Alone (5 page)

GAIA FLOPPED ONTO THE COUCH
and tried to picture how the room would look with her T-shirts, jeans, computer, and discs strewn about it. About the same as the rest of her life: a mess. She sighed, listening to Tatiana storming around the adjoining room, and threw her feet loudly onto the coffee table.

She understood enough Russian and knew she ought to be outraged at the torrent of insults flooding from her roommate's mouth, but she just couldn't muster up the anger. After a moment it got quiet, and she heard Tatiana typing so hard, it was like she was beating up her computer's keyboard. Was she writing to Ed?

Ed.
Gaia sank lower on the couch as she felt her guts melt, against her will, at the thought of the one peaceful, happy night she could remember ever having.
The sex itself had been nice, but sort of weird.
The whole. . . physics of the act was bizarre,
she had to admit. It would take some getting used to, though parts of it were already pretty excellent.

But getting used to it just wasn't in the cards. She and Ed had had one night—just the one—and if she cared about him at all, she had to cut him off cold. Despite her feelings for him—despite the total unraveling of every inch of resolve, and despite her total craving—now that she realized the depth of her feeling for him—to be near him all the time, wasn't it a cruel joke that she had to play ice princess and act like he meant absolutely
nothing? Nada? Goose egg?

And wasn't he taking it well! The least he could do was be devastated, Gaia thought. But instead of mooning around looking like he felt as crappy as Gaia, he was off with Tatiana. There was no mistaking the attraction between the two of them. They were as chummy as—well, as Gaia and Ed used to be, hanging out together between classes and whatnot. It made Gaia want to barf.

“Blech!”
she shouted at the ceiling.

The typing in the next room stopped. “Did you say something?” Tatiana called out.

“No!”
Gaia replied. She had to get out of this apartment; it felt like a jail. And
the sound of Tatiana endlessly typing long, epic-style Russian
love notes to Gaia's one true love wasn't helping.

Gaia stood, yanked a sweater over her head, and slung her backpack over her shoulder. She'd spend the day roaming the city—check out the Met as long as she was up in this neighborhood, take in the sights, maybe bust up a mugging or two. One thing was for sure: She wasn't going to school today. She had way too much on her mind for that.

Forget
it. This e-mail sounds like something written from Felicity or that Buffy who slays the vampires. The only vampire in my life is the one who's sucking the life out of me by living in my home and being a big bitch. Maybe I should become Tatiana the Bitch Slayer.

I'd really like to know why I am being hated. Sure, she's angry with me for hanging around with Ed, but she's the one who's pushing him away. If she cares so much, why doesn't she just stop? Then she wouldn't feel the need to constantly yell at me for no reason, insult my mother, and glare at me from the dark corner.

The craziest part of this is that deep down, something inside me wishes Gaia would be my friend. How ridiculous!

It's just that she seems so—I can say the word in Russian, but I'd have to look it up in English.
Self-possessed,
that's what I was thinking of. She never
has a moment of doubt, never questions if she is doing the correct thing. I wish to be more like that myself. And sometimes I think, if she wasn't so angry, she could be a lot of fun.

Something about her is just attractive. Like a magnet. I can see why Ed liked her, but she has screwed that up, just like she seems to screw everything else up with her nasty attitude.

Forget it. Forget her. I'm going to finish one more version of this e-mail, then I've got to get to school. Gaia might be willing to flunk out, but I'm much more responsible than she is.

At least, I think I am. The fact is, I don't know a thing about her.

Memo

From:
J

To:
L

Subject is incredibly eager to move forward. However, recommend caution: she may be emotionally unstable. Perhaps another subject would be better?

Memo

From:
L

To:
J

I will worry about the subject's emotional state. You concern yourself with your job: drawing her in further and ensuring her participation. Reminder that time is of the essence. Subject must receive injection within forty-eight hours of phase 2. Otherwise she will be neutralized.

Memo

From:
J

To:
L

Understood. Humblest apologies for stepping out of line. Stepping up treatment now. Subject will be prepped for final experiment on schedule.

Sixes and nines hopped on top of each other in carnal abandon, and the ones and sevens were having a complete and total orgy with the
y'
s.

SOME MORNINGS, ED WONDERED IF
high school was actually the invention of evil scientists bent on making adolescence even more difficult than it was. Oh, sure, on the surface it seemed innocent enough. Practically perfect. Kids in cool clothes walked from class to class, passing out handmade posters demanding that someone vote for someone else for class president, just like on “Dawson's Creek.”

Or like the first ten minutes of
Nightmare on Elm Street
.

How come everyone else seemed to have themselves totally pulled together? Did they really all know where they were headed? Ed didn't even understand where he'd been, let alone what he should do next. He'd made a sort of decision to avoid matters of the heart in favor of matters of his legs, but he still wasn't sure this was going to work. Was it possible to convince yourself you couldn't walk? And could you really unconvince yourself of that? He might look like a normal high school kid, but he knew the truth: If anyone took an Ed Fargo brain scan right now, they wouldn't see the wrinkled lump of gray matter that was supposed to be there.
All they'd see was a sizzling fricassee
of what-do-I-do-now. Because that's all he was feeling.

Then again, he was better off than Heather, apparently. Ed's eyes widened as he realized that the faded version of Heather Gannis walking toward him down the hall was actually
the
Heather Gannis,
the “House of Style” hostess of the entire Village School.
She'd seemed pretty strung out the last time he'd seen her—dressed like a ten-year-old Barbie doll at a tag sale and pouring coffee down her throat like it was beer at a frat party—but he'd thought she'd just had one rough night. From the looks of her, things hadn't improved. She had dark circles under her eyes, her hair hung in unwashed sheets on either side of her face, and she was wearing jeans so old and raggedy,
they looked like they were left over from the
first
Bush administration.

“Ed!” Heather squealed when she finally ID'd him. “What's up with you?”

“You tell me! You look like you just stepped out of the ‘X-Files,'” he said.

“Oh, I guess I've got a few things on my mind,” Heather responded, with a mysterious grin playing across her chapped lips.

“Yeah? Like what?” Ed wanted to know.

“Like Josh,” she said, a little more stridently than she'd intended. “Things are going really great.”

“Well, good.” Ed bobbed his head, his urge to tease Heather flying out the window as he started to wonder if this was more than just a couple of rough nights for her. She was really acting
skitzy
. “I, uh—I hope he's treating you right. I noticed you hadn't been around much lately. . . .”

“Yeah, no worries,” Heather said. She turned to him, leaned against the lockers, and peered at his face. “Wow, you look a little out of it. Is something going on?”

Ed decided not to note the irony of the new millennium: The walking bag of flotsam that was the former Heather Gannis was saying he looked out of it. All he knew was that he needed advice and that this little piece of the Heather he once knew peeking out at him was probably the best he could do for now.

“I am a little out of it,” he admitted. “There's this thing that someone said to me, and I don't know if it could be true.”

“If it's about Elvis being alive, I think you're out of luck,” Heather told him. “The man is definitely gone for good.”

“No, it's not that.” Ed let out a whoosh of air, then leaned back against the lockers, too. He toyed with the metal extensions that seemed like part of his arm at this point. “It's kind of embarrassing,” he admitted.

“More embarrassing than that time you laid a
giant fart during the assembly in third grade?” Heather asked.

“No. Not more embarrassing than that.” Ed laughed. “All right. I went to physical therapy this morning, and instead of my regular guy, it was this chick.”

“‘Dear
Penthouse Forum,'
” Heather said. “‘I never thought it would happen to me. . . .'”

“No, nothing like that,” Ed said. He looked down. This was too hard for him to say. “She told me that—she told me I could walk without my crutches, and the only thing stopping me is that I'm afraid.”

He looked up again and saw a strange look pass across Heather's face.
Oh, great.
She thought he was full of crap, or a big fake, or a coward. . . . He shouldn't have said anything.

“Ed.” She put a hand on his arm and squeezed. “You
can't
be afraid.”

“Yeah, I know, but I tried it this morning and I failed miserably. Fell flat on my face.”

“Ed!” Now Heather had both hands on him, squeezing his upper arms and looking into his eyes with an intensity he had never seen in her. “If this physical therapist said you can walk, then it's true. The only reason you're not walking, the only reason you fell today, is because you're scared. Don't be such a wuss, Ed.”

“Hey!” Ed shouted, though he wasn't sure whether
he was objecting to the fact that she had called him a wuss or the fact that she was crushing his bones.

“No!” Heather shook him. “Fear is bad. It's the worst thing in the world. It's the only thing stopping most people from living their lives. Don't you see that? Most of us can do anything we want—except our own doubt gets in our way. That's fear. Cut it out of you like a tumor, Ed. Fear is nothing but a trick. You're smarter than that.”

“Uh, okay,” he said in as calm a tone as he could muster. He didn't want to rile Heather up any more than he already had.

“Fear is bad. Being afraid sucks. And it's never going to happen to me again!”

Heather's voice was absolutely flat with determination. She gave Ed a final shove against the lockers and then walked away without another word. Ed didn't know what to think.
Was the prom queen possessed?
Was she drinking too much coffee? Most important, had she
meant
to use the word
wuss
?

In any case, she was starting to give Ed the heebie-jeebies, big time. She'd acted totally weird that day in the coffee shop, and now she was using Ed as a human drumstick. Whatever was going on in Ed's mind, something exponentially more freaky was going on in Heather's.

“Okay! Thanks a lot,” he called, wondering whether there was anyone left still holding it together.