Drowning Instinct (5 page)

As Dewerman rambled on, my back began to burn, and I felt the wings of my skin grafts, the ones between my shoulder blades, straining to tug free. My throat tried to close against the memory of thick, acrid smoke. Until that instant, I had been the new kid, a nobody, just another transfer. Only my teachers knew anything about my
little episode
, but no one had made the connection to my gerbil-screwing, sex-crazed grandmother. Now everyone would look her up, if only to suck up to Dewerman.

Would there be anything about our family? Me?

―. . . comparison analysis.‖ Dewerman‘s voice leaked through. ―Suicide is a highly individual choice. The psychoanalysts would tell you there‘s an intimate connection between creativity and madness.‖

Danielle raised her hand. ―Doesn‘t suicide run in families?‖

Dewerman opened his mouth, but I beat him to it. ―Well,‖ I said, trying to sound all jokey, thinking—stupidly—I could salvage something by being so very über-cool, ―
I’m
still alive.‖

―Well,‖ said Danielle, ―so far.‖

8: a

I motored out of English fast enough to blur. If David was there, I didn‘t see him. I don‘t know what freaked me out more: Dewerman‘s gushing, people finding out about my crazy grandma, or Danielle‘s razor-sharp eyes.

I clicked to crisis mode, my go-to where the world smears and I slide into a parallel reality, like when I‘m running. Rebecca called it
depersonalization
, but that‘s bullshit, Bob.

I never float along and watch
myself
. I watch you guys. Think Ariel in a fishbowl. The world becomes water and I bob along in my glass bubble, right alongside. You see me, I see you, but we inhabit different bodies of water. You can‘t touch me, and I can‘t touch you and that‘s just fine.

I floated like that through honors-level world studies and on to fourth period gym where I made like Clark Kent‘s girlie clone, changing in a bathroom stall instead of a phone booth. No one cared. The teacher spent half the period talking about safety and the other half making us shoot hoops. No stress, no fuss.

So, by lunch, I was starting to relax.

Big mistake.

I don‘t know what I was thinking. Once the fire happened—and especially once Matt was gone—I learned to hate the cafeteria, that momentary pause when a thousand eyes scanned and then dismissed me, the whispers trailing like bad odors as I made my way to a solitary corner. But this was a new school, right? My get-normal campaign? Things had to get better. Besides, David said he‘d save a seat.

Right away, I spotted Mr. Anderson standing just inside the door. Okay, good omen. He was talking to another student, but as I scooted by, he nodded and said, ―Ms.

Lord.‖ I kept on another four steps, heard my name and, yes, there was David standing at a far table, waving both arms. I started that way—

And then spotted Danielle on his right.

Okay, this was bad. Even across the lunchroom, I read her expression:
Stay away or
I’ll scrape your tonsils out with a fork.

Yeah, see, this was just more trouble I didn‘t need. So, without breaking stride, I did this abrupt midcourse correction, a complete one-eighty—which was my second big mistake.

Someone yelped, ―Hey!‖

A split second later, I collided with a taco salad, salsa, French fries, and a large Coke. The guy carrying the tray cursed. Sticky brown fluid sloshed across my chest. Ice chattered to the floor like dice. A squishy gob of sour cream and black beans glued itself to my left thigh.

And there was Absolute. Complete. Total. Silence.

I could hear Coke raining onto the floor. No one was moving except Mr. Anderson, who was already starting over. Everyone else gawked at the freak, the alien who‘d just beamed down. David stood, a look of shock leaking across his face. Danielle smirked.

―Whoa,‖ said the kid whose lunch I was wearing. ―Are you okay?‖

Mr. Anderson was ten feet away. ―Ms. Lord . . .‖

―I‘m okay.‖ My voice was strangled, gargly, strange, and then I was moving fast, scuttling out of the cafeteria and down the hall, banging into the bathroom. Empty. No one at the sinks. I gulped air like a hooked salmon dying of slow suffocation. The remnants of the kid‘s taco salad had oozed down my thigh and fallen off somewhere along the way. I looked around for paper towels and found nothing but a bank of blow-dryers. Great. A very progressive, environmentally minded school. I dove into the first stall and slammed the door. Hunkering on the toilet, I hugged my knees. Stupid, stupid,
stupid
.

A few minutes later, the bathroom door opened again. A swell of hall chatter ballooned in. Peeking, I saw four feet as the girls crossed to the sinks. I heard the unzipping of purses, rummaging sounds.

―Oh my God,‖ one girl said. ―I almost died, it was so funny. Did you see her
face
?‖

―She‘s in my English class,‖ said the other, and I recognized Danielle‘s voice. ―Her grandmother was some kind of crazy famous writer. Dewerman almost had an orgasm.‖

―I saw David with her.‖

―So?‖ Smacking noises as Danielle inspected her lipstick. ―He was just being nice.

That boy and his strays . . . The more broken they are, the better he likes them, just like Anderson.‖

―Mr. Anderson‘s nice.‖ The click of a compact. ―I thought you liked him. You said he was cool.‖

A pause. ―He is. You know, he talks to everybody, and he writes these killer recommendations. I just wish he‘d decide already if I can take over David‘s TA slot once the fencing season gets started. God, I hope that girl‘s got Schroeder for chemistry.

Otherwise . . .‖ They went on like that for a while, eventually moving on to other losers.

Then they left.

I stayed in my stall. Not in school a full day and I‘d already made the gossip rounds of the mascara-and-lipstick crowd. At least, I now knew why Danielle hated me. She didn‘t have to worry. From that moment on, David Melman wouldn‘t get a drop of encouragement.

I peeled off my soggy shirt to inspect the damage. My skin was alien and yellow under the bathroom fluorescents, the lumpy scars pale as tapeworms, the donor sites on my thighs only the faintest of rectangles.

My body was a memory quilt, a patchwork of scars and moods and deeds best left to fester in the dark.
Here
, Matt ran with me from the house as my back boiled.
There
is where Mom smothered me with her coat. And that pucker on my belly there is where Grandpa MacAllister, still alive after the fire and senile, tried pinching my ass so I twisted a staple out of an informational pamphlet on Alzheimer‘s and jabbed until the blood bubbled.

(Mom, screaming:
Don’t you dare save . . .
)

I wanted so badly to cut, I could taste it. But the thought that someone like Danielle would tip the balance made me mad. No way would I give that bitch the satisfaction.

I crept out about thirty seconds after the second bell. The river of kids had dwindled to a trickle. Mr. Anderson was leaning against the wall at the foot of the stairs but pushed off when he saw me coming. Too late, nowhere to run. The day wasn‘t even done, and I felt as if I‘d spent my whole life running into things and away from him.

―Here.‖ He dealt me a late pass. ―You might need this. You okay?‖

No
. But I gave an all-purpose shrug, hoping he‘d read it as
yes
and let me slink away.

―It‘ll get better. Just give it time.‖

―I should get to class.‖ Then I remembered: ―Actually, the library. I‘ve got study hall.‖

―Then walk with me for a second.‖

I remembered what Danielle had said about Mr. Anderson liking the broken ones.

Well, if that was true, what was
her
problem? Whatever. ―I‘m okay.‖

―All right,‖ he said, easily. ―No pressure.‖

All of a sudden, I felt bad. He was just being nice. ―I‘m sorry.‖

―What for? You have nothing to apologize about, Ms. Lord. You‘re allowed your feelings.‖ He hesitated then said, ―Look, I run or bike every other morning. You get here so early, if you ever want to come along, you‘re welcome to. Runs are always nicer when you‘ve got a partner. And no pressure to join the team, I promise.‖

―Thanks.‖ I knew I wouldn‘t take him up on his offer, but the fact that he
had
bothered made me feel better. ―I‘ll think about it.‖

―Liar,‖ but he smiled as he said it. ―Well, the offer always stands. Come on, we‘ll go to my room. It‘s my planning period, and I‘ve got a blow-dryer you can use for that shirt. Back room will give you plenty of privacy.‖

―What about study hall? Shouldn‘t I go to the library?‖

―What for, Ms. Lord?‖ Mr. Anderson said. ―You‘re with me.‖

9: a

And the rest of that day . . .

Oh, who cares? You know, Bob, school is school, one of those life experiences we kids all have to get through in order to become you. Then we wonder what all the fuss was about, especially while we‘re cleaning up your little messes: toxic waste, war, bank bailouts. Honestly, if we ran up debt the way you guys do? You‘d ground us, take away our cells, and make us clean toilets with a toothbrush until we‘d paid back every penny.

Anyway, things haven‘t changed that much from when you went, I bet. The only people who love school are either the über-popular kids with about a bazillion Facebook friends and no credit limit, or the truly geeky. Or the sports people, I guess. The rest of us fly below the radar, or try to, anyway.

So here‘s the only other important thing. Well, two things, actually. Okay, three.

In chemistry, Mr. Anderson did not make me stand up and give my spiel. Oh, he took attendance. When he got to my name, though, he never looked up, didn‘t pause, just kept right on rolling so my name was lost in the general blur. Maybe he figured I‘d had enough. Pretty much everyone knew my story by then, anyway. So I would‘ve been one of the anonymous masses except . . .

Danielle threw a whisper to a classmate right after he called my name. Nothing audible, but when they both snickered, Mr. Anderson paused, drilled Danielle with a look and asked if she had anything she‘d like to share.

Danielle looked stunned, like she couldn‘t believe he‘d call her out like that.

―
Excuse
me?‖

―I said, would you like to share, or take your conversation into the hall?‖ Folding his arms, Mr. Anderson leaned back against the board. ―We‘ll be happy to wait until you‘re done.‖

The class was deathly quiet. Everyone was looking at Danielle, even me. Well, I couldn‘t help it; I‘d chosen the very last row. So I saw the color ooze up her neck.

―No,‖ said Danielle, finally. Her voice was very small. ―I‘m sorry. It won‘t happen again.‖

―Excellent,‖ said Mr. Anderson. ―Now, where was I? Ah, here we go . . . Jim Morris?‖

Mr. Anderson lectured for about thirty minutes on safety, the curriculum, blah, blah, blah. But then he did an experiment.

―Let‘s look at what happens to liquid hexane in air and on glass,‖ he said, after turning off the lights. We were goggled up and clustered around his demo bench. He squirted a few drops onto a huge glass spatter plate as big as an elephant‘s contact lens.

Next he held a flint over the plate and scraped out a shower of sparks.

The hexane caught with a faint
hah
. The flame burned slowly, but it was also clean and very bright, almost white. Everyone oooohed and from where I stood, Bob, the way he palmed the glass? Mr. Anderson had scooped up a handful of flame with his bare hands.

―Now, watch what happens when the hexane‘s in a plastic bottle. You might want to stand back a little for this one.‖ He coated the inside of the bottle then carefully slid a long rod into the mouth and set off a spark.

BUMPH!
The hexane erupted in a bright, violent fountain of flame that spewed from the bottle like a blowtorch. Everyone gasped; a couple people clapped. Someone said,

―
Whoa
.‖

―Yeah, very
whoa
. So here‘s what you‘ve got to remember, people. The conditions under which an experiment is performed are key. Change a single parameter and you might alter the outcome. On the watch glass, the vapors dissipated. It‘s still hexane and it‘s no less volatile, but you get a nice, controlled burn. Yet ignite that same hexane in an environment from which the vapors can‘t escape, and now you‘ll get an explosion, no less beautiful,‖

Mr. Anderson said, ―but deadly.‖

10: a

The thing about starting school a week before Labor Day is you go to school for four days and then you have a long weekend. There‘s no time to get into any kind of groove, and the next week‘s going to be short, too. So you‘re all, I don‘t know . . .

discombobulated. At least I was. If I were normal and had, oh, a social life, I‘d be as thrilled as every other girl not to be in school that next Monday. Instead, I got dragged along on our monthly guilt-pilgrimage to see my grandpa.

Well, it‘s not like I was ever like any other girl anyway.

―Stephie, honey.‖ Even before the fire, Grandpa MacAllister— husband of my nutty, sex-crazed grandmother—was a gargoyle, with his beaky nose and bright, button-black eyes. The whole left side of his face was drippy now, like molten candle wax, because of a stroke he‘d had in the ICU. The good news was, most of the time, he didn‘t know who I was. He‘d mistake me for Grandma Stephie or Aunt Betsy, my mom‘s sister who‘d wisely moved to England and never came home, or someone named Helen, a woman no one knew. (Given the leer on Grandpa‘s face I was happy not knowing.) That Grandpa sometimes thought I was his wife—Mom‘s mom—drove Mom up a tree. ―Stephie, you bring me a carton of those Camels I asked for?‖

―Dad,‖ my mom said wearily. She looked up from the windowsill where she was perched with her Crackberry and studying the store‘s spreadsheets. I don‘t know why she bothered to call what she did ―visiting.‖ ―Mom‘s dead. That‘s Jenna . . . your granddaughter?‖

―Don‘t you tell me what‘s what, Betsy.‖ Grandpa‘s lips puckered to a wet, fleshy, liverish rosebud. A permanent trail of drool slicked the left corner of his mouth down to his jaw. ―You think I don‘t know my own wife?‖

―It‘s like I keep telling you,‖ my father said. He was standing on the threshold of Grandpa‘s room, either because the air was better there or he could bolt that much faster.

―They‘ve got to up his meds.‖

My mom ignored him. ―I‘m Emily, Dad. Betsy‘s in Greenwich. Mom‘s dead, remember? She hanged herself in the hotel?‖

―Don‘t I know it.‖ Grandpa‘s face darkened and his gnarled fingers tugged at a fleshy wattle under his chin. Grandpa was Wisconsin-farmer stock. Of all the various . . . ah

. . .
life-forms
she screwed, Grandma never wrote about her husband. Maybe when Grandma was young and famous and they were still rich (before Grandpa drank or gambled the rest away), he‘d cleaned up pretty good. When they met, she was twenty-five, but he was over forty, widowed once and already boozy. So maybe he left her alone, never screwed her much, loved his vodka better. . . . I don‘t know. If he couldn‘t get it up, Grandma might‘ve been relieved.

Anyway. Since the stroke, a lot of Grandpa‘s meanness poked through, like the skin of the mask he wore was sloughing off, leaving just the snake.

He said, ―Left me her goddamned mess to clean up like she always did. I‘ll bet those maids couldn‘t get the stink of her shit out of the carpet for weeks.‖

―I‘m telling you.‖ My father rocked back and forth on his heels. ―Meds.‖

Mom glared. ―Would you shut up? You wouldn‘t be like this if it was your father.‖

―My father would never be like him.‖

Grandpa squinted at me. ―What‘s wrong with those two, Stephie?‖

―I don‘t know, Max,‖ I said.

―Jenna, I wish you wouldn‘t do that,‖ Mom said.

―Oh, what‘s the harm?‖ Dad said. ―You think he‘s going to remember this in five minutes?‖

―It‘s not respectful,‖ Mom said.

―Like your father‘s ever been respectful.‖

―It‘s okay,‖ I said. ―Whatever makes him happy.‖ That was a lie. I didn‘t care about making Grandpa happy. I hoped he never recognized the real me ever again.

―See? I know my own wife.‖ Grandpa reached to pinch my ass.

Mom stiffened. ―Don‘t touch her, Dad.‖

―It‘s okay,‖ I said, pulling back before his fingers got a good hold. His touch made me wish I could peel my skin like a glove. Luckily, he couldn‘t get at me because the staff had strapped him to the wheelchair. To Grandpa: ―I‘m sorry I didn‘t bring you any cigarettes. I forgot.‖

―Figures.‖ Grandpa turned sullen. ―Stupid bitch.‖

―
Jennaaaa
,‖ said Mom. ―Don‘t get him excited.‖

―Don‘t blame her.‖ Dad jingled change. ―She can‘t make him any more confused than he already is.‖

―Shut up, you cocksuckers,‖ Grandpa said. ―She‘s my wife, not yours.‖

The doctors had explained that Grandpa‘s stroke was
disinhibiting
, which was a fancy medical term for Grandpa now said what he wanted whenever he wanted. Come to think of it, that wasn‘t much of a change.

―I told you about listening to those doctors.‖ Grandpa waggled the stub of an index finger in my face. He‘d been such a bad smoker, there were nicotine stains all the way to his knuckles. ―Bad enough I got to sit here all day long. I can‘t have myself a good smoke?‖

―It‘s not allowed, Max,‖ I said. ―I know it‘s hard. I‘m sorry.‖

―Jesus,‖ said my mother.

―Sorry.‖ Grandpa made a sound that started out disgusted and came out a phlegmy, gargly hawk. He spat into his claw-hand, only half landed on his chin and dribbled onto his neck. He smeared the rest of his chest-snot on the twig of a thigh. ―You always were one sorry bi—‖

―
Dad
,‖ my mother said.

―What?‖ said Grandpa, but you could tell Mom had broken his concentration because Grandpa‘s gaze went muzzy. ―All right,‖ he said, mildly, ―all right.‖ His claws rasped over stubble on his cheek and then his eyes traveled over my face and he blinked once, twice, like a sleepy lizard. ―I‘m just talking to Betsy, we‘re just having a nice . . .‖ He fumbled for the words.

―Father-daughter talk.‖

―Here we go,‖ said Dad.

Mom: ―Dad, that‘s not Betsy either.‖

Grandpa, to me: ―So, girl, where‘s that husband of yours?‖

Me: ―Oh, you know, back at the house, mowing the lawn.‖

Mom: ―Jenna, that‘s not funny.‖

Grandpa: ―He finally doing some work? About time. I told you not to marry him.

Anyone with half a brain could tell he didn‘t have his heart in it when it came to women.‖

Me: ―I know, but what I can say? I was in love.‖

Mom: ―
Jenna
—‖

Dad: ―I think it‘s pretty funny.‖

Mom: ―He‘s not
your
father.‖

Dad: ―Thank God for that.‖

Grandpa: ―I am not deaf, Stewart, thank you very much.‖

Dad: ―Glad to hear it, Max, but my name‘s Elliot. Max, what year is it?‖

Mom: ―Elliot.‖

Grandpa: ―What‘s that got to do with anything?‖

Dad: ―What day?‖

Mom: ―
Elliot
.‖

Dad: ―What? I‘m just orienting him. Who‘s the president, Max?‖

Grandpa: ―Nixon. Hah! Thought you‘d trip me up.‖

Dad: ―You‘re sharp as a tack, Max.‖

Grandpa: ―Damn right. And, Stewart, don‘t think for one second I don‘t know you voted for that damn Kennedy.‖

Mom: ―Oh, for—‖

Dad (thought-bubble):
Told you
.

Grandpa: ―Smooth-talking, skirt-chasing son of a bitch.

Screw anything with a ho—‖

Mom (stabbing her Crackberry): ―Yeah, we‘ve definitely got to be going.‖

Come to think of it, Bob, maybe Grandpa and Grandma deserved each other.