorry.

  Thump, thump.

  You don’t really have any choice, you have to order and pay for the feed and arrange to have it delivered. You turn around. You face him.

  You can do this.

  You can be normal with intent.

  19.

  “Well, hello, finally,” the feedstore boy says. “You’re new. You’re going to buy that truck. And you’ll look good in it. I’m Dwayne.” He has a sharply cornered English accent, so crisp that it makes you think of toast, neatly de-crusted with a sharp bread knife. A perfect square.

  “Dwayne,” you repeat. Then, “You’re English?”

  “Dwayne,” he confirms. “I’m English. So, you’re new then. Let me guess: College? High school? Tourist?”

  “Do you get a lot of tourists in the feedstore? Buying souvenir chicken feed? God, you look exactly like Benedict Cumberbatch. I have to place an order for my horse. Food.” You wave the piece of paper around with the information on it, like he might think you’re lying, like you might actually be a tourist who wants to just idly observe how people live in backwoods Wyoming, stalking feedstores for entertainment, seeking saddle soap.

  Benedict Cumberbatch is your celebrity boyfriend. Your top pick. He always has been. You obviously can’t tell this Dwayne that, but you’re desperate to take a photo, text it to Kath.

  “Now you have a quandary, you’ve got JOSH HARRIS ALL ONE WORD making oh-so-sweet love to you on a football field. And now Benedict Cumberbatch Junior eyeing you like you’re a piece of steak on a grill and he hasn’t eaten in months. What to do?”

  “Oh, shut up,” you whisper, but you angle your phone, still, trying to get the pic discreetly.

  “Aren’t you lucky? We happen to sell just what you need,” he says. “Let me see that.” He plucks the paper out of your hand. “Gum?” He offers you an open pack, one stick half out already.

  “I don’t chew gum,” you say. “Gum kills. A fifteen-year-old in Wales died in 2005 after chewing fourteen sticks of gum per day for, like, ages. I don’t know how long. But still, dead is dead.”

  “Hmm,” he says, withdrawing the pack. “Well, I suppose I wouldn’t want you to die. Especially on this, your lucky day.”

  “Right, it’s just like I won the lottery! To find that the feedstore sells . . . feed. What kind of English person names their kid Dwayne, anyway?”

  “The kind of English person who is American,” he says. “My father is American. My mum raised us in England but graciously allowed him to pay the bills and to choose my name. My sister is Poppy, which is a proper London girl’s name. But now we’re here. In Wyoming. Or Why Oh Me, as I prefer to think of it.” He makes a theatrical swooning gesture when he pronounces it out: Whyyyy ohhhh meee! “Dad runs the stable down there”—he points—“and owns this shop. He’s kind of a big deal. You’ll hear about him, if you have a horse. Rode for the Olympic team in the 1980s.”

  “Why Oh Me doesn’t actually make sense. And Poppy is a pretty strange name for a human girl. It’s a dog’s name.”

  “Why Oh Ming doesn’t exactly make sense either,” he says. “And Poppy is a lovely name, don’t be cheeky. Fits in well in London, which is really all that matters. I’m going back as soon as possible. America is not for me.”

  “Did you know that the number one cause of selfie-related deaths in America is when people pose with guns and the guns go off?” you say.

  “You have a very peculiar thing about you,” he says. “I like it. I’m not anti-selfie-death-by-gun, though. Most selfies are a crime against humanity. Nobody needs to see that many duck lips.”

  “Do you miss the double-decker buses and the jumpers and things then?” you say, mimicking his accent. “Is that why you’re going back?”

  “Not bad,” he says. “A little too Cockney. You could stand to sound more posh. Like me.”

  “I’ll practice up in all my spare time,” you say.

  “Ahhhhhhh. Aren’t you just an American manic pixie dream girl?” He smiles widely. “I thought your type only existed in films. This is quite exciting.”

  “We do,” you say. “I’m not real.”

  “Mmmm-hmmm, you’ve got it, definitely. The whole thing with the hair and the glasses . . .” He gestures at your face. “Cowboy hat, although we are in Wyoming, so maybe that’s par for the course. And the fact you’re American can’t be helped. But you still have it: You’re sarcastic. Perky. And the knee-high Docs are totally on point. You’re adorable.”

  You raise one brow, slowly. “Unlike most people you’ve met in Wyoming? They weren’t American?” You blush. “Anyway, I’m not perky,” you say. “I’m American but I’m not anyone’s manic anything. I used to try to be but it turns out that I’m just me. What you see is what you get. And if you think about it, manic pixie dream girls in movies only exist to make the boys into better people. Those movies are always about the boys. The MPDGs are props.” You start to feel annoyed when you realize how true that is. “I am nobody’s prop. So tough luck.”

  “You’re no one’s prop,” he repeats. “Yes. I can see that. But frankly, I’m already eight percent in love with you and we’ve only just met.”

  You give him your sourest look. “Well, too bad. I’m taken.”

  He holds up his hands. “Fine! I’ll back off.” He grins. “It’s working already. Down to seven percent.”

  “Ha ha.”

  He starts to walk around the store, gathering things. “You’ll want this, and this, and this.” The pile on the floor grows. You don’t know what most of it even is. Why did you think you could take care of a horse? You haven’t got a clue.

  “I’m sorry, Midi,” you say in your head. “You deserve better.”

  “Better than what?” says Benedict Cumberbatch.

  “Better than nothing,” you say. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “But you did. It sounded clever, like a line from a sitcom. Are you an actress?”

  “No.”

  “Please say you’re an artist?”

  “I guess. But don’t get excited.”

  “Stamford High?” he says.

  “Yes. I mean, not yet. But starting next week. You know, when school goes back. I don’t go extra early because I just can’t wait or anything. Not to mention the fact that I’m sure there are no teachers there presently and the doors are locked.”

  “You’re babbling. I make you nervous, right?” He grins. “That’s because you think I’m charming. I’ll see you around school, Pixie. And I’m keen to see how you’ll make me a better person and so on. Quite exciting. Were you trying to take a photo of me? Because you just have to ask. I’m happy to pose.” He holds his hands against his face, smiles coyly.

  You glare at him. “I told you. I’m just a person. You’ll have to make yourself a better person all on your own and from what I’ve seen, you’ve got your work cut out for you. And I’m not trying to take a photo! There’s terrible reception in here. I’m trying to send a text, as it happens.”

  “Okay.” When he smiles, a dimple on his left cheek pops in so far, you could store a cherry pit in there. “Hang on two secs. Don’t go anywhere.” He smiles wider. “Sounds like I said sex, doesn’t it? You’re blushing. SEX. There, I did it again.”

  “Pith you,” you mutter, but he’s ducked down behind the counter and luckily he doesn’t hear you. You wouldn’t be able to explain. Where did that come from, a
nyway? It’s like your past leaks out of you sometimes, like you’re a balloon with tiny pinholes in it and little puffs of your former self come out when you don’t expect it. Dwayne/Benedict Cumberbatch is fiddling around with something that you can’t see.

  “Hurry up. I have to go,” you say. “My dad is waiting in the car.”

  “Oh, sorry.” His voice sounds muffled. Then suddenly he’s up, but wearing a giant horse head. You scream, both shocked and laughing at the same time. “That’s 142.99,” he says, through the horse’s nostrils, in a normal voice. “Are you paying with cash?”

  “Credit,” you say, acting normal. “That’s creepy, FYI.” Your phone buzzes. “And it scared me half to death. Are you always this weird?”

  You glance at the phone: Josh Harris. You are confused for a second, like you’re being pulled out of one life and into another. Then, in the same instant, you’re flooded with relief.

  Josh Harris isn’t exhausting.

  Josh Harris doesn’t banter.

  His text says: “What is this survivor group?” A string of puzzled looking emoji faces.

  You type back. “Pick me up at 7?”

  “OK yes. But still???”

  “The boyfriend?” says Benedict Cumberbatch, through the horse’s nose, running your mom’s credit card. He cocks his horse head in your direction.

  “Wrong again, Benny,” you lie, smoothly. “My dad wondering if I’m ever coming out of this store. Take that off. You look ridiculous.”

  “Do you go everywhere with your dad? Is he basically your bodyguard then? Are you famous? I didn’t ask. I should have asked. Of course you are. You have that look. That It factor. What’s your name? I want to Google you. Is it rude to tell someone that you’re going to Google them?”

  “You ask a lot of questions for a feedstore clerk,” you say. “Can’t I just buy food for my horse?”

  “I suppose,” he says. “Less fun that way, though.”

  He takes off the horse head and then before you have time to react, he grabs your hat and swaps it out for the horse mask, which drops down over your head.