Dr. Maria had given him a journal, suggested that one way to feel connected was to describe what was around him and how he was feeling. To put himself in the moment. The journal was in his backpack, blank. It seemed impossible to start. Besides, he still wrote like a fifth grader.
One of the girls elbowed her friend and they both eyed him. Eli realized he’d been staring, and turned away. Staring was a sure way to get yourself noticed.
His gaze drifted from one table to the next. So many kids…
Blow yourself up right here and how many sheep could you take out?
Sixty-five, Eli thought, unaware that he’d even been counting.
That would send a message to the Barons. Take away their precious future consumers—
Shut up!
It all got red in his thoughts. Clenched, suffocating, dragging him under. He shut his eyes and gritted his teeth. “I’m Eli,” he whispered to himself, as Dr. Maria had coached him to do. “I am not a weapon. I am just a boy.”
The red faded a bit. He noticed his neighbor was watching him again. Not cool to be sitting here whispering like a crazy person.
Okay. Keep it together. Lunch was already half-over. Eli unzipped his backpack, then checked to be sure that his tablemate was busy again, that no one else was watching.
Pulled out a small metal mixing bowl and a spoon. Mom hadn’t noticed the bowl was missing from the cabinet because she never really baked anymore. He picked up his pizza and tore it into small chunks. Dropped them in. Scooped his vegetables on top. Crumbled in the blueberry muffin.
Mixed it all together and ate.
* * *
***
Last period was study hall. Eli spent it in the office of Mr. Caletti, one of the school counselors. He was in a meeting for most of the period but returned near the end and reviewed the day with Eli, part of their usual routine.
“But you were able to pick some things to eat,” Mr. Caletti said.
“Yeah. It just took a minute.”
“What about your other classes? Have you been keeping up?”
“Mostly. It’s a lot.” It was more than a lot. He’d been a good student in elementary school: high scores on tests, always good with reading and numbers. But ninth grade was a huge leap from fifth. They’d briefly considered putting him in middle school, but decided that would only have made him stand out more. Hopefully, over time, he would catch up.
“History and Earth science were fine,” Eli said.
“Mainly the vocabulary, still?”
“Yeah.” His favorite part of the day had been learning about ocean currents. He liked the diagrams with all the arrows. How the spin of the planet affected the weather. How everything was connected. “I got lost in English.”
Mr. Caletti tapped notes into a tablet. “Ms. Reynolds says math has been going well.”
“I guess.” He didn’t even go to a regular math class, just met with a specialist.
“Any other tough spots today?”
“The bathrooms are still hard.” All those closed stall doors. What might be behind them.
“Did you use the faculty one again?”
“No, the regular one.”
“Good,” said Mr. Caletti, still typing. “Some progress, then. One day at a time, right?”
I guess.
The bell rang and Eli trudged through the halls to his locker. He stared at the combination lock, his mind blank for a moment. He had the numbers written down in his binder, but opening it made elbows collide with the girl and boy on either side, made them turn, notice….Focus. He whispered numbers to himself, yeah, those three. Tried it, and it worked. Progress.
He removed two books from his bag that he didn’t need. When he straightened, he saw the small piece of paper lying on his locker shelf, and picked it up.
A page torn out of a day planner. Not his. It must have been slipped in through the vents in the locker door. The date on the page: October 26.
The day he’d walked into the DOL.
Writing in blue pen:
I know who you are….
Let’s hang out!
Below that, a drawing of a wolf’s face.
Eli’s heart thundered. A spike of adrenaline in his gut. He looked left and right. Kids everywhere, so many kids, lockers slamming, backs being slapped, shoes squeaking on tile.
There was ink bleeding through from behind the wolf. He flipped over the paper.
Auditorium. After gym.
September 11
“Maya! It’s for you!”
“Whrrrisit!”
“The phone!” Mom shouted from down the hall.
“Whr—” Take the shirt out of your mouth. Maya pulled it away, a drop of saliva falling on her bare leg. The burgundy T-shirt had a wet spot on its side, just like the ones strewn around her. On the floor between her crossed legs was a pile of frayed tags. Her dull scissors had been no match for their unearthly silky material, so she’d resorted to her teeth.
Who was the genius who had decided to start putting tags on the sides of shirts? Right along your waistline, scratching and needling and making weird bumps on your hips. Bumps that were more noticeable when your midsection had started straining at your shirt.
These yummy love handles, Janice had said as they’d been making out after school, in the shade behind the bus stop. As Janice squeezed, Maya had felt the real meaning in her grip: These are new, and You are slipping. Had that been Janice or the universe? Or just Maya? Everyone always talking at once…
But they were all right, about the newness, about the there-ness. And these tags really made it noticeable; they had to go.
“Maya.” Mom was right outside the door. “Did you hear me? It’s the phone.”
“One sec!” She gathered the tags from her worn pink floral-pattern carpet, the one she’d had since she was nine. All her furniture was pink and white and from the same era. In her old room, it hadn’t bothered her, even though the desk had become too small to actually sit at. Now it seemed ridiculous, but since they’d moved, there was no money to replace it.
Maya threw the tags in the trash can. Grabbed the pile of shirts and tossed them on the bed beside her untouched homework. Her jaw ached. At some point, the need to fix the tag situation had blurred with the sensations: the way the fibers tore between her teeth, the strain in her muscles, the vibration of the tearing through her skull, all burning off the white energy, a pleasing rush of unthinking. How long had she been at it? A half hour? Even more?
She knew it was insane to be gnawing off tags, but in the moment, she felt that same weird hope that each task, whether on her fingers or her hair or now her shirts, gave her: just this one last thing. Then she’d be fine. Everything would be fixed, the energy finally burned off, the bomb defused.
She’d seen Eli twice today. Once in the hall, and then at lunch, where she and Janice had happened to sit a few tables away from him. Maya kept glancing at him and starting to explode—but also wondering: why was his backpack on the table? What was up with that weird metal bowl he ate out of? She’d fought off the blasts with pills and Janice’s flask, but then she’d been nodding off in English. Not a good look.
“Maya…”
She slapped on the old Mariners cap from when Dad had taken her to a game years ago, and opened the door. “Who is it?”
Mom was wearing a formfitting charcoal skirt and a cream-colored blouse, her work bag over her shoulder. She held the old landline with her hand over the receiver. Her eyes tracked down to Maya’s legs.
Oh yeah, her thighs were dusted with silky tag shreds. Also, she wasn’t wearing pants.
“I was hot.”
Mom made a now-familiar bewildered face, but then her own phone buzzed in her bag. “I have to go back to work. The site launch is tonight.”
“You hoping to get lucky?” said Maya. “Is it that guy Doug you’re always mentioning?”
“Stop it.” Mom’s hand moved to the open button that revealed the edge of her burgundy bra, but then left it. “Take the phone.”
“Who is it?”
“Just answer it.” Mom swiped on her own phone with her thumb.
“Why?”
“It’s a good thing.”
Maya felt her skin prickle, the bugs all raising their swords, but she took the phone and closed her door in the same motion.
“Hello?”
“Maya, hi, my name is Tamara Jenkins. I’m a writer for Chalk.com, a website with a national readership—”
“I know what Chalk is.” Maya’s heart started to pound. Her free hand found the hair hanging below her hat, fingers climbing up it like a vine.
“Great. So…” She could hear Tamara making that effort to speak carefully, like so many adults did around her. “I was hoping to interview you for the anniversary of the Cedar Gate Mall incident. Kind of a one-year-after piece.”
“Oh.” Maya sat down on the bed, a chill racing through her. Spots in her eyes. Her room melting and re-forming: carpet turning from pink to puke brown, desk and bureau becoming the drab rows of seats, her Chagall poster the DOL wait number sign.
“We think our readers will be very interested to know how you’re doing, what this past year has been like, your reflections. I’m sure you know how inspiring your story has been.”
Maya shook her fingers, fresh strands of hair falling free, and pain shooting from her scalp.
“Maya?”
Here he comes. The wolf. Walking in.
“Yeah,” Maya said through gritted teeth.
“If it’s okay with you, I just have five questions.”
The wolf reaches her. She puts her hands atop his. Thank you, he says.
No, thank you.
They let go of the trigger together and the world blows up….
Three…two…one…
“Maya?”
Mom through the door.
Maya blinked. She looked down to see her finger pressing on the End button, her knuckle turning white, her forearm shaking.
“Are you still on the phone?”
“Yeah, one more minute!” Maya wiped at tears and snot.
The door opened. “What are you doing?”
“Mom—”
“Did you hang up on her?” Mom’s eyes did that bugging thing. She pushed her hair behind her ears and stepped in. “Give me the phone.”
“No! Were you listening through the door?”
“Maya…” Her mom grabbed the phone, but Maya gripped tighter and for just one second they were in a tug-of-war—
“Fine, take it!” Maya let go and thrust across her bed, her legs wheeling until she was firmly in the corner.
Mom started pressing buttons. “She was from Chalk, Maya. And she seemed nice.”
“Mom! I don’t want to talk to her!”
Mom held the phone up to her ear. Checked her own phone while she did. Rolled her eyes at whatever she saw there.
“Hang it up!”
She mouthed voicemail. “Hi, this is Rose, Maya Abrams’s mom. Sorry you two got disconnected—”
Maya looked away, brushing at her tears. “What the hell…”
“Just give us a call back when you can.” Her mom hung up and whirled. “Maya, come on!”
“I don’t want to talk to her! It will make it worse. It’s all blowing apart in my head just hearing her voice.”
“Listen, I get that you’d prefer to avoid any reminders of that day—”
“Stop quoting from your book!” Mom had bought a handbook on adolescents with PTSD. Renee had asked Maya to read parts too. It maybe helped, but it was also too much: too many suggestions, strategies, bullet points. And she wasn’t some android who could calmly remember all of that while shit was blowing up around her. “I’m not some case study, I’m your daughter.”
Mom stared at her, eyes storming between anger and something else. Frustration? Regret? Bad enough to sink so much of your life into having a kid, but then to get one that was broken like she was….“Your father talked to her and he said she had good questions. Ones you could handle.”
“Oh, great. So this was a plan you came up with together? You guys don’t agree on anything.”
“We are in agreement with Renee, and she says you’re supposed to find avenues to connect.”
“Yeah, well, glad you guys are all on the same page. But you have no idea how this feels for me.”
“We’re trying.” Maya watched her mom’s hands flex, her shoulders sink. “It sounded like she wanted you to tell your story.”
“She wants to do another hero piece. They just want to sensationalize me.”
“I never heard her say that.”
Maya tripped on her thoughts. Hadn’t she? “Well, what would I even say?”
“Just tell her how things have been getting better. Your new school, and…”
“Getting better—” Maya’s hand twitched. Nearly whipped off her hat and showed Mom how much better things were. But Mom was sad enough already.
Mom’s phone buzzed. She sighed and started typing something. “Sorry.”
Besides, Mom was barely paying attention anyway. How could you not notice all the hats and scarves and bandannas? Because Maya was such a pro at espionage? Unlikely.
“Can I just not do this?” said Maya. “Please?”
“But”—Mom was going at her phone with both thumbs—“is this because he’s there?”
“No.”
“We should have made them switch him. I should have called the Times.”
“I just said it’s not him.” Except was it?
“Well— Oh crap. Now your father’s going to be late coming by with dinner.”
“That’s no big deal,” said Maya.
Mom finally looked up, crossed her arms. Seemed to see her again. “It is, though. This is our fault. Splitting up. If it wasn’t for that…” Tears welled up in her eyes. “You never even would have been in that mall.”
Maya nearly screamed. “It has nothing to do with you!”
Mom sniffled. She looked away, and her expression caused a chill to run through Maya. Definitely regret.
“Look,” said Maya, “I’m sorry, okay? I just can’t do an interview right now.”
Mom shook her head. “Your father was there, you know. You always say how you weren’t a hero, but he watched you walk up to that boy, talk to him, and put your hands on the trigger. He heard you shout at everyone to get away. Aren’t there any moments when you think back and see yourself doing something brave?”
“Not really.”
Tears spilled over. “I see you that way every day.”
The words slipped through Maya’s armor, a mortal blow. Why couldn’t she? Because that’s not what it was like. They don’t know. She hadn’t saved anyone. Random chance saved them. If that bomb had worked like it was supposed to, there would have been no hands on the trigger. This house, or her school, could blow up just as easily as that office didn’t. Someone could walk in, anytime anywhere, and detonate, or there could be a gas leak; a piece of satellite could fall from the sky. They’d all had dumb luck that day.
The landline rang again. Mom silenced the call. “I’ll tell her it’s not a good time.” Her own phone buzzed.
“Just go already,” said Maya.
“It’s really an important meeting.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Maybe you should call Renee,” said Mom, typing. “See what she thinks?”
“Why? She’s just going to side with you. You’re the one paying her.”
“Technically I think our insurance is paying at this point. But I th
ought you liked her.”
“I do.”
Mom took a half step out. “Will you be okay alone while I’m gone?”
“Jesus, Mom, I’m not going to kill myself or anything.”
“I know, I just…”
She doesn’t know, Maya thought. Not for sure.
Do I know?
Yes! Fuck yes.
“Tell your father I said hello,” Mom added. “I’ll bring you something sweet from the launch party.”
“Thanks.”
* * *
***
Mom got home just before nine, bearing brownies. They topped them with ice cream and watched home-buying shows: the classic one followed by the international. Mom even put her phone aside for most of it.
“I got an email from the band teacher,” Mom said during a commercial.
Maya tensed.
“She said jazz ensemble starts next Wednesday after school. She’s hoping to see you at the first rehearsal, but she understands if you need more time to get up to speed with your classes.”
“I’m not sure I want to do it.”
“But you love drumming. And you’re so good. It might give you something to focus on.”
This sounded like more speak from the handbook.
“Are you saying I have to go?”
“I wish you would, that’s all. So does your father.”
“You guys are just a parenting super-duo these days.”
Mom ate her ice cream.
For a while, Maya lost herself in the shows, enjoying the tours of clean, empty rooms, how the couples hemmed and hawed about bathroom features and ideal kitchen layouts. No baggage, no limitations. A fresh start.
And when she finally slept after midnight, she met the wolf in the mall like clockwork.
He walks into the DOL, which is somehow also a hotel near Disney, one they went to in middle school. Is that Goofy getting a new license? The wolf walks right up to her, and they join hands and release the trigger and there is a brilliant flash—
Only this time it is different. Maya feels the heat and fire, hears the screams, but as the blast roars and fades to smoke and ash, she’s still standing there. Everyone else is gone. The DOL/hotel is destroyed, the remaining slabs of wall dripping with carnage. The roof has collapsed, and the sun filters in, making her squint. The wolf is still there too, except the mask is gone. It’s just Eli. And he’s smiling at her, and she smiles back, and they are alive, their chests heaving, hearts pounding, and he says:
Any Second Page 6
