Any Second

by Kevin Emerson

  One minute. One minute farther down the street and I would have been by the A-Mart on the corner of Forty-Sixth. Ms. Moritz, who always gave me a discount on Red Vines, she would have seen it happening, called 911. Also her son Miguel worked there after school. He was strong and Mom had called him trouble one time, but he also seemed like the type that would have run out to help. A minute farther behind…there still would have been too many other kids around. But that one minute meant being on the part of South Dawson with the big oak trees that made those dark shadows. Little houses with high fences, lots of cars parked along the curb, a few homeless RVs. One minute when no one else was around.

  In Eli’s head, Gabriel laughed. The Purpose put you there.

  No. Just luck. Bad timing. There was that squirrel. Ran in front of me just before, but I only glanced at it, then back at my cards. Not even a minute. That one second—if I’d just watched that squirrel for a second longer, I might have seen the idling car, the door opening…

  Eli felt his mom’s hand over his, stopping the rapid tapping against his legs.

  “Stay here,” she said. “That’s what they tell you, right?”

  Eli nodded. It’s hard.

  Mom breathed deep. “All the teachers have been briefed. That officer will be here too, but not in uniform. Officer Dawes, you met him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. And remember, don’t tell anyone who you really are. If they guess, deny it. And if you see that girl, you can’t acknowledge her either.”

  I got it, Mom. Eli pulled his hand away. He’d heard it all already: how telling the kids could freak them out, could cause their parents to raise concerns about student safety. He had to be seen but unseen. That was nothing new. He’d had training.

  But he didn’t know what he was going to do if he saw that girl.

  “You have your phone.” Mom sniffed and wiped her eyes.

  It’s okay, Eli thought to say.

  Mom sighed and looked at the ceiling, but then, like a thousand other times, she shook her head. “Sorry. Don’t worry about me. It’s nothing.”

  Eli had heard this enough to know better: nothing really meant everything. So much everything. Everyone was always saying they were sorry, without saying exactly what for. But Eli knew. They all blamed themselves. Don’t worry about me, they’d say next. The message seemed to be that Eli should focus all his energy worrying about himself.

  It only made him feel more lonely.

  A buzzer echoed throughout the school. Kids quickened their pace toward the doors.

  “Okay,” said Mom, pressing his shoulder and awakening the subtle ache, still there, that he didn’t bother mentioning anymore. “Go.”

  Go swiftly and without fear.

  She leaned over and kissed his head. “Have a good first day.”

  Eli exhaled. Hadn’t realized he’d been holding it in.

  All you have to do is let go.

  He opened the door. Got out.

  “Detective Pearson will pick you up. You remember the meeting spot?”

  “Yeah.”

  “If she’s late, you just go to the office….” Mom’s tears fell harder.

  I know. Eli shut the door and started up the sidewalk, both hands holding his backpack straps, kids rushing by him. One step at a time.

  Fifteen…sixteen…seventeen…

  Stop it! He wasn’t a wolf. Wasn’t a weapon.

  Are you sure about that?

  Shut up.

  The breeze was crisp and fresh and blew his carefully combed black hair into his eyes. He brushed it back into place. Sun warmed his face, yet a stray drop of rain hit his cheek. He checked the bright sky but couldn’t tell which of the few puffy clouds it might have come from.

  As he neared the entrance, he looked back. Mom was watching him. Waved again. She didn’t come in at Dr. Maria’s anymore but still always waited until Eli was safely inside.

  He reached the door just after a group had walked in. Caught it with his palm, held it open—

  Froze.

  When he blinked he saw the red dark.

  Blinked again and saw the mall.

  Blinked again and saw a crowded hallway thrumming with kids. If they found out who he was, they would judge, they would fear. He was a danger to them all.

  I can’t do it.

  Couldn’t be one of them, their voices so shrill, their bodies moving so easily, their lives so normal.

  Sheep.

  No! Just kids. Like me.

  An older girl jostled by him, her backpack clubbing him in the shoulder. “Watch it.”

  “Sorry,” Eli said.

  He turned. Mom was still there, still crying. She waved again. A trio of boys walking past the car noticed, followed her gesture to Eli. One of them smirked.

  All at once, a wave of frustration surged through him. When would she ever stop hovering?

  He waved quickly, grabbed the straps of his backpack. Went in.

  September 7

  She spotted him between periods two and three. Head down, his hair shaggy and black, not bleached-blond, holding on to his backpack straps, among the herd going in the other direction.

  Her pulse accelerated, stomach clenched, her skin prickling as if a million microscopic bugs had raised their swords—

  And just like that she was blowing up again. White flash, searing hot, the sting of her cells tearing free from one another, mist of red and flying body parts and disintegration.

  It had been nearly a year since Maya had seen him, since those endless hours trapped in the DOL, holding on for dear life as bomb technicians scurried around them, and then as they were whisked out a back door of the abandoned mall and taken by ambulance to the hospital. Nearly a year spent trying to recover from the bomb that kept going off inside her head, even though it never had in real life. A blurry, messy year, a baffling betrayal that might have just been starting to get a little bit better—

  But now this. Him. Here, just a few feet away, all that time and distance suddenly vaporized.

  Stop staring! she thought, but she kept staring. If he looked over…

  What? What would she do? Grab his arm? Scream at him that he had a lot of nerve being here, ruining everything? But she’d been explicitly instructed not to talk to him. It would cause a panic if kids found out who he was: the boy behind the infamous wolf’s mask, The New Face of Domestic Terrorism.

  Maybe that would be for the best. It would definitely get him out of here.

  But as Eli got closer, Maya was struck by another thought: He looks lonely. And she remembered how the entire time they’d been stuck in the DOL, he’d been quietly crying, unable to speak, that in the ambulance, when the paramedic had finally removed the wolf’s mask, his eyes had been so vacant, his face blotchy and bruised….

  Maybe she also wanted to know how he was doing.

  And yet he never looked up, and the crowded hall carried them right past one another.

  But that didn’t stop the explosion. Maya hunched forward and tunneled ahead, a frigid sweat breaking out all over, spots in her vision. The noise of the hallway too loud, the bodies too close too close too close—

  She reached the nearest bathroom, yanked open the door, and threw herself inside. Stumbled, got the side-eye from two girls standing at the sinks reapplying their lipstick, their eye shadow, so easy for them to be so pretty.

  Beelined toward a bathroom stall and shut herself in.

  She collapsed onto the toilet. Placed both hands on her stomach and tried to make everything still, to just focus on a single inhalation.

  One…two…three.

  Now exhale.

  One…two…three…

  But the fire kept spreading, the walls blowing out, furniture twisting, smoke and rubble and melting skin.

 
One…two…three…

  There was a period of white, lost time, and then Maya recognized the sound of her whispered count. Slowly began to feel the whoosh of air in and out, to sense the surface world beyond her skull. The blast fading, giving way to heavily graffitied stall walls.

  Keep going, her therapist, Renee, had advised her. Focus on your breathing and counting, until you feel firmly in control.

  Maya gritted her teeth.

  One…two…three…

  Fuck.

  She probably should have been ready. After all, they’d warned her. Called her in for a special meeting a week ago. The Friday before Labor Day weekend, she and her mom in the principal’s office at Elliott High School, the kind of scene that made Maya wonder if her life was someone’s demented screenplay:

  PRINCIPAL NEYER: (eyes shifting between papers in his lap and the gap between Mom and Maya) We are so sorry. We had no intention of this happening. Someone brought up the possibility back in the spring, but we checked your records and at the time you were still listed as attending Garfield.

  MOM: I don’t understand. We put in the transfer paperwork at the right time.

  PRINCIPAL NEYER: No, of course you did.

  MAYA: (slouching)

  FUSSY PRINCIPAL’S ASSISTANT, DONNA OR SOMETHING: (flipping furiously through pages) It’s because decisions on reassignment requests aren’t made until August, and even then, it’s all done at the district level. Our registrar just gets a list afterward….Due to the sensitive nature of Eli’s case, not everyone here at Elliott was briefed on the situation…and now school starts next week.

  MOM: So you’re saying Maya has to go to school with this boy who tried to kill her, who might still be a terrorist.

  MAYA: Mom.

  PRINCIPAL NEYER: (shifting like he has to pee) Mrs. Abrams, we’ve—

  MOM: It’s Sanders. Not Abrams anymore. Not Mrs.

  PRINCIPAL NEYER: Sorry. We, um, the boy has been thoroughly evaluated and we feel confident that he poses no threat to the student body.

  MOM: Except to my daughter.

  PRINCIPAL NEYER: We’ve reviewed Maya’s file and I understand your concern. That’s why we’re here. Given the circumstances, we are more than willing to transfer you back to Garfield—

  MAYA: No way.

  MOM: We had to sell the house, and my apartment is up here, and she can’t live with her father.

  DONNA-MAYBE: Is there something we should know about your father?

  MOM: No, of course not. But he lives with his new girlfriend—

  MAYA: There’s no way I’m living with them.

  MOM: With her recovery, she needs to be with me.

  PRINCIPAL NEYER: I understand, of course. What about another school that’s nearby?

  DONNA-MAYBE: (more flipping) I think Ingraham might work. Enrollment is at an all-time high in the district, but I’m sure they could make room.

  MOM: Let me get this straight: you’re sending this killer to public school and putting thousands of kids’ lives at risk, and you want my daughter to move?

  MAYA: (crumbling, cracking, dissolving)

  PRINCIPAL NEYER: I’m afraid moving Eli is not an option. We have a whole system in place, and it would be too difficult to change at this point. Moving Maya—

  MAYA: I don’t want to move again. My friend Janice is here. And some kids from middle school. I don’t know anyone at Ingraham.

  DONNA-MAYBE: I could call over to Roosevelt. They have a great jazz band—

  MOM: (sitting up) Okay. That’s enough. Do you hear her? She says she wants to stay.

  PRINCIPAL NEYER: But we—

  MOM: I don’t care what you think would be best. If you move my daughter out of this school, I will go straight to the press with this.

  MAYA: (showing no response, but somewhere, through a crack, flowers blooming in a weak ray of sun)

  PRINCIPAL NEYER: That would not be in anyone’s best interest.

  MOM: None of this is.

  PRINCIPAL NEYER: (long sigh, glance at Donna-Maybe, who shrugs) Look, some people on the team think it may work out for the best. Seeing him in a normal setting might help to diffuse some of the trauma you’ve been dealing with since the event.

  MAYA: Maybe…

  Except now she’d seen him.

  It hadn’t exactly made things better.

  This latest episode was like so many others: she could be anywhere, doing anything, and her head could be hijacked by Eli walking into the DOL, and everything exploding. No matter how it had really happened, in her mind the trigger always worked, like it should have worked that afternoon. She shouldn’t have even had a chance to go to him, or to grab his hands: she should already have been dead. Sometimes she wondered if she really was, and everything since had been some kind of afterlife.

  Another weird thing about the episodes: she always put her hands on his before the explosion. Almost like they were doing it together. What did that mean? She hadn’t told anyone that detail, not even Renee.

  One…two…three…

  Maya blinked, felt the sense of herself in space. Clothes against her skin, feet on the floor. How long had she been out of it? Sometimes the episodes lasted less than a minute, others could be five or ten. She could hear voices that were probably those other two girls. So it couldn’t have been that long. Their shoes clapped on the tile floor and the bathroom door squealed open and thudded shut. Silence.

  Maya saw that her black knitted fisherman’s hat had fallen to the ground. She realized that her fingers were up at her scalp, behind her ear. An ache there.

  She pulled her hand away and found hair twisted around her fingers.

  Shit.

  She shoved the hair between her legs into the toilet. Spun the toilet paper roll and gathered a fistful, then dabbed at her head. The paper came away spotted with blood.

  It had started sometime during the television interviews last fall: CNN, MSNBC, FOX. National websites and local TV affiliates. We’re talking today about the enemy among us—

  Talking today about staying alert—

  Talking today about gun control with our very special guest and local hero, Maya Abrams.

  All those empty camera lenses leering, their soulless eyes sucking her in and beaming her to millions of judgmental viewers.

  All those brilliant studio lights like bomb blasts, gleaming studio sets like she was in a museum display. See the exotic hero girl!

  The slick, shimmering anchors, the production assistants and makeup stylists, the brass blond hair and crimson nails and coffee-colored suit pants and teal bras and little ski-jump noses. They would try to make her one of them: caking on the makeup, blow-drying her hair, repainting her savaged nails. And they would smile at her and say:

  “You’re such a hero.”

  “So brave.”

  “A role model.”

  You’re all liars! Maya had wanted to scream. She wasn’t a hero. Technically she’d failed, her saving move made from beyond the grave. But it was more than that. Sure, maybe she had helped keep that bomb from going off, but it wasn’t like she’d coolly assessed the situation or sacrificed herself for the good of those around her. All those explanations, which newspeople loved assigning to her, felt dishonest. She’d barely even known what she was doing, still couldn’t quite explain it when people asked.

  Then she’d seen herself onscreen and she’d looked so idiotic, so disgusting, like such a fraud. Her face like plastic, her hair weirdly straightened and sculpted, those awkward solid-color blouses that Mom said looked best on TV. She’d read the backlash online too: attention hog, self-esteem issues, cashing in on her fame, slut. A blog suggested she’d fucked a forty-five-year-old news anchor. (She hadn’t. Had he wanted to? There had been a confusing hug or two. What the hell had that b
een?)

  And on and on.

  By winter, she’d started to really notice how gross her hair was.

  She’d had to wear a hat or scarf of some kind since late spring.

  It just needs a little more work. That was how the thinking went that led to the hair-pulling. Trichotillomania, it was called: a close cousin of skin-picking and a wide array of other truly disturbing conditions Maya had read about online. Collect them all!

  With a little more work, her hair would be as pretty as all those reporters’. But also the pain of tearing out hair was even more effective than just ripping skin. (The finger report: only two Band-Aids today!) Pulling burned off even more energy, kept your drifting deeper. Safer.

  Add that to the blowing up in her head, and her naturally high anxiety, already in overdrive from her parents’ divorce:

  “You’re suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder,” Renee had said. “These flashbacks and the faulty memory of the bomb going off are being triggered by stimuli related to the event. Memories. Sounds. Smells.” And now seeing Eli.

  “But it’s not like I was in a war, or abused or something,” Maya had said.

  “There’s no set amount of trauma that’s prerequisite for PTSD,” Renee had replied. “It’s different for every individual. You had a close brush with life-threatening danger.”

  “The bomb didn’t even go off.”

  “That doesn’t change the fact that there was a bomb that could have gone off. You spent hours literally inches from it.”

  True. Still, Maya couldn’t shake the thought that maybe a stronger person, a better person, wouldn’t be suffering like this at all. She’d thwarted a suicide bomber, saved hundreds of lives, and somehow ended up worse off than before.

  At least the diagnosis came with perks. She dug into her shoulder bag, found her prescription bottle: Serenitab, 25 milligrams. One to take the edge off, two to defuse a crisis. Those were Renee’s recommendations.

  Maya had found a third option: four to turn today into tomorrow.

  She picked up her hat, slid it on, and peered out of the stall. No one around. She dashed for the sink—