Sick Teen

by Jon Jacks

  We’re out on the school fields, taking a sports lesson, which I normally hate.

  Not that I’m actually enjoying this one either; but heck, I want to see if this paw tattoo really has got some kind of magical power.

  I find myself naturally settling into an easy stride, the moves remarkably effortless.

  It could be the paw prints; then again, it could be that I’m not the dumpy lump of flesh I was a few days ago.

  My legs seem longer these days too, but maybe I’m imagining that, as no one seems surprised by such a noticeably otherwise impossible change.

  Then again, maybe that’s all part of the magic; everyone just accepts who you now are, as if the previous you never ever really existed.

  Whatever the reason, it’s obvious to me that I’ve gone from a regular C+, Must Try Harder to someone who’s being badgered into joining the school team.

  Yeah, like I’ve changed that much.

  Maybe next time I visit the tattooist, I’ll ask for a tattoo that helps me think up good reasons to be excused from sports class.

  *

  No one loved him like I did.

  Not that he knew it, of course.

  He hardly ever noticed me, did he?

  He only had eyes for Lisa.

  And before her, before she benefitted from the hare and the moon, it had been Mary Harding.

  And before her, Genifer Burn.

  But do any of them visit his grave?

  No way!

  But I do; so if he’s looking down from wherever he is now, he can see that I’m the only one who remained true to him.

  It’s strange, wondering what he must look like now, now he’s an angel or whatever it is we transform into when we pass on to the other side.

  In places like Mexico, like Vietnam, the people there aren’t as queasy about death, about corpses, as we are.

  They actually dig the lifeless bodies of their loved ones up; dress them once again in their finest clothes, sit them up, give them a cigar, or a drink. Give them a jolly little party hat.

  Can you believe that?

  Some party, huh?

  Thing is, if my little tattoos – the hare and moon, the sweet, itsy-bitsy paw prints – can bring about so many amazing changes in me, how come this ‘Tree of Life’ didn’t grant him what he wanted; freedom from death?

  I suppose that’s one heck of a big ‘ask’, isn’t it?

  Especially from nothing more than a tattoo.

  ‘Oh, I’ll have that one in your window, thanks; the one that promises you’ll never die?’

  ‘Certainly sir; our aim is to please! Have a nice day!’

  Only he got just the opposite from his tattoo, didn’t he?

  Lingering death.

  But…why was he so sure that it would work that he took such a ridiculous risk?

  An all-over body tattoo!

  He must have been in agony just suffering its creation; the forcing of the ink into his flesh, the sores that such an operation always causes.

  Who’s to say, though, that it didn’t work?

  Maybe we’re all looking at this wrong: maybe we’re all just accepting that life all revolves around our bodies.

  But what of our soul?

  What if what he was really looking for was a way of living forever on some sort of different plane to our regular existence.

  He could be right here now, standing by me.

  And I wouldn’t know.

  The soil of the grave suddenly shifts, dropping away as if a hand’s about to erupt from beneath the earth.

  I almost die right here, I’m so horrified, so shocked.

  But then, thankfully, the soil stops moving.

  It was just settling.

  Wow! Like, how unsettling was that?

  *

  If his soul is still hanging around on earth, does that mean he can be brought back to life?

  Hey, you’ve always got to have an open mind and at least consider such things, haven’t you?

  Thing is, what if I bring him back and he just goes running off back to Lisa?

  There won’t have been much point in resurrecting him then, would there?

  Then again, surely he’d have to be a touch thankful that I was the one who’d revived him!

  That merits a kiss at the very least, right?

  Yeah, like I’m that desperate!

  Seeking a kiss from a boy who’s pushing up the daisies!

  What the heck is wrong with me?

  *

  Chapter 7

  True, I always thought I was a little crazy.

  But then, don’t we all, deep down, think that? You know, if we’re being honest?

  I mean, everyone’s dealing with life in a take-it-as-it-comes sort of way, aren’t we?

  Making it up as we go along.

  Winging it: hoping it all turns out okay.

  Sure, we act like we’re confident; like we can deal with anything life throws at us.

  But it’s not true, is it?

  It’s all just a façade we put on.

  A front, to make it look like we’re facing up to the world.

  Inside, we’re all just a little bit scared, at the very least.

  Some of us, we’re almost permanently petrified.

  Not that we want anybody to know that.

  Not that we even want to admit it to ourselves.

  Who are we really?

  See, we’ve adopted so many false identities, all these facades we put on when go out into the cruel world, we’re no longer quite so sure ourselves when it comes to deciding who the real us is.

  Is it you?

  Is this the true me?

  Me, I’m as lost as anyone when I’m trying to figure it all out, to find the original me I’ve managed to hide under so many layers.

  Now, of course, I’m one of the cool kids.

  So everything should all just fall naturally into place, shouldn’t it?

  But, strangely, unexpectedly, it doesn’t.

  See, I can see it in their eyes too, now.

  Now that I can get close to them.

  Now that I experience the way they come begging for tips on how to improve their looks, how to impress such and such, how to avoid getting turned down for a date.

  Just like I was, they’re scared inside.

  Fact is, they seem more frightened than I was; frightened that one day they’ll say or do something wrong.

  Then they’ll fall from grace.

  And when you’ve been at the top, it’s a longer way to fall.

  They fear being found out.

  Found out that, like everyone else, inside they’re just a complete mess.

  *

  Maybe there’s a tattoo for it: one that, once it’s inscribed on my flesh, helps me realise who I really am

  That would be really neat!

  Well, if you don't ask, you don’t get.

  I ask her, the woman with the face with more studs than any working boot.

  ‘Ah,’ she says, already sounding sufficiently wise and understanding, ‘it is your soul that you need to tie in place: you are in danger of losing your soul!’

  *

  Who’d have thought it?

  Losing my soul?

  But yeah, that would explain this sense of emptiness.

  This feeling that I’m nothing much more than an empty shell.

  Apparently, the soul can just up and leave if it feels that way; freely roaming around, without your body to hinder it – yeah, it really likes that. And if it takes a liking to hanging around with all the ancestral spirits and what have you, and can’t be bothered making its way back home, well; that’s it for you then. You’re dead.

  Thing is, if we’re talking about this whole new level of souls, does that put me on a similar plane to him? I mean, if I’m right, if his soul is still here, still walking amongst us.

  The boot-faced woman suggests a design that could be seen as hooks, to go on the back of my hand.

  There’ll
also be a few of them on my chest too.

  She assures me it will be worth it; it will ‘tie-in my soul’, keeping it close to my body – which is exactly what I obviously need, souls being well known for the way they might decide to just fly off to the Caribbean one day.

  The soul likes beautiful things, she adds, pointing to the brightly coloured flowers blooming everywhere about her own body – and so they will always stay close to beautifully adorned bodies.

  As a further piece of reassurance that I’ll be doing the right thing, she informs me that she’ll be adding what will look like beads, or ngalou as she calls them; another word for ‘talisman’.

  I mean, with reassuring scientific details like that, I’d be a fool to refuse, wouldn’t I?

  This time, though, I ask her about the oils; you know, like where do they come from, why do they smell so bad, are you sure they’re safe?

  They’re each extracted, she says proudly, from numerous ‘spiritually powerful sources’.

  From wild animals, such as elephants. (I’d be pretty wild, too, if I was having oil extracted from me.)

  The galls of tiger, bear, python.

  Cobra venom.

  The exfoliated skin of a revered ‘arjan’ (whatever that is!).

  The chin fat of a corpse.

  Sh*t; now I wish I’d never asked.

  As an extra persuader, she tells me these tattoos will also enhance my dexterity. The hooks on my hands will enhance my skills at catching fish and game (not that I know if I possess any such skills to be enhanced).

  What the heck: give me the hooks and the beads!

  *

  Chapter 8

  Look, I admit it: all this is craziness on a whole new level.

  Thing is, this whole thing of new forms of power over everybody, seeing how I can control how they behave simply because of the way I look; well, I’d be bound to be just a tinsy bit excited by it all, wouldn’t I?

  Wouldn’t it be every girl’s dream to know what other people are thinking about you?

  Like that saying about having your heart on your sleeve: don’t you wish you could see how a boy reacts whenever you’re close?

  Go on, admit it; you would, wouldn’t you?

  Me, I know what’s going on in that tiny little muscle of his heart.

  Every time I’m close, it’s fluttering wildly; like it’s gonna miss a beat any moment now, and the poor little dear’s going to blush redder than any tomato.

  You think I’m kidding?

  No way!

  I mean, I can just about smell their fear of saying something stupid in front of me.

  Their fear that I could belittle them with the slightest sneer or put down.

  As for the girls – I know what they’re thinking too.

  They want to be me.

  They want the boys to be in fear of them!

  *

  It’s going to my head is it, then; all this power?

  You betcha!

  Let’s face it, before I was just a nobody; kidding myself I was nobody because I wanted to be a nobody, I liked being a nobody.

  Sure I did!

  Yeah, I made out to everyone who would listen that I didn’t care that I wasn’t well-liked, that I was way too strong and independent to be bothered about such stupid things; but, back home in my bed, well the tears would just fall and fall sometimes.

  What have I done to deserve this? I’d wail, feeling truly truly sorry for myself.

  Now, I reckon, I’ve got the odd boy crying into his own bedsheets on a night.

  Tough, kid; that’s just the way the world operates, I’m afraid.

  Now all right, this might all seem a trifle vindictive, maybe even all a bit childish; but if I’m being honest with myself – and I’ve realised that that’s important, being honest, at least with yourself – I’ve got to admit I’m not yet fully an adult, even though I’d like to kid myself that I am.

  I’m on the crux, see; caught between the two worlds.

  One of infantile longings.

  The other of adult longings.

  A heady mix; no wonder we kids are always a bit confused at this age.

  We’re living in limbo, trying to pick and choose the bits of the two worlds we’d like to have, hoping to shrug off the parts we don’t want.

  Naturally, neither of the two worlds are having that.

  They’re the ones determined to make the choice for us.

  So we get all the bad bits of the adult world; responsibility, paying your own way, earning your keep.

  Yet we’re forced to keep all the sh*tty bits of the younger world; do as you’re told, no you can’t do that!

  Thing is, I figure there is one advantage; we’re still quite changeable, unlike the adults you see, whose characters have been set in stone.

  So if I can figure out what sort of person I really am, what sort of person I could be, then I can change it now; before I’ve become just one more miserable, lost adult.

  *

 

  My dreams have become a bit odd, to say the least.

  All him; all me.

  No! Not like that!

  Well, okay – partly like that!

  Well, no – even all that’s so tame its lame; a few dainty kisses on the cheek, and that’s stretching what’s really going on here.

  I mean, these guys just don’t know how to get it on!

  But that’s nice, I suppose; the innocence of it all.

  What isn’t quite so nice is that I’m using all these skills my tattoos have supposed to have given me, but in ways I can’t really see the point of.

  I’m hunting animals. I’m fishing.

  I can use a bow and arrow, even a spear.

  And wow, I’m so dextrous, I can whip you up a woven basket in next to no time! Not that I’ve got any to spare, as I need them all to collect all the masses of fish I’m catching!

  I mean, who wants to dream about all that sort of cr*p?

  Nightmares I could handle; but this?

  It’s like I’m auditioning for some sort of survival programme; one of those where they abandon you on an isolated island with nothing but a complete film crew in attendance.

  There’s also a large fire, one burning fiercely for several days on top of the very largest of mountains; and as it burns, it creates a house, one made of gold and silver, and some sparkling blue marble-like stuff, that glitters like a night sky.

  But the house doesn’t have any windows; not even one.

  What’s that supposed to mean in the dream interpretation catalogue?

  *

  As I walk to school, everyone’s staring at me

  Not staring at me as they used to do, because I used to dress so oddly, have my hair matted and messy, scowl back at everyone.

  But neither is it the type of staring I’ve begun enjoy recently, with girls looking on in envy, boys wondering if they’ve got the nerve to approach me.

  No, it’s a bewildered look they’re all giving me, even startled in some cases; like there’s something wrong with my face.

  Don’t tell me; the magic’s wearing off, right?

  As soon as I can, I find something I can peer into to check my reflection: first a window, in which everything seems okay at first glance, but I can’t be too sure as the image isn’t clear; then the wing mirror of a car, which again isn’t perfect, the magnifying effect making my eyes seem to bulge – but once more, it all seems completely reassuring.

  I haven’t suddenly started ageing. I haven’t suddenly started to become hideous.

  So what the heck’s going on?

  Why’s everyone giving me all these shocked glares?

  *

  No one dares approach me.

  No one lets me even draw closer to them, making some excuse to turn away, or speed up, if I threaten to approach them.

  That is, no one until Lisa thankfully shows up.

  Like everyone else, at first she stares at me in complete shock.

  Unli
ke everyone else, she walks over to me.

  ‘Are you okay, Tana?’ she asks warily.

  ‘Yeah sure; why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘I mean, well; the makeup.’

  ‘The makeup? I don’t have to wear makeup!’

  She scrambles around inside her schoolbag, dragging out a mirror that she tentatively hands to me.

  I look into it.

  It’s my eyes.

  They’re bulbous, looking not a little crazed; like my head’s about to explode.

  *

  Chapter 9

  I can’t go into school looking like this!

  I don’t want to go into school looking like this!

  ‘Tell me,’ I say to Lisa, once I’ve told her to tell the teachers at school I’m not well, I’m not coming in, ‘are you having any strange dreams lately?’

  She only has to think about it briefly; she shakes her head.

  ‘None that’s unusual, if that’s what you mean,’ she answers with a puzzled, curious frown. ‘Why, are you…?’

  ‘No, no; not really – not nightmares, anyway,’ I answer truthfully. ‘It’s just that; well, they don’t seem like regular dreams, that’s all.’

  Soon as we part, I head off to the tattoo parlour.

  I need to ask the woman there what the hell’s going on.

  *

  Soon as I see her, I think: sh*t!

  She’s got the very same kind of eyes!

  I’d never noticed before.

  Why would I? Everything else about her is so odd, so exaggerated, her eyes don’t really look that wild in her face until you really take the trouble to study her.

  Which, I’m sure, not many people do.

  In my face, however; well, try to imagine the Mona Lisa with two massive eggs for eyes, and you’re starting to get the right idea.

  ‘Ahhh,’ she says excitedly, almost blissfully, as soon as she notices my eyes, ‘you’re having the wonderful dreams already, yes?’

  ‘Wonderful? What’s so wonderful about walking around looking like I’ve had an eye transplant with Charles Manson?’

  ‘But they’ll go down, they’ll soon be back to normal,’ she tries to assure me, her own eyes bulging like a freshly caught fish.

  ‘How can a dream do this to me?’ I ask, shaking in my anxiety.