Devine Intervention (3 page)

Rather, it was that, deep down, no matter how he shamed and complicated her, she didn't really want him to leave. She loved the quiet parts of her day. But there was something about his voice, his way of seeing things, and just the weight of him in her head that she also loved. When the silence ended and his chatter returned, she invariably felt a flood of relief. He was back. She wasn't alone. Even if everyone else in her life left her, she had someone. And she wanted to stay that way — even if it meant she was beyond saving.

W
HEN
I
FIRST
got to Heaven, or at least the part they let me visit, I was sitting on a hard chair in a room that reminded me of a principal's office. I kept shifting in my seat, but this was normal for me on account of how I was born with a tail. Just a little one. Lots of people have them and no matter what Mike said, it didn't mean I was the son of the Devil. I was the son of Doug, and chairs were uncomfortable. That was it. Even so, I used to check my forehead in the mirror every so often to see if I was sprouting horns.

Two guys with glowing heads and choir robes were in the room with me. Grown-ups. Smiling, but that lippy way old people do before they drop the trouble bomb in your lap. The one behind the desk had a mustache the size of a harmonica. The other one, a bald guy, stood next to him.

I felt fuzzy-headed, like I was dreaming, so it didn't strike me as impossible or anything that one minute Mike was aiming an arrow at the orange on my head, saying, “I wish we could make a movie of this,” and the next I was getting busted at a school I didn't go to by two guys I'd never met, in an office decorated with framed posters that said things like
BELIEVE
and
DETERMINATION
and
MAKE IT HAPPEN
, with pictures of flying whales, three-legged kittens, and people lifting monster trucks off of toddlers. Worse, the background music was classic rock songs covered by a church choir, which ought to be illegal.

Out the window was an extra-green grassy field where a lot of old people were doing something that looked completely wrong. A couple of them had linked elbows and were moving around in a really fast circle. Two more were holding on to the edges of their robe things and snapping them back and forth, and the rest had pulled their robes up real high so they wouldn't trip on the bottoms while they were playing leapfrog. You don't normally see that much leg from old people, so it was hard not to gawk a little. Also, I wasn't totally sure it was happening outside my imagination, especially on account of the sky was so blue it looked like the stuff Mr. Moder used to clean toilets.

“What's up with them?” I said, once I found my voice. “Are they on something?”

“They are frolicking,” said the bald one with the dark skin and shiny head. “Would you care to join them someday?”

He stood and walked behind my chair and put his hands on my shoulders and made like he was enjoying
the view. A little breeze from his robe brushed against the back of my neck and I shuddered. My dad called that a rabbit running over your grave.

The angels introduced themselves. The one with the lip broom was Gabe. The chrome dome was Xavier.

Gabe started in on me. “There is hope for frolicking, Jerome. There is hope for
you
. But only if you want it. You must believe, and you must show determination to make it happen. So we ask again, do you want to be saved?”

If it meant I had to frolic, then the answer was no. But I knew it wasn't the one they wanted to hear, so I dodged the question and sort of went, “Derrrrr. Nice posters,” and then I wiped a little slobber off my chin.

The choir music got real loud then, and let me tell you, “Highway to Hell” isn't anywhere near as good without the guitar.

Xavier said, “It is possible his mind is not fully recomposed, Gabe.”

“I think this could be as good as it gets,” Gabe said.

They looked at each other and shrugged, and let the air be empty except for the singers. Then Xavier did a little wave with his hand, which turned down the music. He made his voice go all trumpety and announced, “Jerome, thou shalt be a guardian angel in training, and thus shalt thou redeem thyself for thine earthly misdeeds.”

I sat up straighter and was all,
You are shitting me
, which is when I found out about the swearing sensors in my skull. If you say that word, or pretty much any of the other swears normal people use all the time, you get a
brain shock so bad you could cook bacon on your forehead. Every once in a while I forget, but mostly nowadays I use words like
Chevy
instead. And
flask
,
motherflasker
,
apple
,
jack apple
, and
apple hole
. Among other things.

After my head stopped sizzling, Gabe touched his fingertips together, church-and-steeple style.

“Do you know why you're here?”

I shook my head. That was a huge mistake on account of the arrow, which was still stuck halfway between my eyebrows and hairline.

“Throughout your life, Jerome, you have made a series of errors. Mostly forgivable things. But when taken in their entirety, especially in light of the unfortunate incident with the cat —”

He stopped, either to take a breath or to watch me turn all white and come close to passing out, which is always what happened when I thought about what I'd done that day.

He made the sign of the cross, cleared his throat, and started again. “You are at a crossroads.” I figured he didn't mean that literally, on account of we were still in an office.

I nodded gently, so as to not disturb the arrow.

Xavier cut in. “Thou shalt complete our program, or thou shalt descend into the fiery depths of Hell.”

Gabe unsteepled his fingers and did this whammy thing with them and showed me, on a big, floating screen, what Hell actually looks like. There are nine rings of punishment stacked on top of each other like used tires. They're Death Star huge, though. Depending on the kind of bad you are, you get sent to one of the tires. For example,
there's Level I: Everlasting Standardized Testing for the Ungrateful, and Level II: Ballroom Dancing with the Elderly, which is for Jerks.

The camera zoomed in on each level, one at a time, and through the tiny windows I watched people take their punishments. On Level II, they fancy-danced around the room even though they totally looked like they needed to sit. Every time someone tried, though, a fork of lightning would whip up from the floor and jolt them right back up and smoke would curl out of their ears and hair. Most of the people there were old, but not all. Some of the younger ones were guys about Mike's age.

Each level got worse, all the way to Level IX, where people who were violent in body and spirit turned into maggots and were set loose in the world to eat rotting food before getting eaten themselves, or turned into flies and crushed. Then their souls dropped back to Hell and started all over again as maggots. If I'd ever seen a nature show that bad when I was alive, I would've turned off the TV forever and, just to be sure, put the remote control on the train tracks for a fatal crushing.

The video cut to a part that showed how in the olden days, every angel watched over a human, but then the population got out of hand, and angels started demanding the right to enjoy their deaths without having to do stuff. Pretty soon, the rehab angels were the only guardians left, and there was only enough of us for one in ten people or so to have one.

That made us special. We had a second chance to become good people and get into Heaven. Not exactly
what I wanted, which was to not be dead. But it wasn't like I had a choice in the matter.

“Thou shalt have a soul to tend,” Xavier said after the video ended. “One carefully chosen for you. Consider thyself blessed to have her.”

That's when I first saw a picture of Heidi.

She was a baby then, about the size of a loaf of bread, and I was all,
Sweet! She lives in a crib!
They gave me a handbook that was supposed to have all the rules and stuff for guarding our souls and getting into Heaven. I didn't bother reading it. What was the point? I'd be out of rehab before she got out of diapers. How much work could a baby be? Also, her mom was hot, so I didn't mind hanging around one bit.

I stashed the book in one of my hiding places and pretty much forgot all about it for the next sixteen years, a decision I regretted about five thousand times when that thing happened out at the pond.

H
EIDI KNEW
she should have avoided
Talentpalooza!!
altogether. Reason One was the unnecessary punctuation in the name. Reason Two: Tammy Frohlich had organized it. But Megan had begged her to enter, telling Heidi it would be good for her reputation and their friendship if they did a really amazing dance number onstage, like something out of
Dancing with the Stars
but without the traditional moves and same-sex partner restraints, which made Reasons Three and Four.

The more times Megan talked about it, the more Heidi got used to the idea, which stopped sounding like the worst one in the world and instead merely sounded like a mildly embarrassing way to spend two minutes and forty-seven seconds of her life. It seemed a small price to pay to make Megan happy.

But that was before she saw her costume, a formfitting tuxedo made out of black-and-white spandex. “You dance
the male role,” Megan said. “It makes more sense. You're so tall and muscular.”

You look like a …
Jerome paused.

Like a deranged penguin
, Heidi thought.

And that was only from the front. She didn't have the guts to check the rear view in the three-way mirror at the costume shop, not only because the mirror was right by the place where the Goth kids were trying on studded collars, but also because she was still in mild shock that the shop actually stocked a penguin suit that fit her six-foot frame. She tried not to think about who'd rented it previously, what reason anyone might have to wear a stretch tuxedo, and whether they'd worn underpants.

When
Talentpalooza!!
finally arrived, Megan and Heidi made their way out of the echoing hallway and into the semi-darkened auditorium. Heidi wore her mother's trench coat over her costume so she could minimize the amount of time she'd be seen in public dressed like a mutant bird.

Don't do it. Don't go onstage. Don't do it. Don't. Don't. Don't.

Megan's voice filled Heidi's other ear.

“We have to do this, Heidi, if only to take high school back from the people who rule it. They are Satan's minions. They make high school hell. We must defeat them.”

Heidi pressed her palm against her forehead. So many voices. Jerome in one ear, Megan in the other. And then there were the machine-gun giggles of people who'd seen Megan's costume. She'd chosen something called Fantasia in Spangles, and it was decorated with enough sequins to cause temporary blindness and/or seizures in anyone who
looked at it directly. This did not bode well for Heidi. If Megan's costume was funny, Heidi's was full-on hilarious.

They found two seats near the stage, just in front of Sully Peterson. The back of Heidi's neck warmed, a side effect, no doubt, of sitting in front of the hottest guy in school. For five years, Heidi had studied him, had memorized his jawline, the color of his eyes, the way his hair curled up at the edges. She detected the slightest aroma of leather and sweat, a comforting smell despite the situation.

“Shut up, you two,” he said.

Heidi sat up a little straighter. He'd said “you two.” He'd noticed her. After all these years, he'd noticed her. Her body went into blush overdrive, and she was glad his seat was behind hers, or she might have melted his puffy quilted vest, the one from the catalog that was banned back in middle school for “inappropriate pairings of classic poetry with images of shirtless minors,” according to the letter the principal sent home. The catalog had only gotten racier in the following years, and guys like Sully dressed exclusively in their clothes, looking like Greek gods taking vacations in the Hamptons so they might seduce petite, flaxen-haired heiresses in foamy seaside encounters, a scenario she'd internalized as her personal ideal while reading a romance novel one Saturday morning in the public library.

In the novel, you could tell an immortal by his glow, and Sully definitely was putting out at least sixty watts. He also looked like he had the hand strength to rip open a bodice, not that Heidi actually owned anything more
delicate than a sports bra. She simply wanted to worship at his altar. Was that so wrong? Okay, and she would not have objected if he pressed his lips against hers and pronounced them ambrosial. It didn't seem like too much to ask. In her head, when that magical moment happened, she planned to say, “You may drink of them, sir.” She hoped it wouldn't sound so goofy in real life. Also, she hoped that ambrosia was something you drank, and not some sort of Jell-O salad like the kind they served in the cafeteria on the fourth Wednesday of each month.

Megan had no problem talking with Sully. “I'll be quiet when I'm dead, Peterson.”

Heidi sank in her chair. That was not the perfect conversation starter. She wished she could make like a real-life penguin and dive below a shelf of floating ice in the peaceful frozen darkness somewhere a million miles away.

“Sorry, Heidi, but I had to do that,” Megan whispered. “He's a douche box.”

“Douche
bag
.”

“No,
box
. I'm trying to start a new insult franchise. Put
box
on the end of almost any word and it's an insult. Sully box. Pudding box. See? Foul. Anyway. High school is hell. Truly. Consider the evidence: Morning PE classes on a good hair day. The smell on the bus after they let the middle school borrow it for a field trip. Jockstraps in the lost-and-found outside the office, because how does that happen? HOW?”

Megan stopped talking when the vice principal, Mr. Chomsky, stepped onstage into a spotlight that bounced white light off his glossy scalp. He cleared his throat,
tapped the microphone, winced when it squealed, and announced: “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. It is so nice to see your bright and shining faces today.”

Students all around them groaned. Someone a few seats to Heidi's left yelled, “
Talentpalooza!!
sucks!”

She could not have agreed more. And that was
before
everything happened.

Mr. Chomsky raised his index finger in the air until there was silence. “There is a car in the parking lot with its lights on, a black Jeep.” He read the license number from a square of paper. Sully cursed.

Go with
. Jerome again.
His guardian isn't watching. And it's safer than making a fool of yourself in front of the whole school. He might even offer to squeeze your milk cartons behind the bleachers.

Heidi might have actually gone until Jerome had to mention the part about her milk cartons and the bleachers. Why did he have to take it there? To the milk cartons part. She was indifferent to bleachers.

Then it was time for Tammy to perform. She bounced up onstage wearing a short white dress that showed off her tiny, perfectly pointed knees and slim ankles. Heidi figured she could fit a Tammy comfortably in her left thigh. To make matters worse, Tammy sang like an angel, performing a song she'd written herself, called “Adopt a Million Orphans.” That alone justified the two exclamation points in
Talentpalooza!!

Soon enough, though, Tammy sealed off the glories of her windpipe and stood drenched in the spotlight and the applause that rained from the heavens. Two rows in front
of Heidi and Megan, Piper and Hallie jumped up and down hugging each other, something that takes varsity-cheerleader levels of coordination. Heidi hummed a little “Freebird” in her head, but even that didn't help. She started to pray. If there were a god, she wouldn't have to follow an act that good.

When the clapping faded and Tammy floated offstage, Mr. Chomsky bent in to the microphone again. He read off the name of the next act. She couldn't quite make it out because Jerome was talking.

Sure you wanna do this? If I were you, I'd run.

Mr. Chomsky cleared his throat and repeated himself. Megan squealed and bounced up. She grabbed Heidi's hand. “We're going to kill up there!”

Heidi's legs engaged, but they felt like wet logs. She thumped into the aisle, holding her trench coat tightly around her ribs. It wouldn't come off until the last possible second, she resolved. She trudged to the stage, where the light was so bright she couldn't see past the first row of faces.

Megan whispered something between clenched teeth.

“What?”

“The coat! Take it off!”

Heidi untied the belt and unfastened the buttons. Her fingers shook. Outerwear hadn't given her this much trouble since preschool.

“Take it off!” a boy's voice said from the back row. He was rewarded with laughter and applause.

Finally, Heidi triumphed over all the buttons. “Can I keep it like this?”

Megan reached up, pulled the coat off Heidi's shoulders,
and flung it to the corner of the stage. She nodded at the A/V crew, and the music kicked in. A tango.

I can't watch. I'm outta here.

As Jerome went quiet, the world went loud. There was so much noise — the music, the laughter, the blood pounding in her ears. She couldn't remember any of the steps, so Megan pulled her along, doing her best to lead while looking like she wasn't.

“Dee-vine! Dee-vine!” The chants started, then the clapping, timed with the beats of her name but slightly off tempo from the song. If there had been any rhythm in Heidi, it flew away like a startled bird. Around the edges of the auditorium, people — teachers, probably — swooped in to stop the clapping. But it was too late.

They finished the song. Or more accurately, the song ended. Megan looked at Heidi and shrugged. “At least people enjoyed it. And you were very light on my feet.”

Heidi bent to pick up her trench coat, trying to make it swift and ladylike. That's when she felt the sudden flutter of unraveling stitches and the unwelcome breeze on her rear. She'd mooned the entire school. And she could forget about the damage deposit on the costume.

The audience roared, and she regretted her choice of underwear, a cross between granny panties and elvish battle armor, because she'd wanted something that would hold her belly tight while she tangoed. Heidi hoped no one had taken pictures, or worse, video. All she could do was put on her coat and slip off the edge of the stage, where Jerome's voice once again found her ears.

It's not exactly Hell, Heidi. But it's pretty close.

 

In the grand scheme of humiliations, Megan told her afterward, what had happened onstage during the talent show was trivial. The sort of thing people would forget five minutes later. Or maybe a day. Definitely by the end of winter break.

“It might even make you popular,” she said as they sat down later that day to eat lunch. Megan peeled the foil off her blueberry yogurt container and swiped it against her tongue. “Especially if people thought you were being ironic. I saw how that worked once on
The View
.”

Heidi's face and ears reddened.
The View.
Honestly. Heidi took another bite of her chili and looked toward the recycling can so she wouldn't have to make eye contact.

“Wait,” Megan said. She touched Heidi's wrist lightly with her fingertips. “I didn't mean it that way. You know I don't have a speech filter.” She took another bite of yogurt and let it ooze from her mouth. “See? Oh, and my mom predicted I'd hurt your feelings today. Admit it: Her psychic powers are unreal.”

Heidi managed a small smile.

“Your mom's psychic powers are unreal.”

“You'd better have meant that figuratively.”

Megan sat with her back to the window, wearing her new coat that looked like something from the Oscar the Grouch pimp collection. Behind her, an unreliable sky trembled with snow-filled clouds. The rest of the kids in school bustled behind Heidi. She felt their body heat, and
every so often, a gust of air scented with chili Fritos and cinnamon rolls blasted over her.

Megan wiped her chin with a crumpled napkin. “Anyway, you were fine up there. Most people probably didn't notice. And by tomorrow, people will be talking about other things.”

Don't fall for that, Heidi. You were epical today. And not in the good way, like, say, a Frank Zappa solo from
Shut Up 'n Play Yer Guitar.
But it's all right. You can make up for it if you do good in your game tonight.

Heidi pressed her fingertips into her temples, wishing Jerome would leave her alone for a while. He had to remind her about basketball, one more thing she was doing because people expected her to play when they saw how tall she was. Her parents were convinced she could get a college scholarship if only she'd try. But she was mediocre at best. Her heart wasn't in the game.

Heidi slipped a Pigma Micron pen out of her pocket and smoothed her napkin flat. She moved her pen over the napkin's surface, trying to capture a decent portrait of Megan.

“Lemme see,” Megan said. She reached for the napkin.

“No, it sucks.”

She crumpled it and held it in her fist. The problem with trying to draw people was that she didn't know what to focus on and it felt rude to stare. Typically, she drew tiny towns, cities with skyscrapers, metropolises with floating buildings, exotic villages with gilded minarets, old-fashioned hamlets with leaning three-story half-tim
ber buildings. You had to look hard to see any people in them, but they were there, silhouetted in windows, obscured in shadows, living out their tiny lives. Her school notebooks and binders, and at one point even her jeans, were covered in these sketches, and more than once, she'd lost an entire class period to daydreaming about what it would be like to live in one of those places, to be somewhere else living in some other body.

Her mother had tried to get her to stop drawing countless times.

“You have to stop wrecking your pants,” she'd say. “We're not made of money. It makes you look grubby to have all that scribbling on your thighs.”

But Heidi couldn't stop, especially after she'd discovered the wonder of the Pigma Micron during her freshman year. With it, she wasn't just drawing. She was becoming the lines, dancing on whatever surface she'd chosen, drinking in the blackness of the ink until she was nothing but what she unspooled from her imagination. It was the only time she ever felt like her hands and mind and body and soul were all working together on the same thing.