The Rest of Us Just Live Here

by Patrick Ness

  “It’s why you’re with us tonight,” I say. “We couldn’t leave you home alone.”

  “Dad’s there.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Is this because of all the strange stuff going on?” she asks, almost as if she’s afraid we’ll answer.

  Mel and I exchange a glance and decide silently in about half a second that we’re not going to lie to her. “Yeah,” I say. “All the strange stuff.”

  Meredith nods, seriously. “I thought so.”

  We get out of the car. I see Henna waving to us with her good hand from the little hut where you get your putters. She’s with–

  “Jared’s here!” Meredith says, happily. “But who’s that?”

  And I say, “That’s Nathan.”

  I only make it to the first hole, where I discover that, even a week after the accident, the slight torso twist to make a putt in mini-golf is too much for a still-aching muscle in my back. Jared surreptitiously heals it while Mel and Nathan take their turns.

  “Sore?” Henna asks from a bench next to Meredith, who’s practising her German conjugations.

  “It’s mostly better,” I say, sitting down next to her, gingerly. “Every once in a while I get surprised by something I didn’t know was hurting.”

  “Me, too,” she says, running her fingers along her cast. “Jared helped.”

  Jared has rejoined Mel and Nathan at the first hole, which is decorated with little plastic dinosaurs. Mel takes her putt, then thrusts two fists in the air. “Hole in one!” she shouts. Mel is ridiculously ace at mini-golf.

  “I’m surprised your parents let you come out,” I say to Henna.

  “And you would be right in your surprise,” she says.

  “Ich schreibe, du schreibst, er schreibt–” Meredith whispers next to us.

  “But nearly dying seems to have made a whole bunch of things clearer,” Henna says. “Don’t you think?”

  “Not really, if I’m honest.”

  “It has for me.”

  Jared and Nathan and Mel are all laughing at Nathan’s inability to get the ball in the hole. “You’re supposed to give up at seven strokes,” we hear Jared say.

  “I told my parents I was going out to see you guys,” Henna says. “They didn’t want me to, but I didn’t ask permission. Amazing the difference it makes. Being firm. Being clear.”

  “Your mom and dad are right to be worried, though. Two kids are dead. They probably won’t be the last.”

  Meredith pauses for a moment, then goes back to conjugating. “Ich möchte, sie möchten–”

  “That’s actually the reason I gave,” Henna says. “I could have died. We could have died in that car accident. But we didn’t. I could die at home just as easily as I could die out with my friends. Or, you know, in the Central African Republic.”

  “Ah.”

  “Yeah. ‘Ah’.”

  She’s looking right at me. I don’t know what her eyes mean.

  “I don’t feel any clearer,” I’m surprised to hear myself saying. “I just feel like my body is in all these different pieces and even though it looks like I’m all put together, the pieces are really just floating there and if I fall down too hard, I’ll fly apart.”

  “Like a fontanelle,” Henna says.

  “A what?”

  “The soft spot on top of a baby’s head.” She taps the spot on her own head. “Babies’ skulls aren’t fused together when they’re born, otherwise they’re too big to get out of the mother. They’ve got this spot called a fontanelle that’s just kind of unprotected until the hardness grows in.”

  “That makes sense,” I say. “I’m just one big fontanelle.”

  Henna laughs lightly. Then she takes my hand in hers and holds it. “Mikey,” she says, but not like she’s about to say anything more, just like she’s identifying me, making a place for me here that’s mine to exist in. I want her so much, my heart feels heavy, like I’m grieving. Is this what they meant about that stomach feeling? They didn’t say it felt this sad.

  The mini-golf park is old and really narrow, so even though Jared, Mel and Nathan are already on hole number three, they’re still pretty much just right there, laughing, looking over to where we sit. Especially Nathan.

  “Ich esse, wir essen.” Meredith looks up. “I’m hungry.”

  “Just what I was thinking,” Nathan calls. Henna lets go of my hand. “Anyone want any food?” Nathan asks, coming over.

  “A hot dog,” Meredith says.

  Nathan raises his eyebrows.

  “A hot dog, please,” Meredith says.

  “I’ll help you,” Henna says, getting up. She looks back to me. “You want anything, Mikey?”

  “Ich liebe,” Meredith mutters under her breath, “du liebst–”

  I aim a sideways kick at her. “Nah, I’m good.”

  I watch them head back to the hut which sells your standard mini-golf food: hot dogs and nachos. I watch Henna go inside with Nathan. Jared’s watching, too, then he looks at me and I know what he’s thinking. He’s thinking it’s long past time I gave Henna up.

  And maybe he’s right.

  But she held my hand again. And said she was seeing things more clearly.

  I wish I was.

  “Two!” Mel shouts, triumphantly.

  Midway through our second round of mini-golf – Mel won the first with a score of fifty-nine; Jared had eighty, Nathan ninety-seven, which was pleasing – we have a surprise visitor.

  “Hey,” a tired-looking Dr Call Me Steve says, holding his car keys, still wearing hospital scrubs.

  “Hey,” Mel says, every word of her body language turning into a smile. “You came.”

  “Who could say no to putt-putt golf?”

  “Almost anybody,” Meredith says, writing down answers about the adventures of Dieter and Frederika in Hamburg.

  “Can I play in?” Steve asks, after Mel introduces him around. (“Wow,” he said, gently palpating my nose. “That’s healing amazingly fast.”)

  “You can have my spot,” Nathan says. “I’m doing so bad you’ll be lucky to break a hundred.”

  Steve takes Nathan’s putter. “I like a challenge.”

  We’re on the new course at the back of the mini-golf place, though it’s only new like New Mexico is new. It used to be jungle-themed but the statues of “natives” were so racist they all had to be removed. Now it’s just leafy with one chipped-paint, fibreglass tiger in the middle, emitting a tinny, pre-recorded roar every four minutes.

  Henna immediately joined Mel at the arrival of Dr Steve – for moral support, I guess – so Meredith and I get Nathan all to ourselves on the bench. Yippee.

  “How you feeling, Mike?” he says, sitting down between us.

  “Oh, you know,” I say, not meeting his eye. “Just the physical and emotional fallout of a near-death experience. Nothing big.”

  He laughs. Which I find irritating. “I know,” he says. Which I find even more irritating.

  I get up. “Anyone want any more food?”

  “Nein,” Meredith says, crunching a nacho. “Ich habe viele Nachos.”

  “You don’t like me,” Nathan says, and I stop.

  “Who says I don’t like you?”

  “Every single vibe coming off you. Unless I’m wrong?”

  I hesitate – not on purpose – just long enough to make it awkward.

  “I suppose I kind of get it,” he says. “You’re already ninety per cent out of here, aren’t you? All you want to do now is spend the last weeks as close to your friends as possible because you don’t want to think about leaving them behind when you go. But here comes this interloper, breaking up your tight-knit group right at the time you want it the most.”

  “Well,” I say. “Yeah.”

  He looks at his hands, flexing them and unflexing them. “When we lived in Florida, my sister was a full-on indie kid, so I became kind of a mascot to them. The little one” – he glances at Meredith – “who tagged along and said funny things.”
He looks at his hands again. “And then the vampires came. My sister fell in love. Before it was all over, she and every one of her friends were dead.”

  “Oh, no,” Meredith says, wide-eyed.

  “My mom’s been moving around from base to base ever since. Keeping busy so she never has to think about it. But we show up here and now there’s two dead kids and I don’t know anyone…”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, all right.” We’re quiet for a second, then I say, “You know, Henna’s older brother–”

  “I know,” he says. “Cool to talk to someone who knows what it’s like.”

  Shit. I mean, come on. How am I supposed to react to all of this? How am I supposed to hate him now?

  “You have a really stupid haircut,” I say.

  “I’m self-conscious about my ears,” he says.

  There’s a burst of laughter from the golfers and we look up to see Mel pulling a sheepish Dr Steve out of the six-inch-deep water trap.

  “We good?” Nathan asks.

  “Oh, God,” I groan. “We were until you said ‘We good?’.”

  Mel and Dr Steve head off to a late dinner together, so I take her car to drive Meredith home. Jared drives himself, and Nathan gives Henna a lift. Before they go, Henna hugs me.

  “Clear doesn’t mean I know what to do,” she says, so only I can hear it. “It’s just that the accident made it clear how important you are to me, Mikey. How much I love you.”

  “Just not in your stomach,” I try to smile.

  She doesn’t say anything for a second, then, “You working Sunday?”

  “No,” I say. “Getting graduation pictures in the afternoon. I’ll be under about five inches of make-up.”

  “Pick me up after,” she says. “I’ll skip evening church. Let’s do something. Just the two of us.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  And then she leaves. With Nathan.

  Meredith falls asleep singing “Bold Sapphire” while we’re driving home. She wakes up once and says, “I wish you and Mel weren’t going away.” Then she curls into herself and goes back to sleep.

  CHAPTER THE NINTH, in which Satchel visits the police station looking for her uncle; the other officers are stern with her and she sees a glowing blue deep in their eyes; her uncle – wearing a scarf despite the heat of the day – has the same glow; he threatens Satchel, and she flees the police station, finding second indie kid Finn at her house; for a moment it seems like he might kiss her, but she touches the amulet and sees another flash of the handsomest boy she’s ever seen; it’s so strong, she has to run up to her room so she can ruminate alone.

  “Did you ask him yet?”

  “It’s not really that simple,” Jared says. “And he’s not really a he. You look like you’re being treated for burns.”

  I touch the make-up the photographer has slapped on me like frosting on a cake. My fingertips come away peach.

  “Don’t touch it!” she yells from where she’s setting up the camera.

  “Maybe I should just go with the black eyes,” I tell Jared.

  “At least the bandages are off,” he says.

  “Yeah, thanks. So did you ask him? Or her? Or them?”

  “It’s a bit less certain than that with some Gods. But yes, I asked the God of Deer about your deer zombie.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing. Hadn’t heard about it, looked into it, said, Beyond my realms.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means whatever this is, it’s nothing to do with the Gods.” He squints and rubs his nose. No make-up for him. “Look, Mike, most Gods don’t care.”

  “About what?”

  “About anything. Other than gaining dominance over other Gods and telling you how wonderful they are and demanding that you say the same.” There’s some feeling in his voice when he says it. “There’s nothing like a bunch of Gods to show you how alone you really are.”

  “Dude,” I say. “I’m sitting right here. You’re not alone.”

  “You’re up!” the photographer says to me. “And make it quick. That stuff’s gonna turn into a lava flow under these lights.”

  “Wow, that’s a lot of make-up,” Mr Shurin says when we stop by Jared’s house after the photos are done.

  “Hi, Mr Shurin,” I say.

  “You look like a TV anchorman.”

  Jared and Mr Shurin hug in greeting. They always have, even now, when Jared is basically a giant over his father. He’s a good guy, Mr Shurin. Even short and kinda soft, you can still see why a half-Goddess might enjoy his company.

  “I’m afraid it’s officially going to be me against your mom again, Mike,” he says. “The state party even hired me a proper campaign team.” He shrugs. “That’ll be new.”

  “We’ll be two states away,” I say. “So good luck. Text me the result or something.”

  He smiles, but he looks tired. There’s no way he’s going to win and he knows it, but the opposition party have to put up somebody. Mr Shurin’s never said exactly why he always runs, but my guess would be that my mom’s party tend to not be so thrilled with people who are different. There’s a lot of different in Mr Shurin’s life.

  It looks like it might be wearing on him though. He’s got more grey hair on his temples than even last month. It’s never really occurred to me to wonder how me and Mel moving out will affect my parents because realistically the answer’s got to be: not that much. But Jared’s an only child, he’s really close to his dad, and his mom isn’t around any more. Funny how you can forget that every family isn’t like yours.

  I really want to go and wash off my face, but Mr Shurin sticks a Coke in my hand and pulls a pizza he’s obviously had waiting for us out of the oven. We sit and eat, flakes of make-up falling onto my pepperoni.

  “Jared asked you about the cabin?” Mr Shurin says.

  I look up, chewing cheese. “What?”

  “After prom.”

  “Dad wants us to throw a party out there,” Jared says. “When we’re done dancing.”

  “Not a party,” Mr Shurin says. “The prom’s a party. This would be an after-party. A chill-out.”

  Jared winces at his dad’s ancient slang.

  “Look,” Mr Shurin says, “I know you guys are going to drink and hang out somewhere, so why not do it in a safe place no one has to drive home from?”

  The cabin he’s talking about is a decent-sized if cheaply made shack out on the far – meaning poor – end of the big glacial lake. To call it basic would be an optimistic use of “basic”, but I’ve been a bunch of times with them in the summer over the years and it’s fine. They had a bit of an otter problem not too long ago, but the musk and rotting fish smell must have faded by now.

  “Sounds fun to me,” I say. “Aside from it being exactly the sort of situation where we’ll all be murdered by a skin-eating serial killer or something.”

  Jared barely responds. He’s been pre-occupied since at least this morning–

  Actually, it’s been longer than that, hasn’t it? Now that I think about it. Now that I think about something other than myself. Oh, damn. Have I missed something? Am I letting my best friend down somehow?

  “Well, it’s there, the idea,” Mr Shurin says. “If you want it.” He takes a bite of pizza. “You boys doing anything tonight?”

  He means together. I shake my head. “I’m meeting Henna.”

  Mr Shurin brightens. “A date? At last?”

  Yes. Everyone knows. Everyone.

  “I don’t think so,” I say. “More a car crash survivor’s meeting.”

  Mr Shurin nods, then looks at Jared. “You going out?”

  “Mm,” says Jared, wiping his mouth on a napkin. He stands and opens the back door where we came in. A dozen neighbourhood cats sit outside, patiently. “Give me a minute,” Jared says.

  It’s the third time through washing my face that I know I’m screwed.

  I’m in Jared’s bathroom
, and I wash in a particular order, of course, being me. I splash water on myself from the sink and rub some of Jared’s medium-fancy face soap into my forehead, upper corners first with both hands, then circles to the centre. I move down my nose, washing either side, four, five, six times, out across my cheekbones, my hands working in mirror, then my cheeks – gently on the still-healing scar – and across my chin with my right hand. Both hands wash under my neck, dripping water on the collar of my T-shirt. Rinse with one, two, three splashes of water, then a towel in the same pattern to dry it.

  The first time I do it, whole slabs of make-up come off – I’m going to look like an Easter Island head in my senior pictures – so I wash again in the same exact order. Third time through, I know I’m gone. Forehead, nose, cheekbones, chin, neck. Forehead, nose, cheekbones, chin, neck. Forehead, nose, cheekbones, chin, neck. Shit shit shit shit shit.

  My shirt is soaking wet now. I can feel my fingertips starting to crack again as the oil is washed away. The repeated washing of my black eyes and cheek scar, no matter how gently I do it, gets more painful each time. The eighth time through, I try to force my hands to rest on the sink and fail.

  I know how crazy this is. I know the feeling that I haven’t washed my face “right” makes no sense. But like I said, knowing doesn’t make it better. It makes it so much worse. How can I explain it? If you don’t know, maybe I can’t, but as I wash my face yet again, I hate myself so much I want to stick a knife in my heart.

  When Jared finally opens the bathroom door to see what’s going on, I’m actually crying. With fury. With embarrassment. With hate for myself and this stupid thing I can’t stop doing. I’m doing it again even now, knowing all of those things.

  Jared takes one look, disappears for a sec and returns with a dry shirt, one of mine I’ve left here over the years.

  The simple act of taking it from him breaks the loop.

  I bend forward at the waist and say a long, angry “fuuuuuuuuuuuuck” under my breath. I’m still crying, so Jared just puts his hand on my back until I’m ready to stand up again.

  “There’s no shame in therapy, Mike,” he says, as I change shirts. “Or medicine. You shouldn’t have to go through this.”

  The skin on my face is now so dry it stings. Jared fishes out some man moisturizer and holds it out to me. “Can you do it?” I say. “I’m afraid I’ll get stuck again.”