MARTians (14 page)

The hall looks safe. It looks unchanged. I reach out and turn the knob on my bedroom door.

My bed has a new, fuzzy blanket of dust. Behind it, the wall is cracked wide open from the ceiling to the floor. I look out; there is nothing but wind between my eye and the sky. I shut my door and walk the few steps to AnnaMom’s room.

The covers on her bed are wrinkled where Timmer slept. In every other way, it is ready to show, just the way Jyll insisted. The walls are smooth and perfect as an eggshell. Beyond, I can see myself in the bathroom mirror.

My phone hums. I see the pink rosebud, yawning. I swipe it away.

“Hey,” says Timmer. “You okay? You . . .”

I thumb the phone to end the call. I can’t have what I wanted. I can’t sleep in my own bed, but I can have what I need. I go to AnnaMom’s bathroom and open her tampon drawer.

There is a paper towel spread across the tampons. It has my name written on it — in eyeliner, the blackest kind, in curving brushstrokes. There is no doubt who wrote this: AnnaMom always writes my name with a little heart for the
o,
and she is very particular about the
^..
over the
e.

When I lift the paper towel, I find it is a stack, all accordion-folded together. . . .

There is a yellow-and-black SpeedyMed label taped to the final towel with adhesive bandages.

I touch myself behind the ear. I’m not supposed to fuss with that hard little button, but there are times when I do, in the dark. If I push on it, it moves a little under the skin. If I push on it hard, it hurts. Its job is to make me feel better. That’s what AnnaMom says. I should just leave it alone and let it make me feel better, but instead I scrape my nails across my skin and it hurts.

It’s Timmer on the phone again. I don’t answer.

I pull a pillow off the bed and shake it out of the case. Then I fill the case up with handfuls and handfuls of tampons. What else? What else do I need? Here’s a tube of toothpaste. I need that. Here’s cotton balls, fluffy as bunny tails. Do I need them? I don’t know. I don’t know what I need. I just pull out the drawers and dump them. A box falls on the floor. It’s open. I pick it up.

There are three kits left in the box.

I drop them on the floor.

I don’t need them.

I creep down the stairs, and over the broken glass, and into the garage. I can’t see Timmer until I step outside. He’s leaning against the hood of his car, staring at his phone.

“Hey!” I say. When he looks up, I drop the pillowcase full of useful things in the driveway and disappear back into the garage. I have one more thing to do.

I go to the cabinet where we kept the stuff for a barbecue AnnaMom promised we would have someday — when the weather was nicer or when she wasn’t so tired.
We will have so much fun, ZeeZeeBee, but not today.
I find what I need behind a half-full bag of Bats of Happiness guano fertilizer, the kind that grows more beautiful flowers
naturally.
The can of lighter fluid is full. The box of long fireplace matches has never been opened.

I spray the uncomfortable couch until it is crisscrossed with dark stains. I leave a long dribbling trail to the kitchen door. That’s where I light the match. It really is E-Z to Lite, just like it says. I throw the rest of the matches — loose — into the disaster that was our kitchen. Then I grab the pillowcase, run to the car, jerk the door open, climb in, and slam it behind. I’m not sure what to expect. Will the whole house explode?

5er lifts his head, shaky on his neck. I was noisy enough to wake him from his backseat sleep.

“What?” says Timmer when he gets behind the wheel and turns the key.

“Just go,” I say. I think I can see a strange light in the windows behind the drawn shades. Pretty soon it will all burn down. The virgin towels in the bathroom will burn. The dresses I wore when I was Zoë Z. in Room 2-B will burn. All of Terra Incognita Circle will burn. That’s what I want. When we reach the main arterial, I twist around in my seat and look behind me. There is smoke rising. It is very satisfying. This is how my face feels when my smile is my own.

Sunset comes while we’re on the road. For a minute, everything glows like AnnaMom’s favorite daylily, the one called Frilly Underpants. The sunlight’s petals have ruffled edges where the sky touches the naked rock of the mountains. Then that is over, and we are driving under a gray sky on a gray road. Nobody says anything.

Not even when we get to the Warren.

5er is squatting like a hot frog in the middle of the backseat. He might be asleep. He is surely sweating. His eyes are closed. Awake or asleep, he is peaceful. His drooping shoulders are rising and falling, just a little. He is breathing. He is alive.

Timmer walks to the door and takes down the sign we left. It isn’t Thursday morning. It is still Wednesday. Then he opens the car door, unbuckles 5er, and carries him, sweat and bones, into the place we call home.

After Timmer is gone and 5er is asleep, I dig the paper towels out of the bottom of the pillowcase. The black letters are blurred now, smudged and rubbed when I crumpled the soft paper. The prescription label is still stuck on at the end of the message. I type the name of the medicine into my phone.

I hold the prescription code so my phone can read it.

Dr. Buzzy Bee holds up the implant. It looks like a stretched egg.

I reach up and feel the place behind my ear where I get my implant renewed every year on my birthday. It’s hardly even a little pinch when the insertion gun
Pops!

I scroll down and down and down, until the print is tiny, tiny, tiny.

My implant is prescribed to reduce anxiety, oppositional behavior, and libido in girls.

I rub the place behind my ear until it hurts.

“Zoë?”

It is a very tender greeting, soft and personal.

I look up. My green hazard gloves are smeared and smelly. I’m sorry Dawna Day has to see this.

“Zoë, I came to see if you are okay. What happened is terrible. If you need anything, AllMART is here to help,” says Dawna Day.

It is terrible when valued customers poop on the changing room floor.

“Maybe if this were just one large space it wouldn’t happen so often,” I say. I gesture at the mess. “Psychologically, I mean. It would discourage the behavior.”

Dawna Day looks confused. So do I.

“I mean losing your home in the fire. I saw the news. That is your neighborhood, yes? Terra Incognita? Do you and your mother have a place to stay?”

I use the time it takes to bundle the mess into the incinerator bag to prepare my answer.

“Yes,” I say. “Mom has an apartment for nights when she works late. It’s a long commute to Terra Incognita.”

“No need to worry, then,” says Dawna Day. “I would like to meet your mother sometime. She must be very proud of you.”

She turns to leave, but then she stops.

“Zoë, one last thing. When I looked at your file, I noticed you use medications.”

“Oh. Yes.”

“Well, don’t forget to get your refill. Don’t wait until too late to make the appointment.”

“I won’t forget. I’ve got a responsibility reminder on my phone. Thank you, though. I should go back to work now?”

“Yes. Yes. That’s right, Zoë. Just go back to work.”

Dawna Day’s ring tone is the AllMART jingle. When I hear it, I have a strong impulse to jump to my feet, put my filthy hands in the air, and
clapclapclap.
I don’t. I just focus on the mess on the floor.

“Tell Dolly Lamb I don’t care if she refuses the severance package. She either resigns and takes it or she’s fired and gets nothing, which is what she deserves. . . . Refill her prescription and push her out the door. . . . Fine! Tell her she can keep the damn thought-control ears. That woman doesn’t have enough thought power to wipe her . . . Fine! I’ll be there in a minute,” says Dawna Day.

I look up and see her face. It is crumpled and hard, but when she looks away from her phone, when she sees me, she smiles.

“It isn’t easy managing Human Resources, Zoë. They aren’t all like you. I wish they were. And Zoë, that idea you had about changing the dressing room psychology. That’s brilliant. I’m going to make sure corporate hears it.”

“I had a visit from Dawna Day,” I say.

I expect Timmer to say
Me too!
He doesn’t. He just stops suddenly, halfway to nowhere in the parking lot.

“She wanted to know where I’m living now, since Terra Incognita burned.”

“Where
are
you living?” Timmer says.

“My mom has an apartment for when she works late. We live there now.”

“Good to know,” says Timmer. “Remind me to never believe a thing you say, ever.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“I wonder where I’m living. Am I sleeping on your couch?”

“That would not be sexually responsible. I think you are living with your cousin Raoul.”

He is still laughing when we get to the Warren.

After Timmer is gone, I read to 5er until he falls asleep.

I use pliers I find in the mop room — with narrow jaws and little grabbing teeth.

It hurts more than I expected. I can’t just pluck it out. I have to tear a hole in my skin, which is difficult. But I always finish what I start. Or I think I do. Maybe I only finish what I start because my concentration is enhanced by the medicine. Maybe it’s the little pellet under my skin that keeps me focused. Maybe it is what helps me ignore the hurt while I push and scratch until the job is done and the little rod spurts out, greasy with blood.

It can’t help me focus and ignore pain anymore. I’m on my own.

I stand under the shower. My blood trickles thin, down my skin. I open my hand. My concentration, my modulation, my sexual responsibility: None of them amount to much. I hold my hand under the flow of the water, and when I bring it out, it is empty. I shampoo my hair in the smell of oranges and ginger. I scrub behind my ear with my pink-and-white-striped washcloth; the traces of blood are almost invisible. It wasn’t such a big deal. That’s what I think while the remains of Zoëkins-ZeeZeeBee-the-best-student-in-Room-2-B swirl away down the drain.

There are Tasers behind my eyes,
zizzz-zaapp!

“I’ll stay with you,” says Timmer. He sits on the edge of the mattress, reaches out with the back of his hand, and touches my forehead.

“No fever,” he says. “I don’t think you’re sick.”