by Ryan Schow
In the bathroom I run a cool bath, but this time something new happens. The heat in the center of my bones becomes an aching that radiates up through the layers of muscle and fat. My bones feel like they’re being pressure crushed. I sit down on the toilet.
The nausea hits first, then the diarrhea. Alternating between puking and the burning Hershey squirts, I fill the toilet with things no human being should ever see or smell. If this is what it’s like to be in labor, I’ll stay a virgin for the rest of my life.
Beads of sweat become rivers flushing out of my skin. My equilibrium is shot. My vision pulses. Somewhere in this stupid, congested brain of mine, I’m thinking, okay, is that three pounds? Five? Then come the grey sea creatures, more vomiting, more sweating, way more crying. My knees, where they’re pressing into the cold tile floor, ache all the way up to my hips. The bone marrow itself feels agitated, rebellious. When the violence and shame finally pass, and my stomach feels so empty and deflated it seems to shrink wrap my spine, I wipe up the mess, flush, then nearly pass out from the smell. Think of a bloated walrus carcass sitting in the gutter on a hot day just cooking, drawing flies, decomposing, then double the stink and maybe you’ll be close.
Within a few minutes of climbing into the bathtub, my teeth are clattering together and my lips feel so numb they’re most likely blue. The molten lava becomes fire ants without torches which soon becomes nothing but chilled skin and goose bumps. From one extreme to another. Where my shoulder blades press against the top scoop of the tub, where my butt suffers my not insubstantial weight against the porcelain, I feel bruised. Not so good. The heat is gone, but the physical agony fails to retreat. My hands are fists, my teeth continue snapping out loud. The bathtub no longer seems like the best choice. I crawl out, feel thick water run from my nose to my lip, then inside my mouth where I taste blood. Damn. I swipe my hand across my face and it comes back streaked red. Thick and dark, still running. I should have taken the pills before the bath.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
With my body sweating by the bucketful and now bleeding, I stop celebrating what will surely be a great weight loss and start wondering if I will survive the night. What the hell is going on inside my body? I know it’s the shot. The shot that’s supposed to make me less anxious, less prone to public displays of crying and power vomiting. I dig into my short term memory, extracting all the details of my first meeting with Gerhard and that’s when two and two become four and I realize the very structure of me is being altered.
He’s changing my DNA.
Of course. He already said this. I was so overwhelmed before, too preoccupied with the trauma of my first day for this to fully register. Back then, I was barely listening. I try to recall more of this conversation, but my thoughts are snowy, filled with the kind of static that makes focusing on anything seem impossible. I flip on the blow-dryer, try untangling my hair while keeping an eye on my bloody nose, but then the bones in my feet join the pain party and before I can even finish getting ready for bed, the last of my strength is squeezed from me in a single, agonizing sweep. I hobble to bed, my nose stuffed with clumps of toilet tissue, my messy hair still damp. Still bleeding, my body feeling more crippled by the second, I crawl into bed where I lay there crying.
In the fog of agony, I can’t even think. I want to die. Forget changing my DNA, or being thinner, or mentally stable. The people I’m around—Margaret, the non-triplets, Julie Satan and the Diabolical Three—all of them, they can roast in the hell of their own lives for all I care, and they can do it without me.
I try to imagine the best way to die, but my imagination is on hiatus right now. I wonder if I can use the razor I shave my legs with to cut my wrists and even with a cooked brain I know it won’t work. In fact, I’ve already tried that. No rope. No poison. No pills…pills!
The pills are on the nightstand, but every delirious thought sends flashes of agony ripping through my body. Moving becomes near impossible. Like someone’s playing tug of war with my insides and the casualties of this war are my muscles, my mind, my sanity.
I feel myself suffering a fast death as I struggle across the bed to the bottle. My skin is inflamed again, my muscles so stiff they’re useless, and my nose is dripping red spots all over my white comforter. When I finally reach the pills I hear myself grunting, snorting, sounding like someone’s retarded bulldog. Despite the immense pain in my fingers, I work the lid off the bottle and slide two pills out.
Just two.
Ten minutes later the euphoria settles over me. The horror happening inside me is now a dark, dismal nightmare I can safely leave behind. For now. I breathe and thank Christ, it does not hurt. Flexing my hands, my feet, my legs and arms, everything feels right in the world again. Whatever those pills are, part of me wonders if I can use them when Margaret comes after me for snacking at night. Or washing the Rover with my belly roll sticking out. Or all those times that douchebags like Jacob Brantley, Julie Sanderson, or Cameron O’Dell try wrecking my life. Minutes later, there’s only black. There’s only me luxuriating in a cocoon, or a coma, or whatever.
6
The following morning, my alarm clock jolts me awake. Surprisingly, I feel alert, clear headed. This all seems insane considering I was plotting my own death just hours ago. The peace gives way to something…dark. Something straining inside me. More pain? Hopefully it’s just me being hung over from last night. It starts to escalate in slow waves throughout the day and this concerns me. This shouldn’t be happening during school. But it is. By mid-afternoon I’m having a hard time walking because my bones are in distress again and by the start of fourth period Investigative Journalism it feels near impossible to stand, to walk. In the back of my mind, I shudder at the thought of burning up again.
“What’s wrong with you?” Damien asks. It’s the first thing he says to me since Cameron made fun of me in front of him, and I’m embarrassed. To be honest, maybe it’s the first time he even looked at me because he wanted to. I study his eyes, searching for guilt, or something—the truth. Has he seen the posts his twat of a girlfriend is leaving on Facebook? He has to have seen them. Now I don’t want to talk to him at all. Boy-God or not.
“Food poisoning,” I mutter. I want to say “Leave me alone,” but I want to kiss him, too, so instead the two thoughts just cancel themselves out and I stand there, silent, feeling pathetic.
“The cafeteria food?” he asks. “It’s healthy.”
I turn and see it in his eyes. He doesn’t think I eat healthy, and to be honest, I haven’t eaten healthy in years.
“Margaret, my mother”—I say using finger quotations—“thinks proper nutrition is adding fat blockers to your steak and potatoes. She can eat anything she wants and just have her colon washed out and she stays runway model thin. If I even look at food I start gaining weight. So now I come here and fat blockers aren’t on the menu, but organic foods are, and instead of regular milk, I’m drinking goat’s milk, which tastes disgusting. So maybe it was that. Or maybe it’s just me being genetically defective. Either way, why don’t you just mind your own business and quit worrying about how fat I am.”
“I didn’t say you were fat,” he says.
“You don’t have to.”
I look over and he gets a weird look on his face, like something’s wrong with me. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t making fun of me. He could have been making honest conversation. Still, I don’t feel good and right now everything is irritating me.
Alexander Rhonimus, our teacher, enters class and everyone falls silent with the ringing of the second bell. Mr. Rhonimus looks a hard forty with thinning hair and squinty eyes and clothes that faded from fashion last decade, and all this paints a perfect picture of him being qualified to teach this course. Like he’s a real investigative journalist, more enthralled by the story than the need to impress the A-listers and their faggiest friends. No offense.
He asks how we’re doing and we say good, great, whatever, and then he says, “So this is the most exci
ting day of the semester. Today you get your assignment. This particular assignment will account for the full one hundred percent of your grade.”
The groans nearly shake the room. No one wants an all-or-nothing grade. Ever. Especially me. Even before he tells us our assignment, I’m positive I won’t like it. With so much happening right now, I can’t help feeling the road ahead is going to completely blow.
At least this roaring pain is returning to a manageable throb.
When the complaints finally stop, Professor Rhonimus stands silent before the class grinning so wide you’d have to be blind not to notice he’s a sadist and this is his favorite brand of torture.
“Today we’re taking a field trip. We’re going to the local cemetery where you will begin your semester project. Your assignment,” he says, and we hang on with bated breath, “is to select a name of one of the deceased at random, and write a complete biography on this person, from birth to death.”
The flurry of disappointment starts low and continues to build. Already I’m dreading my chances of earning a passing grade. Speaking over the commotion, Professor Rhonimus says, “Everything else we do in between you handing in this report at the end of the semester and now will help you along the way.”
Okay, maybe it will be alright. And my pain is subsiding. For a minute there I thought it might get worse.
Several hands go up, but he brushes them off, saying, “I’ll answer questions tomorrow. Right now we’ve got to move if I’m going to get you back for next period. Once we get to the cemetery you’ll have less than thirty minutes to select a name and return to the bus. So everyone get moving. Now. Let’s go, go, go!”
Everyone makes good time to the bus with Rhonimus playing drill-sergeant at our backs. On the bus, there are no seats left but a few in back. Me and Damien are the last to arrive. He tries to sit next to Cameron, to have Julie move, but Julie says, “Ho’s before bro’s” and he moves along to the back of the bus where there are three empty seats, and me. He sits across from me, defeated, brooding, staring out the window all the way to Newcastle Cemetery. We stop abruptly, and Rhonimus says, “Dammit,” and then makes a phone call. It doesn’t go well. After a few more calls, Rhonimus circles his forefinger in the air and says, “Up to Auburn,” and we’re off again.
When we’re on the highway he stands and announces: “The Newcastle Cemetery where we usually go is closed due to a reported gas leak, so I’ve called Headmistress Klein and she’ll notify your fifth period teachers that you’re running late.”
“So where are we going?” a boy in front of me says.
“Up to Auburn Hills Cemetery. It’s about ten minutes away and I called ahead. Instead of thirty minutes, you’ll have ten so stay focused and be quick.”
That’s when Damien goes from practically upset to squirming, agitated, completely coming apart inside.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He looks at me, eyes stormy, hard as polished granite, and says nothing. He looks away. His fists clench and unclench. He adjusts himself in his seat three times, then a fourth. The energy crackling around him is erratic, uncomfortable.
We arrive and Damien’s practically chewing through his fingers. Any minute I expect to see blood. He looks at me and his mania grates to a halt.
“What?” he barks. “What!”
“Dang man, calm down. You’re the one with the problem, not me.”
His face looks pale, swollen. Unfriendly. That the boy-God flipped so fast is freaking me out. I stop looking at him, stand and start down the aisle toward the front of the bus. When I don’t feel him behind me, I glance back and see him gnawing on his hand again, looking out the window with angry, lost eyes.
“Are you coming?” I say. I shouldn’t have said anything, but whatever. He flicks a glare at me, looks away.
The cemetery is neat and quiet. Not the kind of quiet you get when everyone’s asleep in your house, but a suffocating quiet. Like just being around the dead sucks the life from you until you can grieve and drop off flowers and cry and then get the hell out of there. My classmates are wandering the grounds quietly, some staying together, others venturing off on their own.
Behind me Damien gets off the bus. He goes in a different direction from me. He walks to the nearest tombstone, takes a minute’s worth of notes then turns and heads back to the bus. Through the windows, I see him walking down the aisle, sitting down, staring out the window again. Jeez, what a weirdo.
I meander through the grounds, looking at names, dates, thinking about Damien, but trying not to think about him. My feet hurt, a dull ache, but I’m thinking all this pain might not be from the shot, or from Gerhard’s pills not working. It could be from my recent marathon on the treadmill. Inside, I’m cursing myself for being so stupid. Did I actually think I could run myself into shape all at once? When you watch The Biggest Loser on TV, the trainers practically murder the contestants on the first day, and still they come back for more. Not me. Hell no. Next time I’ll walk for five minutes and build from there.
A name jumps out at me. Kaitlyn Whitaker. The tombstone is polished marble, black flecked with grey and copper, very nice. I study the dates. Born two years before me, dead two years ago.
The inscription on the headstone reads: Beloved daughter and sister. You were the light in a sea of darkness. For some reason this touches me deeper than I can explain.
If I died, would I be anyone’s light?
I take down the girl’s information, something inside me fighting off sadness. Across the grounds Rhonimus is collecting the students, corralling them onto the bus. He sees me and frantically waves me over. I’m already on my way.
The ride home is loud with everyone talking. In back, however, it’s a vacuum of silence. Damien won’t even look at me. What’s gotten into him? Whenever I look at him, my pulse jumps and I start to perspire. Sometimes I can’t even breathe around him. Then again, I just might hate him as much as I hate Cameron. It’s upsetting. I look away from him. Resigned to stare out the window at the trees and the cemetery’s freshly cut grass, I wonder why the good looking boys are always so mean. And why the ugly ones are so likeable. Why can’t there be a combination of Damien and Brayden in one boy?
Now that would truly be a boy-God.
Scattered pine trees and rolling hills pass by the window at a steady pace, and soon we reach the highway. My legs, feet and back throb with a persistent pain, but this is nothing compared to the way Damien is acting toward me. I want to cry, but somehow I can’t. It’s like my eyes are dry, and anymore I just don’t care who’s mean to me. Well, sort of. I still care, I just can’t bawl about it.
That’s when I become aware of Theresa Prichard. She is five seats up making retching sounds. She’s so obnoxious. It’s gotten old, them pretending to puke in an attempt to humiliate me, and though I still fight the urge to duck my head in shame, today I refuse to cower. I look right at her, not blinking, not crying, just showing her how dry my eyes are and how much she doesn’t bother me. Holding her ugly gaze like this is practically killing me inside, but I resist the urge to submit.
Seeing me watching her, unflinching, Theresa and Cameron get louder, more boisterous, way more animated. A flash of movement to my right startles me. Damien shoots out of his seat and starts yelling at them, and somehow this takes me by surprise.
“Would you two just leave her alone!” he roars, and the whole bus reels in response. Like a tornado has just blown over them and they’re lucky to be alive. Even the bus driver takes his eyes off the road for a long second, causing us to weave onto the shoulder.
“God, take your meds already,” Cameron says, heat stealing into her cheeks. “We’re just joking.”
“Yeah, well you’re not funny, you’re just effing annoying.” Except he doesn’t say effing, he says the real thing. He drops the f-bomb.
If Harry Potter would have pulled off his invisible cloak and sat down beside me I would have been less amazed. Who knew the boy-God had such a temper?
“Looks like you need a time out, potty mouth,” Cameron says, trying to be cute, or save face. “Like permanently. You and me, we’re done.”
“Good, thank you,” he says. “You’re saving me the trouble.”
“And here I thought you needed a television to watch the soaps,” Professor Rhonimus says. Everyone laughs. Everyone but me, Damien and Cameron. The two ex-lovers are stewing in their own hate-filled worlds and I’m sitting here wondering what just happened. Should I feel good, or scared? Damien’s now single. Of course, Cameron is going to hate me more than ever. Maybe I should save her the effort of getting even and just kill myself instead.
7
When we arrive back at school, the students all pile out of the bus. According to Rhonimus, we can’t move fast enough. Like we’re unwelcome guests. Me and Damien wait. Rather he waits for me to leave and I wait for him to acknowledge me. He doesn’t budge. Finally I stand and say, “Thanks for what you did, for standing up for me back there.”
He levels me with dull, faraway eyes and says, “I said it because she’s not nice, because if you can tease someone for being different, then I think that makes you unlikable.”
“What did you ever see in her anyway, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Standing up, he said, “Her other face looks so much better.” Meaning she’s two faced, I suppose. “Now you know, so don’t ask about her again.” He brushes past me, acting like my very presence is cancer in his gut.
For me, fifth period PE is less about exercise than diet. Professor Hunnicut, (“Don’t bother with that Professor Hunnicut stuff, just call me Tuesday”), hands me a file and says, “This is from Dr. Gerhard. It’s your new diet plan. The kitchen has copies and will follow it to the letter.”
I take it, look it over and say, “Great. The fat girl’s now on a diet.”
