Olympian Challenger

by Astrid Arditi

  But I thought I had more time before it struck—time to go to college, become a world-class surgeon and impact the lives of thousands—like my mom did as a midwife—but at this rate, I’ll forever be remembered as the seventeen-year-old almost-Valedictorian who saw weird things.

  I struggle to control my erratic breathing as I cross paths with groups of kids I don’t know, hunched over taunting silver invitations. They seem so excited, their cheeks rosy with anticipation and cold.

  To regain control, I imagine what Dr. Braunstein, my family therapist, would have to say about my hallucination. He’d downplay it probably, the way he always dismisses my fears of succumbing to the same disease as my mother. Mental exhaustion would be his diagnosis. But seeing things is more than just being tired. It’s insane.

  While I’m mulling over all kinds of scenarios, I allow myself to pretend for a second that I’m not crazy. The words really appeared just for me. Why me though? And why send the invitation to every twelfth grader in New York if it was only meant for me? Maybe others saw something but kept quiet because of the threat.

  I unstrap my backpack to fetch my phone from the front pocket. I can’t believe I didn’t think of checking the web sooner. My pulse races as I search for posts about the silver invitation.

  A weight lifts off my chest as a full page of hits comes up.

  Received the invitation this morning. I see clues but I’m not allowed to talk about them.

  This message has been posted by silversquirrel01 on a message board created for the mysterious invitation. I scroll through the answers. They are cruel.

  You’re mental…

  Check yourself into an asylum...

  Why are you looking for attention?

  Liar.

  I can’t help myself. I’ve never commented on a post before but this time it feels necessary.

  You’re not alone.

  My email address is nondescript, so no one will figure out it comes from me, but at least silversquirrel01 will feel less lonely. I leave the forum and look for more. Other bloggers share my fears.

  I’m having visions…

  Early stages of dementia…

  I’m afraid to talk about it.

  This time I refrain from commenting, but my heart swells with each admission from anonymous bloggers. Maybe I’m not losing my mind.

  By the time I reach my apartment, perplexity has replaced paranoia. I’m no scientist, but I know that numbers can be used as empirical proof. One person out of thousands saying they’ve seen more to the invitation wouldn’t be enough to assuage my fears, but dozens? Unless a bunch of unconnected teenagers are suffering from the exact same hallucination, the simplest and most logical answer is that there is in fact, more to this note than most can see and, for some reason, I’m among those who can read it. Maybe it’s a cognitive anomaly, or our retinas have access to the colors of the ink while others don’t. But this is real. I need to believe it is.

  I can’t wait to share my relief with my mother. I won’t tell her about the card, just in case there is some truth to the threats, but I can spread my happiness around nonetheless.

  “Mom? I’m home!”

  Camille’s matronly figure steps into view. She shakes her short white curls and frowns. “Not a good day,” she tries to warn me.

  I’m already running in direction of the living room. My mother sits on the couch, her head between her hands, her long hair cascading over her face.

  At the sound of my frantic footsteps, she lowers her hands. “Hope. What are you doing here?” Her words are sluggish, as if treading through muck.

  “I’m back from school, Mom.”

  “School? You walked home by yourself? Do you want to get kidnapped?” she hisses.

  I’ve been walking to and from school every day since sixth grade.

  “I’m fine. How are you?” I try to pat her shoulder.

  She pushes my hand away. “You’re too young…” Her gaze glides over our living room. “Where are we?”

  “Home, Mom.”

  “This isn’t our home. I know our home, and this isn’t it. You’re lying to me!” Anger wars with frustration on her graying face that used to be a warm golden shade.

  Camille presses her large palm on my shoulder and squeezes. “I’ve got her, kid. You should go out for a little while.”

  I shake my head fiercely. I’m not going anywhere. She needs me. My mother whimpers softly. On the coffee table before her lies an array of flyers—Sunshine Home; Sunny Days. Why do all these dreary places have such happy names? As if a name could make up for the fact that people enter these institutions to fade away.

  Hot tears sear my eyes. “You promised. No more talk of homes. You have me.”

  Incomprehension dances in my mother’s eyes. I lash out at Camille. “Are you putting these ideas into her head?”

  Camille’s serene composure doesn’t waver. “It isn’t me, baby girl. I found her like this. She wants what’s best for you.”

  “What’s best for me is to be with her!”

  My mother’s sobbing amplifies with my fury.

  “You’re upsetting her.” Camille points this out without judgment. “Take a walk. Go to Starbucks. You need to cool off before you come back. I know it’s hard. I truly do. But you’re making it worse for her.”

  One look at my mother, unraveling on the couch, is enough to drive Camille’s point home. She is Mom’s best friend and helps out of the kindness of her heart. Without Camille to share my mother’s care, the judge would have never granted a seventeen-year-old permission to become a caretaker.

  “Take care of her. And hide these, please.” I point to the brochures, wishing I could incinerate them with my gaze.

  Chapter 3

  My tears mirror the cold drizzle outside. The wind has picked up since this morning, as if trying to bring down the temperature to a more seasonal cool. I hide my hands inside my pockets and walk faster, looking for warmth and an outlet for my temper. I’m so damned powerless.

  I’d give up everything for my mom—school, friends, my own life even, but none of these sacrifices would change a thing. She’s being erased, one fragment at a time, and I can’t stop it. Dementia is determined to rob me of the one person I can’t live without.

  It’s not 6:00 pm yet, but the sky is almost black. No beautiful sunset, just a dark slab falling over the city, encasing us in a cement prison. I’m a sunshine girl—blue skies, green parks, bright yellow sun—but since my mom was diagnosed, my mood matches this weather better. I don’t know that I’ll ever have sunshine from within again.

  The wide avenue swarms with people heading home from work. I veer into a side street to avoid their constant flow. My sobs echo against walls as skyscrapers give way to smaller apartment buildings, then to lavish town houses. When the river’s gray surface looms at the end of the street, it doesn’t come as a surprise. Whenever I need to think, I always end up here.

  I wander to my thinking bench in the small square overlooking the East River. There are no children at the playground this evening—the cold has chased them away. But the worn bench waits and I slide onto it. My fingers search for the initials engraved in the wood—T&R Forever. I trail the rough grooves, looking for the peace that comes from familiar motions. The tears recede and my breathing resumes its regular tempo.

  The placid water soothes me. I focus on the anonymous lovers, with their oath of eternity, and the distraction works its charm on my nerves, as always.

  I’ve spent so many hours trying to picture T and R, I could draw them with my eyes closed. T is tall, blonde and pretty, with a smile so bright it rivals the sun. R has a dimple on his chin when he gazes at T. He’s not much to look at, but he’s a good man, worthy of her love, who will always be by her side. I hope they are still together wherever they are. That some love stories survive the test of time.

  When I’m feeling particularly optimistic, I look for them on the riverbank. A cute old couple, holding hands and revisiting th
e place where they once promised to love each other forever. They haven’t shown up yet, but if I stand still long enough, I might get a glimpse of them someday.

  My phone beeps from inside my pocket where I’ve stuffed it. I whip it out, praying for good news from Camille. Instead it’s a call from Lily.

  She sounds winded from laughter. “Where are you? Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”

  “I’m hanging out at home,” I lie. I don’t want her to worry about me more than she already does. “Any news from your mystery party planner?”

  “Nope. You were right. Probably just a prank,” she says.

  “You don’t sound disappointed.”

  “I’m not. Tonight promises to be wicked. Must be a full moon, because people are acting crazy.” Her voice is replaced by blaring sirens. “Can you hear that? It’s Bergdorf’s security system. Someone robbed the jewelry section. They’re conducting a full-on manhunt.”

  “Tell me you’re not inside.”

  Lily giggles. “Of course not! We’re on the sidewalk. James asked the security guards what was happening.”

  I exhale in relief.

  “And now we’re heading to the Chrysler Building. Apparently, there’s a guy climbing the façade. Without a security net!”

  “Sounds…” I look for a word that won’t offend Lily—Idiotic? Reckless?

  “Wicked!” Lily finishes my sentence.

  First thing tomorrow, we’re sitting down with a thesaurus.

  “Well, don’t let their wickedness,”—I put the word between air quotes—“inspire you to doing something stupid, ok?”

  Lily huffs exaggeratedly. “Killjoy.”

  “Wild girl.”

  “Bye, Hope.”

  “Bye, Lily.” I hang up.

  Now I’m worried about my best friend. And I’m thinking about the silver invitation once again. How could a simple piece of paper create such a commotion?

  The text from the invite comes back to haunt me—Dare to face your fears.

  Could this be the solution to the enigmatic invitation? Facing your fears to get a chance to obtain your most precious wish? If magic existed, I know what I’d ask for—a cure for my mother’s disease. But magic doesn’t exist, and no person can whip out a cure for dementia on a whim. There are treatments, but none have worked for my mom. Doctors don’t even have an exact diagnosis for her yet.

  I’m so frustrated, I could almost consider doing something daring to see where it will lead me. But I’m not particularly afraid of heights, and stealing from a shop sounds plain stupid. I’m afraid of snakes, but what should I do? Sneak inside Central Park Zoo and throw myself into the python’s tank? First of all, this would get me arrested. Second, my mom doesn’t need more stress. She needs me there tomorrow morning to make sure she takes her pills and eats properly in case it’s a bad morning and she forgets how to cook.

  I text Camille asking if it’s safe for me to come home. If I catch pneumonia, I won’t be much of a caretaker. While I wait for her answer, total darkness settles over the square. I think of all the kids risking their lives tonight for an empty promise. What do they expect? A spot in a TV show? Survivor: Senior Year perhaps? Sounds wicked…

  The East River takes on a strange blue hue. I peer at the water, wondering where the metallic blue shade comes from, but it is only on the surface. Overhead, I expect a plane’s lights, but instead find a full moon the color of a sapphire hanging low in the sky as if bending to kiss New York’s skyline.

  Underneath this spectral moon, a boy, about my age, exits the townhouse nearest the square. The moon is so bright, I can see the contours of his face and the fierce set of his mouth as he comes to sit on the stone fence that separates the riverbank from the East River.

  I drag my eyes away from the boy, feeling like an intruder. My phone beeps from my frozen left hand. I fumble with the screen, trying to unlock it to read the message, when a loud splash startles me. In the river, waves ripple in a circular shape around a point of impact.

  Praying that I’m wrong, I look up to the fence where I spotted the boy just seconds ago. It’s empty. The splash, the ripples, the boy’s determined expression—they all form a paralyzing certainty. He jumped.

  For an agonizing second, I stand frozen, scrutinizing the darkness for a merciful vigilante. But I’m alone. And the boy hasn’t come back up.

  My fingers fumble with the laces of my ankle boots. I throw them aside. If I act now, there’s still a chance I can pull him out. I’m a strong swimmer, and if I can withstand hypothermia, the river is calm enough that we can both make it out of here alive.

  I shrug off my down jacket, sprint to the stone fence overlooking the river, then pull myself on top. I inhale as much air as my lungs can withhold. Then I dive into the freezing water.

  The first sensation is my skin burning, pierced by a thousand icy needles, forcing my blood to boil to counteract their sting. Then my lungs scream, begging for oxygen. I fight them, knowing I’ll ingest glacial water if I try.

  I flap wildly, trying to find my bearing. I pry open my eyes to spot the boy I’ve come to rescue, but all I see is murky water—spoiled liquid that scalds my retinas like acid. My fingers search my surroundings, connecting with a slimy plastic bag I shake off with a shudder of repulsion. The boy must have dropped to the bottom of the river, but I don’t know how deep it is.

  Fighting my every instinct to float back to the surface, I will my muscles to grow heavier. I also release just enough precious air to sink faster toward the bottom.

  My teeth clench and my muscles lock painfully. Urgency fills me. I barely have a minute left to find this boy, if he’s still alive, before I’m forced to return to the surface. More than that would be suicide.

  At least the water’s calm, its current sluggish. At last, sand and rocks shift under my feet. Bending at the waist, I feel the space around me with my hands and dare to open one eye. I can’t see anything more than earlier, except the light of the strange blue moon filtering through the surface. It beckons me back up. I’m ready to give up and follow its beam to safety when a large shape catches my scorched eye.

  I lash at the water, pressing back with my arms to propel me forward. My thoughts turn as foggy as the water, with one clear certainty in the swamp of my mind: I’m about to die.

  The terror is enough to feed my will with fire. I have to abandon my rescue mission. I push against the bottom of the river with my feet to boost myself up, fighting against my instinct to breathe. My feet take off from the ground. I keep my eyes latched onto the blue moon, the siren calling me forth.

  The water rumbles as I’m about to break through the surface. A monstrous wave forms above my head. As it releases its full strength on top of my weakened body, all I can do is stare and scream.

  Chapter 4

  “Is that what humans are wearing now?” a feminine voice speaks over me. “How… odd.”

  I cough and retch air, surprised at the absence of water coming out of my lungs. I can still hear the river though. Not the roar of the wave that overtook me. More like a gentle swooshing.

  I open my eyes, bracing myself for the sting. But my vision is clear, although clearly a hallucination.

  The most beautiful woman I’ve ever beheld is bent over me. Her hair is so shiny I’m forced to blink its gleam away. It flutters in spun-gold waves all the way down to her slender waist, clad in a billowing turquoise dress, and frames a heart-shaped face that’s achingly perfect—slightly upturned nose, impossibly high cheekbones, eyes matching the fabric of her dress, and a luscious, cupid-bow mouth, currently set in a pout.

  “And where are your shoes? I’m assuming humans still need to wear shoes,” she says.

  “I left them on the riverbank.” I drag my stare away from the inquisitive beauty.

  Behind her shoulder, a boy with a face I’ll never forget smirks at me. Fury makes me quake.

  “You? What the hell is wrong with you? I thought you were dead.”

&nbs
p; He shrugs. “Dead? Of course I’m not dead.”

  I scramble to my elbows, resenting my pitiful position on the ground—which I now notice is made of mosaic tiles instead of the concrete East riverbank.

  “You jumped into the river! I thought… I thought—”

  He snorts. “That I tried to kill myself?”

  “There’s nothing remotely amusing about suicide,” I snarl.

  “Now, now,” the woman interrupts us. “I think you should calm down.”

  I’m on all fours, attempting to stand up.

  “Calm down? I jumped into a freezing river! And now I don’t know where I am …”

  I finally take in my surroundings beyond the reckless boy I risked my neck to save and the beauty bending over me. The water isn’t a river but an ocean, its waves lapping sweetly at the shore. But the sky is still dark and the otherworldly blue moon hangs over the sea, bigger than any full moon I’ve seen before.

  “Am I dead? I should be dead. The wave—”

  The woman smiles mischievously. “Poseidon bringing you here. My brother, like all men, is brutish. Force over wits.” She taps her temple with a coral-lacquered finger.

  I falter on unsteady feet. Although I’m on the tall side for a girl, I’m by far the shortest one in our incongruous group.

  “Poseidon?”

  “My uncle. God of the Sea? I know humans are an illiterate bunch, but surely you have heard of us.”

  “And that would make you—” Her impossible beauty makes the answer obvious, if one believed in mythical gods. Which I don’t. I humor her nonetheless. “Aphrodite?”

  She raises her hands as if ready to receive the sky itself in her palms. The circlet of gold crowning her head catches the blue light of the moon. “All isn’t lost,” she sighs.

  I stare at the boy, hoping to see the same bewilderment I feel in his expression, but if he is surprised, he doesn’t show it. His lips are set in a straight line, and his navy eyes are inscrutable. You would never guess he’d just been swimming in the East River. First of all, his clothes are dry, and his dark blond hair isn’t the slightest bit mussed up.