PANDORA

by Rebecca Hamilton

  I wish I could confide in Miranda and tell her what really happened back at the theater, but I can’t make sense of it myself. All I know is that Ethan was right all along.

  I did hear his thoughts when we kissed, and I don’t know what to do about it.

  2

  The early sun filters through the blinds, casting ribbons of light on my peace-sign bedspread. I’m leaning against my headboard, staring at my bedroom walls as I revisit what happened last night with Ethan. My head is thick with grogginess after tossing and turning all night, unable to get into a deep sleep. This morning, not even my room’s familiar walls covered with magazine cutouts of cute guys and random quotes can bring me any peace.

  I heard someone’s thoughts last night. Am I going insane? What if I’m developing schizophrenia like my dad’s great-aunt Pearl who heard voices telling her to eat coffee grinds for breakfast and swim naked in the city hall fountain? Maybe all the pressure from school, grades, and friends is causing me to crack up. Or maybe I’m like that girl on the news who has ten different personalities and believes she’s a cross between Justin Bieber and Oprah’s dog.

  Fear bubbles up in my throat like acid.

  I need to talk to someone. But who?

  Mom’s not an option. She’s still asleep after her late shift at the grocery store, and besides, she would just ask me if I’m on drugs. Any time I have a problem or am upset, she looks at me with an accusatory expression and asks what I’m on. She can’t deal with normal teenage problems. Especially mine. Her way of dealing with me—my highs and lows, my concerns about guys, my problems with school or friends—is to automatically fear I’m messing up.

  I’m not even interested in drugs. I’ve seen it all, too: kids passing joints at parties, people snorting coke through rolled up dollar bills, cheerleaders tripping on X. But I like my brain cells intact. They might be useful one day. You never know when you’re going to need a brain cell. As it is, I’m sure I’ve killed enough of them downing an occasional beer or listening to the popular girls at school discuss hair products.

  If I told my mom that I heard a guy’s thoughts when I kissed him, she would send me to one of those mountain boot camps. Or worse, call my dad in Orange County. The last thing I need is for him to show up with Step-Monster and take me to live down there with them and snot-nosed Caden. Not that he cares, anyway. He would just be glad to not have to pay child support anymore.

  He barely acknowledges me as it is, even forgetting my birthday half the time. He equates parenting skills with an occasional stupid card and sporadic calls where we talk about his favorite sports teams. His wife would string him up by the nuts if he did more than that, and the few times I see them every year, they joke about how glad they’ll be when I turn eighteen because I drain them financially.

  No, I sure-as-hell can’t talk to my dad, either.

  I consider calling Miranda. I’ve known her all my life and she understands me better than anyone. But what if she thinks I’m nuts? I don’t want her looking at me differently. I can’t share this with her until I know exactly what it is. Besides, if I’m losing my mind, I would rather do so in private.

  I jump up to go study myself in the mirror hanging above my dresser. I peer at my face closely, looking for signs that I’m either crazy or a witch. I haven’t grown a warty hooked nose yet, thank God. Okay, my hair might be a bit stringy (a touch witch-like) but what girl’s isn’t after a restless night of no sleep?

  I assess my eyeballs. Insanity usually shows up in the eyes first. Thankfully, my eyes appear semi-lucid, if you don’t count the network of red lines running through them and the faint purple shadows that make me look like a linebacker. To my relief, I still look like the same old me on the outside—not a girl with special powers or a snapped brain.

  I flop down on the bed. Okay, if I’m not certifiable, then what? ESP? I don’t believe in any of that New Age crystal-magic stuff, and there’s no sixth sense ability in my family history. None I know of anyway.

  I put on my headphones, hoping music will distract me from my worries. I grab some nail polish off the nightstand and begin polishing my toenails my favorite color, “Grasshopper Green.” Then I move on to my fingernails. Against my will, I continue to ruminate about last night, going over every detail in my mind.

  Was Ethan playing a trick on me? But how, when I distinctly heard his voice in my head? And why?

  Is there something wrong with me?

  The bottle trembles in my hand and a few drops of Grasshopper Green fall onto the bedspread. I try to wipe it up but make it worse, a big green splotch that reflects my anxious state of mind. I close the lid and lean back against the pillows, my mind racing. I can’t go on like this, not knowing what happened. I need to somehow prove to myself that I’m still normal, that I’m okay.

  But how?

  A song on my iPod croons about kissing bearded barley. What the hell is bearded barley?

  Then it hits me, that’s it. Not bearded barley. Kissing. I need to kiss someone again. Prove I’m fine, that I don’t hear thoughts, that last night was just a figment of my imagination or lame-o Ethan yanking my chain.

  But who to kiss? There’s no one I’ve been interested in this summer besides Ethan, and it took months to get him to ask me out. There is a party tomorrow night, but the last thing I want to do is kiss any of the guys from school. Maybe I need to find a stranger to kiss, a random guy who doesn’t know me. No strings attached, just so I can find out the truth.

  Maybe Malone’s Pub in Manhattan Beach? I’ve seen cute guys there when I’ve passed by.

  I dig through my drawer for the fake ID Miranda got me for my birthday last year. The girl in the picture has bushy platinum hair, brown eyes, and a black unibrow. I’m a green-eyed brunette, so I’m not convinced it’ll work. But it’s worth a try. I’ve heard that Malone’s doesn’t card too strictly. It shouldn’t be too hard to find a guy in there to kiss. Get it over with, prove I’m fine, get on with my life. All without anyone ever finding out.

  With the right bomb outfit and enough make-up, I might be able to pass for a young twenty-one. Then, all I have to do is find a cute guy with kissable lips. Sounds simple enough.

  Come to think of it, this might be kind of fun. I’m actually sort of looking forward to this experiment.

  ***

  After Mom leaves for her night shift, I put the finishing touches on my outfit and examine myself in the mirror. My tight black top is cut just low enough to show some cleavage. Not too much to look slutty but enough to entice a guy. My flat belly peeks out between my top and low-rise jeans. Guys love a flat belly, especially if it detracts from a bubble-butt brought on by too many cheese fries.

  I pull on my cute black boots, the ones that look like riding boots. They’re low-heeled with buckles on the side. My cute platforms will have to stay parked in the closet tonight. I’m tall enough already and don’t need to add any extra height. Sure, I need to stand out in the crowd but not by towering over everyone like the giant from Jack and the Beanstalk. I need to be kissable. Let’s just hope the guy who wants to kiss me isn’t some short little Tom Cruise sort of schmuck. I remind myself that I don’t need to kiss just anyone. I can choose who I kiss. I can pick a cutie, a hottie.

  I give myself a final once-over in the mirror. My hair looks decent tonight, which gives me confidence. It flows around my shoulders in long brown waves, the result of an hour with the flattening iron and large rollers. My green eyes are accentuated with lots of mascara and slate colored eye shadow with a hint of shimmer. My lips are slicked with the pinky-beige color that always draws compliments. Kissable for sure.

  I grab my keys and breath mints and head out to my blue Honda.

  I’ve never gone out alone before. I usually have Miranda and a few friends piled in the car as we drive around looking for excitement, so it feels weird to be by myself. I crank up the music like I usually do, but it sounds pathetically loud with just me driving along solo. I turn it down, and then
off.

  Malone’s has a line snaking out the door and around the corner. I park in the gravel lot behind the building then get in line behind a group of blonde girls wearing too much perfume. From the outside, Malone’s looks like a run-down shack. But inside, behind the large plate glass windows, it’s crowded with attractive well-dressed guys and girls. People play pool in a back corner while others crowd around the bar doing shots or sharing pitchers of beer. The band blasts a vintage rock song and hordes are dancing, their heads bopping up and down to the muffled music that thumps through the walls and out to us in line. Everyone looks older than me, in their twenties.

  Crap, how am I going to pull this off? And with this lame ID? Maybe I should just forget the whole thing. I turn to leave then stop myself. No, I need to know. Just act the part, Winter. You can do this. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to relax. I catch myself biting the polish off my nails—my usual bad habit—and stop

  Okay, cute guys, where are you? I spot some in line and even more inside. There’s a few standing by the bar, talking and laughing as they look out at the line, clearly assessing it for babes. One catches my stare and half-smiles at me, raising his glass. I wave back, trying to appear confident and twenty-one. He nudges his friends and they smile approvingly in my direction. I guess the costume I put together is working. Things look promising. The guy’s eyes rove to the group of girls in front of me, then back to me. He nudges his buddies and says something. They laugh. Then he turns away, his back to the window.

  I’m unnerved. Are there Grasshopper Green flecks in my teeth? Is my bra showing? Then it hits me. People must think I’m with this group of girls in front of me. Crap. They’re troll-ugly and wearing too much eye liner. Their eyebrows are plucked pencil-thin and their shoes are so high they’re teetering like strippers. They toss their bleached, over-styled hair and pop their gum, looking around with feigned disinterest as the line slowly snakes forward. They look like they belong on Hollywood Boulevard, not in Manhattan Beach. It would be bad news if people thought these chicks were with me.

  As if sensing my thoughts, one of them glances over her shoulder. She looks me up and down. Her lip curls, and she turns away. I glare at her bony back. On her shoulder through the gauziness of her cheap shirt, a large tattoo peeks through. It’s the number 343 surrounded by flames. Lovely. Probably her prison number. She glances at me again, says something to her friends, and they snicker.

  I shift awkwardly in my boots, hugging myself. It’s suddenly cold out. I wish Miranda were here. I almost reach into my pocket for my cell phone but stop myself. I need to find out what’s going on with me before I bring her into it.

  A beefy guy with a purplish sunburned face saunters up to the girls. He’s wearing a cut-off denim shirt showing steroid muscles and chest hair, a gold chain around his thick neck. His short, gelled hair is shaved on the sides. He’s a walking stereotype. The girls welcome him with squeals and hugs. “Ricky!”

  “You ain’t Long Island girls no more,” he honks in a thick accent. “Look at youse babes, all dressed up like California hotties.”

  “Like our new clothes?” The girls spin to show off their fashion-challenged outfits. As Ricky high-fives his approval, he sees me standing here. He looks me up and down, a smile spreading over his thick lips.

  “Who’s da babe? Come here, pretty girl, don’t stand so far away.”

  Oh God.

  “We don’t know her,” the tattooed girl says, glaring at me. She pulls Ricky toward her.

  “Come on, let her join us. She’s standin’ here all alone,” Ricky says. He appraises me with bulging, red-rimmed orbs.

  “I’m waiting for my friends,” I say, shifting uncomfortably. Through the window, I catch the cute guy and his friends laughing at Long Island Guido. I cringe. What should I do? If I move to the back of the line, it’ll take longer. At this rate I’m in for an hour wait as it is. But if I continue to stand here, I’m doomed.

  What would Miranda, ever-scheming Miranda, do? I check my cell phone. There’s a text from her. She and Billy are going to the pier to walk around and want to know if I would like to join them. For a moment, I consider it. Then I turn off my phone. I need to stay the course.

  I shift my weight to one hip, trying to look casual. I rub my arms. The beach air is cold. “Nipply,” Miranda would say. Guido is eyeing me again. I turn away, craning my neck toward the large bar window as though I’m looking for someone inside. The cute guys and his friends have disappeared. The bar swarms with twenty-something-year-olds milling about on scuffed hardwood floors. I spot a few high school students standing by the pool table, and they smile at me knowingly, conspiratorially. Shit! People I know.

  I should leave, try a different bar.

  I turn to go but Ricky grabs my arm with his paw. “Hey, where youse goin’? You just got here.” He grins, his large sunburned face resembling a barbecued pork loin.

  “The line’s too long,” I say, shrugging away from him.

  “You won’t notice the line if you’re hangin’ wit’ us. C’mon, stay a while.” He shrugs his hands outward. “This party’s just gettin’ started.”

  I look into his watery brown eyes, wondering if I should kick him in the balls or play nice. I’m not in the mood for games, so the balls win.

  Something in his countenance gets to me, though. He looks so pathetically comical, with his hands outstretched and a puppy-dog look on his face. He seems harmless enough. It’s as if he’s playing a role. He’s such a walking stereotype. What makes a guy like him tick? Doesn’t he realize how he appears? I almost feel sorry for him. He seems so desperate.

  A daring, crazy thought crosses my mind. What if I kissed the dude, just a little peck? It would make his night. Probably catch him off guard, too. I could bolt fast after that. I’ll never see him again. It would be an easy way to find out if last night with Ethan was a fluke. And it would be fun to piss off the frizzy-haired girls who look like they want to scratch my eyes out. Two birds with one stone. I’m playing with fire, but what the hell.

  I look into the bar for my high school classmates. No way can they see me kiss this Guido. Luckily, their backs are turned as they crowd around a short blonde waitress who’s taking their drink order. I look into Ricky’s beefy face, trying to muster up my courage. The tattooed fashion victims circle around him, trying to distract him from me. They glare at me as they pull on him, trying to get his attention. Instead he postures and puffs out his chest for my benefit, grinning. He leans in close and asks if he can buy me a Rolling Rock when we get inside.

  I take a deep breath, lean forward, and peck him. Instantly, in the blink of a microsecond, I’m slapped with his thoughts. Images, sounds, and feelings jolt from his brain into mine. In the instant our lips touch, it’s as if I’m watching a rapid-fire video screen as Ricky’s mind sears into mine.

  Slap, slap, slap. He’s directing people out of the burning Twin Towers, the fear squeezing so tightly in his chest that he can hardly breathe through the smoke and dust. His gear is hot and heavy, causing him to move in slow motion despite his racing heart. He has the urge to run outside with everyone else, his trembling legs begging him to move, but he stays put. People are relying on him. He’s down here in the lobby alone, following orders from his captain, while his firehouse buddies climb up into the tall buildings.

  God, please let me live to see another day.

  Thump, thump. What’s that on the roof? Pieces of the building falling off? No, it’s bodies. People jumping to their deaths. People are falling on the roof above him. No screams. Just thump, thump, thump then eerie silence. Followed by more dull thumps.

  It’s that sound, and then the silence, that still haunts him all these years later.

  I’m not ready to die yet. Be strong. Be courageous for all these helpless people.

  Flash, flash, flash. The buildings crumble around him, white dust clogging his lungs. Screams, cries, and shouts intermingle with impotent sirens that do no good. Where are
his friends? They’re back in the falling towers while he’s running through this Armageddon-like haze of debris, terror smashing through him like a wrecking ball.

  Slap, slap. He’s at a Met’s game. The National Anthem is playing, the smell of hot dogs and popcorn wafting through the air. People take their hats off to him, calling him a hero. But he knows he’s not a hero. The ones who died, the 343 other firefighters and paramedics who gave their lives—they are the heroes. Brave to the end, they went down with the buildings while he saved himself.

  People celebrate him, buy him beers, tell him he’s an honor to the country, but he feels like a fraud. He knows the truth—he’s a coward. He didn’t want to die and God listened. Isn’t that a coward, not being willing to die for your country or for what’s right? No, the dead ones are the brave. They’re the heroes. Not him.

  Slap, slap. He screams out in his dreams, alone in bed now that his wife has left him. The smell of dust and bodies are here in the room, suffocating him. He gasps for breath. His pillow is wet with tears and sweat.

  Flash, flash. He’s standing at Ground Zero looking at the construction, at the hole in the ground that matches the hole inside him. Maybe he should kill himself. Lie down on the ground and blow his brains out with the pistol he has hidden in his backpack. Then he would finally be with his firehouse brothers, the brave ones. But instead he turns and walks away, unable to do it. As usual, he doesn’t have the guts.

  I am seared by Ricky’s thoughts. The images end as quickly as they began. I stare at him, unable to move. Our lips only touched for the briefest instant, but in that moment I saw more than I ever wanted to know.

  I’m shocked that tears are streaming down my face.