10 Things to Do Before I Die (15 page)

Fingers

The three of us exchange very few Words for the rest of the drive. I Wonder What Nikki is thinking. I know What I’m thinking. I’m thinking about how she Was right: I ran away. Again. I left Mark and Rachel back at the Onyx. I’m thinking about What Twig Will do to them if he finds them, especially if he discovers that they’re my best friend and my girlfriend.

“Nikki, you don’t have a cell phone, do you?” I finally ask When the JFK exit signs start appearing With alarming frequency. “I left mine at home.”

She shakes her head. “I left mine at home, too.”

I lean forward. “Excuse me, ma’am?” I ask the driver. “You Wouldn’t happen to have a cell phone, Would you?”

“Yes, I do,” she replies. “But it’s not for you. I have to keep the line open.”

“Oh. Right. Of course.” I smile. I’m tempted to lunge forWard and strangle her, but I don’t—mostly because Nikki might die, too, if the car goes out of control. I collapse into the cushions. Flat marshlands Whiz past the Window. I hear the roar of a descending plane. We’re very close.

“Who do you Want to call, Ted?” Nikki asks.

“I Want to call Mark or Rachel,” I mumble. “I Want to see if they got out okay.”

“Oh,” Nikki says.

She takes my hand. She squeezes it between both of hers.

I turn toward her—clumsily, a little taken aback by the physical contact. It’s odd: she’s held my hand before (dragging me various places), but I sense right away that this is different. This isn’t nannyish or maternal… . Actually, I don’t know What it is. And defying logic, it makes me feel terrible. It makes me feel more angry and embarrassed and ashamed.

“You’re something else, you know that?” she Whispers.

“Yeah, you told me that once.”

She stares at our jumble of intertwined fingers. A melancholy smile spreads across her face. “Can I ask you one thing?”

I swallow. “Of course.”

“When you Were onstage tonight—you know, at first, right When you started to play—you Were super-psyched, Weren’t you?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“But then you Weren’t. Something changed.”

“Well, yeah, I saw that Twig Was coming up behind you.”

She shakes her head. “No, even before that. I Was Watching you. In the middle of the song … You looked down at us, and you looked at the band—and then it Was like, a light in your eyes Went out. You looked really depressed.”

I stare at her, amazed. “You saw that?”

“It Wasn’t hard to see. But the thing is, I think I know What you Were thinking, maybe. And this is just a guess: but Were you bummed that Shakes the Clown didn’t live up your expectations? I mean, Were you thinking—Oh, man, this is great; this is just What I always dreamed of; this is gonna become part of the Whole Shakes the Clown history, and lore, and legend—and I’m in it … but still, somehow, it just doesn’t cut it?”

I’m stunned.

No, stunned isn’t strong enough a Word. Nikki just read my mind. That’s no exaggeration. She articulated everything I Wanted to but couldn’t before, not concisely, anyway; she articulated exactly What Was going on—inside me. It’s scary. It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating, too, though, I have to say. Nobody’s ever understood me like that. Nobody’s ever even come close to being in the same ballpark … the same galaxy. I try to answer, but the Words get stuck in my throat.

“The thing is,” she continues, “I know it’s not exactly the same situation—but sometimes that’s how I feel With Mark. I mean, I expect him to be one thing, but he isn’t. He doesn’t measure up. Like tonight! He hired a prostitute. I mean, I know Why he did it, and it Was funny on one level … but on another it Was really, really uncool. And I told him so. I knew you’d agree. But did he listen? No. He didn’t even notice What you noticed from the stage, that Twig or Whatever the hell his name is Was grabbing me. He should have done something. Not you.”

I shake my head. “But … but—he Was Watching me perform,” I stammer thickly. “He didn’t even see it.”

“Well, that’s the Whole point, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“That our relationship isn’t What it’s cracked up to be,” she murmurs. “On the outside, everything looks perfect. It’s almost like We have to make it look perfect because We’ve been going out for so long. Because people expect it. Most of all, because you expect it. Sometimes We act like these parodies of ourselves just for your benefit. It’s not even conscious.” She lets out a deep breath. “You know What, Ted? Mark and I depend on you a lot more than you probably know. A lot more.”

Wow.

That’s … Well, that’s heavy. I don’t know What to say or even if I’m supposed to say anything. So I don’t. I try to be like Nikki for once. I try not to run my mouth. I try to let my silence speak for me. I keep gazing at our hands, for lack of anything better to do. And then a puzzling thing happens: one of her fingers caresses mine. Very delicately. Nothing more than a brush. I can’t even tell if it’s deliberate or not. Was it just a tic, an involuntary flutter?

I shouldn’t think about it, though. No. Bad to go there. I should think about something else, like how fascinated I am by how cold her fingers are. They’re as cold as her rings. It’s as if there’s no difference between them.

She shivers, glancing up at me. Her face drifts toward mine. I see nothing but those eyes. They’re two shiny black asteroids floating in the vastness of space—and due to chance or astrophysics or both, they’ve drifted too close to my own … right into their gravitational fields. We’re caught now. No force in the universe can prevent us from changing course. The attraction is too strong. It’s irreversible.

I’ve been Waiting for this all my life. And now my life is about to end.

Involuntarily I pounce, Rachel style.

Nikki pounces back.

The speed and ferocity are almost scary. I feel a blast of euphoria, the same swift kick to the central nervous system I got When the lights came up onstage at the Onyx. In an instant our lips are mashed together, and We’re clawing at each other and stroking each other’s hair—

This Was no accident. This is destiny.

Betrayal

“Sorry to break this up, but What airline?” the driver demands.

Nikki and I spring apart.

Holy—What did I just do? Poof! The euphoria vaporizes. The sense of destiny follows. Now I’m frightened and hyper-ventilating. Bad. Wrong. Betrayal. Dark Side. I shouldn’t have gone there. So Why did I? Why? And … Oh, boy, and now the tinnitus, the nausea, the vertigo—yes, the Whole Poison Crew has returned, bursting in on me like a bunch of old pals at a surprise party: We’re ba-a-ack! Betcha Weren’t expecting us! I clutch at the door handle. Jesus. We’ve already arrived at the international departure gates: a morass of traffic and pedestrians and luggage and security and lighted signs, EL AL, AIR INDIA, VIRGIN ATLANTIC, NIGERIA AIRWAYS—

“What airline?” the Woman repeats impatiently.

“Wherever you can pull over,” I choke out. I glance at Nikki in Wide-eyed horror.

“I think I should go home,” she says.

“Right.” The response is instant. She isn’t coming With me. No surprise there. I can’t read her voice, either, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Must escape. Now.

She bites her lip. “Ted, I—”

“Don’t Worry about it. I’ll pay Rachel back for the fare. Just tell the driver Where you Want to go.”

Nikki’s face falls. “That Wasn’t What I meant. Ted, you need to come With me so We can get you to a hospital. We have to stop playing this stupid game—”

“Good night!” I say, With deranged cheer. I leap out of the car before it comes to a complete stop. I don’t bother closing the door, either; I simply careen across the pavement toward the nearest entrance, doubled over and gagging. Several pedestrians pause to observe me. They appear understandably disturbed.

Sometimes it helps to be a sniveling coward.

Other times it doesn’t.

Sleep on the Red-Eye

I don’t expect to get very far. I expect to start vomiting very soon after I barrel through the revolving doors at Terminal E. Especially since the light inside is of the same fluorescent prison-yard variety that blinded me on the sidewalk outside the Onyx. The air in here is frigid, too. It’s even colder than the lobby at Billy Rifkin’s. And the smooth granite tile is … swimming toward my face?

I straighten up. I shake off the tinnitus and vertigo and nausea. I summon my Will. And Within a matter of seconds, With a concentrated effort, I’m functioning Well enough to purchase a ticket. I Whirl in place, searching for a clock. There are dozens of computer monitors, and people and—there. A big round clock, above the DEPARTURE GATES sign. 10:15. Perfect. I’ll catch the red-eye to Lagos and sleep on the flight. Maybe I Won’t even Wake up! I can always hope for the best. Because no matter What happens, I Won’t be coming home. Not alive, anyway. It’ll be impossible.

Right.

Lagos, here I come!

I figure by the time I’ve landed and cleared customs there, I’ll have about one hour to live. Which Will be fine. I can already picture it: I’ll be the mysterious, solitary American boy— ghostlike, known in certain circles as the Walking Dead. But the Nigerians Won’t see my Wickedness and degradation. I’ll keep it hidden deep inside. I’ll have no past. Yet in that final hour, I’ll become a legend out on those hot streets, shuttling between one McDonald’s and the next, lending a hand to all those Who suffer before the poison shuts me down in a blaze of glory… . Oh, man! It’s gonna be great!

Change of Plan

Another massive stroke of luck: there’s no line at the Nigeria Airways ticket counter. Woo-hoo! I march up to a very nice-looking, heavyset black man in a green-and-White uniform.

“Hello!” I greet him.

“Hello!” he replies, matching my inappropriate enthusiasm. His accent is not unlike the cabdriver’s. “May I help you?”

“I’d like one ticket to Lagos, please!” I say. “On the next available flight!”

“Certainly! I’ll need your passport and visa!”

“My passport and … What?”

“Your visa.”

“Oh. Right.” My enthusiasm fades.

“No visa?”

“Well.” I glance over my shoulder, just to make sure a line hasn’t formed behind me, and then I lean across the desk. “Let me ask you something,” I Whisper. “Where can I go in Africa that doesn’t require a visa?”

“And Why Would you Want to be flying to someplace that doesn’t require a visa?” he asks me politely.

“Because I just Want to, all right?” I Whisper.

His smile evaporates. “No, young man, that is not all right. We have certain security procedures in place.” He doesn’t sound so polite anymore; he sounds perturbed. “Please Wait here.” He picks up a phone, eyeing me cautiously.

Wait here?

Do I really Want to do that? No. No, I don’t think I do. In fact, I Want to be somewhere else, fast, and I know exactly Where I can go—not just in terms of this airport, but also in terms of the World. Yes. My parents took me to London When I graduated junior high. And I specifically remember that I didn’t need a visa. All I needed Was a passport and my school ID— both of Which I happen to have on me right now. And We flew Virgin Atlantic, in this very terminal. So I’m set.

London, here I come!

No Credit

Much to my dismay, there is a line at the Virgin Atlantic ticket counter. It’s not particularly long, just a couple of people, but it is long enough to give me a few minutes to think. And that is not What I need right now. Since I left Nikki, I’ve come to the most important conclusion of my (short) life: thought in any form equals unhealthy. Lazy people think. Clowns think. We doers, however, We don’t think. We just do. Which is Why I Won’t allow myself to Wonder about Nikki’s feelings, or about the fates of Mark or Rachel, or about Rachel’s feelings, or Mark’s feelings—

“Next, please!” a cheery British voice calls out.

I’m up.

The Woman behind the desk is about my mother’s age. She has the most grotesque set of crooked teeth I’ve ever seen. They’re even Worse than Phurm Hand Shake’s yellow, rodent-like chompers. I try not to look at her mouth.

“Hello!” I say. “I’d like a one-Way ticket to London, please?”

She tilts her head. “Will you be traveling alone?”

“Yes. Yes, I Will.” I fumble for my Wallet and passport and slap them down in front of her. “No baggage, either. Just me!”

“I see.” She looks me in the eye. “One moment, please.”

She lifts her phone and presses a button, then hangs up.

“Is there a problem?” I ask.

“No … No problem at all.” She flashes a brief, horrific smile before turning to her computer monitor. “Would you like to depart on the next available flight, then?”

I heave a sigh of relief. “Yes. Please.”

“Well, let’s see… .” She types rapidly on her keyboard. “Yes, I can get you on the eleven p.m. You’ll have to hurry, though. The fare is fourteen hundred dollars.”

My eyes bulge. “Fourteen hundred—?” I suck in my breath and muster a smile. “No problem.” But as I fish the credit card out of my Wallet, I can’t keep my hands from shaking again. They’re shaking even harder than they Were in the cab. Is it the poison, or is it my anxiety? Maybe this isn’t such a great idea.

The Woman plucks the card from my spastic fingers and swipes it through the magnetic reader. She then places it beside her, out of my reach.

Uh-oh.

The dizziness creeps back up again, like a strong tide, gathering force. The tinnitus rings at a fever pitch: EEEEEEEEEEEE!!! My breath comes in short gasps. My stomach doesn’t even exist anymore. It feels as if it’s been pulverized and discarded, surgically removed With a blunt hatchet. I hold on to the counter to steady myself. I don’t think I can stand much longer. I might have to sit on the floor.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the Woman says. Her voice sounds far away. “Your card has been declined.”

“Declined?” I croak.

“Yes. It appears you have no available credit. Not on this card.” She smiles once more. Her eyes flicker away from me. She nods, almost imperceptibly. “Now, if you’d like …” She leaves the sentence hanging, staring behind my head.

Is somebody back there?

I Whirl around to see three large cops, all of Whom are reaching for me—