Nowhere Near You

by Leah Thomas

  You mean a great deal to me, Owen.

  “I need to hear that more!”

  Hearing is always the trouble. What were you and Fieke discussing that day?

  “Just a school project! Boring, I promise!”

  Fieke hadn’t sounded bored. But Owen has no reason to lie. He is not me.

  I lay back against my pillow.

  Too soon I wished him a good night, good morning.

  “Love you!”

  I found myself in your boots, Ollie. Is there any proper response to that sort of declaration?

  I took the coward’s way and did not answer.

  “I never asked; how was your tour with Max?” Molly took my arm in her lacy glove. Together we headed toward the mess hall for breakfast. “He didn’t follow you home and keep you up all night, did he?”

  “Of course not!”

  “I’m sure he was very accommodating. He always is, with the new students. Especially when the new students are charming Goth boys.”

  “I am neither charming nor Goth.”

  “I’ve already gone ahead and told everyone here you’re charming, and no one argues with me. And if you don’t want to be called Goth, please let me cut those wretched bangs of yours. I won’t drown you in lather or stab you with shears. I promise.”

  I laughed despite myself. “Shears? What beast do you take me for?”

  “No more a beast than I am.” She laughed in turn. But her back mouth grimaced.

  I must have reacted to the sound.

  Molly released me.

  “You can’t really think of yourself that way.” After a beat: “You are no such thing.”

  “Now, now, Prince. How do you think of yourself?”

  “Our situations—”

  “Are virtually the same. I’ll forgive myself when you forgive yourself, Liebling.” Slowly, her smiles returned. “Anyhow. A beastly attitude can do wonders for an acting career.”

  “Ah! How was your audition?”

  “The part’s mine.” She held up a gloved fist.

  “They’ve announced casting?”

  “No.” Molly tossed her curls. “But it’s mine.”

  I shook my head. “If I could bottle and sell your confidence . . .”

  “You’d be bottling a lie. Imagine where that confidence would be if you offered to give me a haircut. Where would I be?” She sighed. “Not here.”

  I wanted to ask her whether her family—whatever her family was composed of—knew about her hidden teeth. I wanted to ask. I could not.

  I haven’t bottled and injected curls or confidence.

  Any soul would need confidence in my intensive Belletristik (fiction) class. Dr. Hoppen is the instructor whose classroom plays home to the legendary fireside beanbags. Ollie, uncertain as I remain of most facets of my life, fiction remains a respite. I won’t be humble. I am good at listening. Good at assessing stories. I know truth when I hear it.

  (And also when I do not hear it, Ollie.)

  “Today we’ll be reinterpreting Gläserne Bienen by creating assemblages from found materials,” Dr. Hoppen informed us. Perched on a stool in the center of our circle. Smile as miraculously wide as his unibrow. “And those of you who think this will be easy should note that building minuscule robotic mock-glass bees from recycled plastic is no promenade. Especially as each bee should represent a key theme from the book.”

  Myriad normalcy. I won’t deny it thrills me. I lack creativity. But I am good with textures. With shapes. With strangeness.

  I am good with science-fiction novels about technophobia.

  And Dr. Hoppen once taught dance to kindergartners in Bulgaria. Dr. Hoppen’s sculptures, strung together with human hair, animal bones, plastic bags, and ribbon, have been featured in museums across Europe. Dr. Hoppen respects the odd. He has never once drawn attention to my goggles.

  Dr. Hoppen may be the next person I fall in love with.

  I sat as straight as my beanbag would allow.

  “We’ll warm up by reviewing Kafka short stories. A brief bout of creative movement. Three sacrifices?”

  I sank back. Willing candidates for acting exercises are hardly in short supply at Myriad—Chloe-Bowie, in capri overalls and a silk blouse, had both hands up. All but wailing to be chosen.

  “Chloe-Bowie.” Everyone calls her that. “And Max. Max, pick one other student.”

  I stood. Resigned to my fate even before Max curled a beckoning finger.

  I am not afraid of performance, Ollie. I am not afraid of Max Fassner. So why sudden silence descended on the beanbags, I can’t say. It could not have been my nerves emolocated.

  I refuse to believe I blushed.

  No time for uncertainty. We three stood front and center. Max’s arm against mine. His pulse resonating into me. Knocking me off beat.

  “You know the rules. I’ll call out a story title and clap. If you’ve been doing your readings, you should be able to fall into a tableau before I count to ten. Without talking.”

  Tableaus mean extracting a pivotal scene from a story, acting it out, and freezing it. Becoming a living portrait.

  “We’ll start simple. ‘The Metamorphosis.’” Clap.

  Immediately, I fell to the ground, made myself small and grotesque. I assume you’ve read Kafka’s surreal stories. I don’t have to tell you I became Gregor Samsa, the man who awoke as an insect one morning. Elbows on floor. Knees on floor. I can do insect.

  I have the goggles for it.

  While Dr. Hoppen’s clap still echoed, I saw Chloe smile. Then snap into character. She pulled one hand up to her mouth: a feigned expression of shock. Her other hand she pushed forward, palm up, offering me an invisible meal. Gregor Samsa’s sister: horrified by the state of her brother. Yet unwilling to let him die.

  And that left Max. He ignored Chloe completely. Fell to his knees and, without pause, bent over me. A roof over my cowering form.

  Oliver, he is as shameless as he is flexible. He suspended himself just above me, arms rigid, legs rigid in a push-up that urged me closer to the ground. He must be unfathomably strong, to hold himself so steadily. I’ve heard he belongs to the ballet program.

  Hot breath on my throat. I shuddered.

  “. . . nine, ten! Hold your positions.”

  Max laughed against my shoulder, shook hairs that stood up there.

  “Postulations?”

  A small girl: “Moritz is Gregor Samsa. And Chloe’s Gregor’s sister. But Max . . .”

  “Max is a cad,” Chloe murmured behind her hand. Laughter rumbled the beanbags.

  “No.” The girl adjusted her glasses. “He’s furniture. The table Gregor’s hiding under.”

  Max snorted, pushed himself off me. “No, Chloe-Bowie’s right. I am a cad.”

  Our classmates snapped applause. Max helped me to my feet. Did not release my hand for many seconds, let his fingers ghost my palm when he did. I did not blush.

  Chloe elbowed me on the way to our beanbags. “Moritz Farber, join my band.”

  “Moritz.” Dr. Hoppen. “You fell into character before I hit nine. Well done.”

  I could not stifle a smile.

  And, Ollie, I saw it suddenly mirrored on a circle of faces.

  You told me. You told me I might brighten a room. You weren’t lying.

  I’ve never seen light. But have I been light?

  In Stagecraft, I used a razor to texture the side of the Stone Table on which Aslan would be sacrificed. Some heavy-handed symbolism in Year One’s performance of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. All of Myriad operates on dream logic: living for an endless cycle of performances. God knows what becomes of the graduates when they enter the world and find it devoid of spontaneous musical numbers. We act as though that doesn’t matter. Today I wanted to act that way, too. Today I whistled. Downright unnerving.

  I’m a dab hand at textures. MBV ensures that I know what the pores of stone look like better than most. No lion was ever shanked on a Styrofoam table so finely crafted.<
br />
  I heard Klaus enter the wings. He stood just behind the curtain, watching me work. Aiming for silence, but I could hear his heartbeat. His breathing. The usual sounds of a human body. Klaus peeled his shoes from his feet and slid forward across the floor on swishing socks. Did he intend to scare me? How embarrassing.

  “Am I doing a proficient job?”

  He deflated. “There’s no surprising you, is there?”

  I cocked an ear toward him. “Why would you wish to surprise me?”

  Klaus folded his sturdy arms and sat down atop the unfinished table. “Maybe I was trying to catch you slacking off. Give me a reason to kick you out of class.”

  “You’re the Stagecraft student supervisor. You don’t need a reason.” I set the razor down on a brown paper bag beside my knees. “I’m not so popular that anyone would fight for me.” I thought about Belletristik class. “Well, probably no one would.”

  “Molly definitely would. Why the hell does she like you so much?” Cantankerous as he may be, Klaus is also bracing. Direct.

  “I’m under the impression Molly likes very nearly everyone.”

  “Yeah, sure. But with you it’s like—how do I say this? She treasures you. She’s class rep and she pays attention to everyone. But she looks at you like she can’t believe you’re next to her. Like you’re blessing us with your misery.”

  “We share a close history.”

  “So tell me what that means, Farber.”

  I found my feet and turned away from him. Headed for the wings. “That’s her business. I wouldn’t presume to—”

  Klaus stood as well, towering above me on the table. He actually shouted: “I want her to treat me like that!”

  If I put you in a room with Klaus, the room would be full of declarations and completely devoid of shame.

  “Then speak with her. Not with me.”

  “That’s the damn problem. Whenever I get close, she shrugs me off. She doesn’t—”

  I heard his foot lose purchase even before it had.

  I spun around.

  Klaus’s eyes widened and he fell, trying to pull folded arms free.

  I heard adrenaline flooding him electric. Muscles clenching.

  I became very aware that I’d left the razor blade exposed, there beside the rock.

  Unlikely he would land on it, but—

  My tongue clicked against my teeth.

  I rushed forward with arms outstretched just as he slipped sideways. Slid onto my knees. Would have slid farther if the stage were freshly polished. I took that into account.

  The instant my left fingertips pushed the razor spinning away across the wood, I pushed my right palm against his right shoulder. Broke his fall.

  Bulky Klaus weighed more than I’d anticipated. My arm caved.

  The both of us, entangled on the floor.

  “But—you were facing the other way.” Klaus dislodged himself. Eyes did not leave me. “And before . . . you knew I was here. So how did you even—?”

  “Keen ears.” I rubbed my left elbow.

  “And I heard you click.” He shook his head. “Tennessee Williams, Farber?”

  “Oh, I think I’m still waiting for that click.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know.” I didn’t, Oliver. “Beg pardon.”

  “Why do you wear those goggles, Moritz?” The aggression had left him. His voice imploring. “Tell me.”

  I shook my head. “It’s light sensitivity.”

  “You’re lying.” Klaus stared at me. Panting. He recovered his gruff demeanor. “You’re just like her. I’m just part of the damn scenery.”

  “The where matters,” I whispered.

  Hands on his hips, his back to me. “I’m an idiot.”

  “Everybody trips.”

  “I’m an idiot because I don’t really even know who she is. And I still . . .” He nodded at my arm. “Put some ice on that.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  A begrudging head jerk. “And get back to work. A messianic lion needs to die there later.”

  The walk home from Myriad feels longer with every day. The snow deepens.

  I wrote my assemblage bee captions this evening at my desk. My tea went cold before I could finish tucking minuscule paper scrolls into plastic pockets.

  I steeped another tea bag. Set about completing my Trigonometry and Design assignment. All the models you have made, Ollie. Has any madness ever compelled you to construct a freestanding dodecahedron from paper pentagons? I could not hear where I’d placed glue at the structure’s seams. Like balancing a house of cards: I could not play music, because I do not play music without bass, and bass toppled my efforts. I could not click at the paper structure, because my breath toppled my efforts. I could not finish my homework.

  I journeyed from my room. No sound but the loud ticking of hands in an analog clock. When I was young and new to the apartment, Father hung it over my door. “To show you your way on quiet nights.” Did I ever thank him?

  Now he is always sleeping or working, working or sleeping.

  Dust gathers in our small home.

  I washed my exhaustion away under our sputtering showerhead. Illuminated my exhaustion in water patters, found Styrofoam remnants in my hair. Scrubbed my neck. Once and again. Max’s breath clung there.

  Until I was half asleep, I forgot Owen. Horizontal became vertical. I picked up my phone. Messaged him to say he is not scenery. (I’ve changed his digital voice to the voice of Christopher Lee. I cannot think of a voice with greater gravitas.)

  I waited.

  Felt silence.

  Owen lives only blocks away. But I dare not see him in person. With Molly, with Klaus. Max’s breath on my neck. I’d only make a mess of it. Sting him.

  Ollie. Beautiful as my school is, there remain moments when I long to be a hermit, with only your words rattling inside me.

  chapter thirteen

  THE STOP SIGN

  Moritz, I want you to hear something, right now, and imagine the sort of amazing shapes it would make in echolocation. You ready?

  I’m PROUD OF YOU. ALL-CAPS PROUD.

  I’m not your dad, so that’s a weird thing to say right off the bat. And I know we’ve been moping like obnoxious teenage stereotypes lately, and you feel more uncertain now than ever before. It’s very you to feel down no matter what, but oh man—

  The fact that you are taking chances on your life, going to a new school, and owning being Moritz Farber—Dolphin-Man and Supreme Insect Impersonator—is spectacular!

  I would read your comic book, Mo.

  You used to be a dorky, begoggled caterpillar. Do you remember? You spent hours slinking around hallways, trying to be meaner than you are, projecting ennui (that’s French!), and living a life even lonelier than mine.

  But now—Moritz, before you seriously consider hermithood (I know you’ve got depression and you can’t help it), you need to look at how far you’ve come. I mean, you’ve got friends. Love interests! You catch falling grouches! You’ve got a school that will let you rap for a grade. And there’s even talk of getting your hair out of your face.

  I really wish you could see you how I do. I wish you could see that your mistakes mean you’re living. And if there are consequences, you’ll be learning. Say what you want, but don’t give up on the world just yet. We can’t both spend our lives in bed.

  Moritz, what if trying to be better is the same as being good?

  “Bridget,” Auburn-Stache said, “don’t.”

  Auburn-Stache had mentioned Bridget before. When he was trying to cheer me up after the funeral. He mentioned a girl who takes her heart out when she doesn’t want to feel things.

  So here was an unfeeling-looking girl suspending a heart over a machine.

  No reason to lose my cool. My weirdness tolerance is growing taller than Arthur, Mo.

  “Hey.” I pointed. “Is that what folks call a blender?”

  Bridget stared like a
rock might stare. “Yes.”

  “Awesome. Do you use it for chocolate shakes and whatnot? Can I get in on that?”

  “Ollie,” Auburn-Stache cautioned. “Your bombastics are not helpful.”

  “I’m not making shakes.” Bridget lowered her arm an inch.

  “I’m Oliver, by the way, but most people call me Ollie. What’s it like being you?”

  Bridget didn’t take my hand, what with hers being full of thumping heart. “The electro-sensitive boy.”

  “Yeah.” That threw me, but I kept smiling. “Everyone seems to know that.”

  “Ollie, enough.” Auburn-Stache took another step closer. “Bridget, please put it back.”

  “You don’t have to be careful. You won’t change my mind.”

  “Hey, how does your blood keep flowing if your heart’s not in your chest?” I eyed the hole near her sternum. It wasn’t gory at all. More like a kangaroo pouch than a cut. She could probably pull her heart out like pulling berries from pockets.

  In monotone: “I’m a freak.”

  First Arthur, now Bridget. Like freak isn’t one of the worst words in the world!

  “So you’re gonna, what, put your telltale heart in a blender? Is that like some sort of performance art?” (Thanks, Chicago.)

  “I’m breaking my heart. I don’t want to feel things anymore.”

  “Tch!” I snorted. “Now, that’s some poetical love nonsense.”

  She didn’t blink.

  “Look, sure. I like Shakespeare. I know metaphorically, your heart’s where you feel things. But anatomically, feelings come from your insular cortex.” I tapped my skull. “Basic anatomy. Plus you’re totally mixing your metaphors. You’re blending your heart, not breaking it. Blending your heart won’t do anything but make a big mess and probably a terrible milk shake.”

  She shrugged.

  “I’m just saying. It’s wishy-washy bullshit.”

  “According to a boy who sees rainbows in electricity.”

  I frowned, because didn’t that sound almost like sarcasm? Like she was being emotional after all, despite what she was saying about removing her feelings?

  I was willing to believe Arthur could have accelerated healing. That’s very Marvel.