M.I.N.D. (3 page)

***

When I wake up again, it's dark outside and I'm alone.

At least I thought I was.

My mother isn't camped out on the floor, thankfully, but in the bed by the window is the other concussion. Vardina Applebee, pretty and perky with long blond hair and a pair of plus-size pom-poms, could be a poster girl for high school clichés. And, yeah, you guessed it, she's a cheerleader.

“Hey,” she says, smiling brightly. “You're awake. What are you in for?”

“I hit my head. But it's minor. They're just keeping me for observation.” Why is she smiling? Does she not know this is a hospital?

“Me too!” she sings. “Is this a coincidence or what? I'm just grateful I didn't break anything. Those things never heal right, and next year I'm on varsity. Hey, you should try out. 'Course, they'd probably put you in JV.”

Junior varsity? Is she kidding? I wouldn't even make peewee. I'm so uncoordinated I can't even throw down a rock without missing the ground. “I don't think my mother would let me,” I tell her. I feel my cheeks burn. What am I, five? But Vardina nods like she understands, and now I'm thinking maybe I misjudged her. Maybe she's not such a ditz after all.

“It was hard convincing my mother too,” she says, giggling like we're sharing a secret. “I swear, that woman is always in my face. She's a buyer for Bloomingdale's. She's in L.A. on business, but she keeps calling every two minutes to see how I'm doing. She acts like I need a transplant or something.”

Overbearing mothers, the basis for friendship. Who knew? I'm envisioning us commiserating with each other, exchanging parental-horror stories over mocha lattes, when her cell phone buzzes on her nightstand. She reaches for it and picks it up. “You said you were coming,” I overhear her say. “You
promised
.” Pause. “Yeah, whatever. Ask me if I care.” She slams the phone onto the mattress, lies back down, stares at the ceiling.

“Is everything all right?” I venture to ask. After all, we're bonding.

“Mothers,” she says again, and her mouth twists down. She picks up a magazine, leafs through the pages. My cue she's done with bonding.

Okay, fine. She's tired. So am I. Brain bumps will do that.

I close my eyes, picturing her on the football field bouncing like a yo-yo. Sure, Leanne and I make fun of the squad, but secretly I'm jealous. (Though I'd deny it even under torture.) Just once, I'd like to know what it's like to be the center of attention, and I'm not talking about doctors and nurses sticking me with needles. I want to know what it's like to have the whole school cheering with me as I jump and spin all over the place, flaunting my flawless body. I want to know what it's like to breeze through life, high school anyway, without constantly worrying that my naturally poofy hair is going to explode into cotton balls, let alone whether I'm going to conk out in math. I open my eyes and peek at Vardina. Just once, I'd like to feel what it's like to be her. As if sensing my thoughts, she glances at me through the corner of her eye.

I turn my gaze to the bouquet on the windowsill. No one sent
me
roses, I lament. No one sent me any flowers at all.

But it's not the scent of roses that permeates the room.

It's lilac.

***

Some switshetsheliacs can ward off seizures by willing them away. They put their heads between their legs, breathe in deeply, and concentrate. It doesn't work for me. All I can do is lie back, give in, and let 'er rip.

In case you're wondering, switshetshela is Xitsongan for epilepsy. In some parts of Africa, it's believed that epileptics are possessed by demons. But let me make something clear: I do not mingle with evil spirits, and I don't mess with voodoo. I just like calling what I have switshetshela. It sounds exotic. Okay, maybe not exotic. Just not so gross.

I squeeze my eyes shut and brace myself for what I'm sure is coming, but what comes next is not what I'm expecting. For starters, my eyes are wide open and I'm sitting up in Vardina's bed, the one by the window. In my own bed, the one by the door, someone is lying under the covers, head sticking out, eyes closed, fast asleep.

That someone is me.

Um, how can I be in both beds at the same time?

Don't freak, I tell myself. Must stay calm! Though, truthfully, it would be a lot weirder if I'd never tripped out of my body before. Twice, actually.

One small detail: I'm not out-of-body.

The me who is in Vardina's bed pulls down the covers with my…rhinestone-studded fingernails?

Another detail: The body I'm in isn't mine.

This has to be a dream.

Was Leanne right? Was my so-called walk on the astral plane just a dream too?

Wait. If I can fly, I'll know it's a dream. I try to raise my arms Superman-style, but they won't budge. No problem, I tell myself. Don't panic. This is one of those dreams where you're completely paralyzed. Which, when you think about it, is not as bad as those dreams where you're completely naked.

Wait. How come I was able to pull down the covers?

My arms start moving again, all on their own.

I feel like a puppet on remote control.

I reach over and open the drawer to the nightstand. I take out a pink plastic pouch. Inside are blush, lip gloss, and concealer. None of it is familiar, none of it mine.

I pull out a safety pin. I push up my hospital gown and run my fingers along my left thigh. My strangely well-toned, muscular thigh.

I open the pin. Stick it in my flesh. A shock of pain, but I don't stop. I slide it along slowly, about an inch and a half. Watch the slit fill up with blood.

What am I doing? Stop! Why can't I make myself stop?

“This is for you, bitch,” I say.

I dot the pin across my thigh, each push punctuated with a drop of blood.

Dot. Dot. Dot.

“Bitch. Bitch. Bitch.”

It's not my voice I hear in my ears.

It's Vardina's.

What the hell is happening?

I know I'm terrified—how can I not be?—but it's not fear I'm experiencing. I'm hungry. Ravenous. Like a thousand parasites are gnawing at my insides.

There's a hole in my chest. A hole instead of my heart. And it's growing steadily. Relentlessly. An emptiness that feeds on itself.

This can't be normal.

I plunge the pin deep, slice it through my flesh. It hurts like crazy, like my muscles are being ripped straight off my bones, but feels so much better than nothing at all.

I lie back and smile. And then I start crying.

I want to scream for help, but my lips won't obey me. I don't have any idea what's going on, but I know this: I'm in a dark place and I have to get out.

Have to get out have to get out have to get out
…

The words are swirling through my mind like a winding snake when, just like that, gravity goes wild and I'm weightless, formless, completely diffused, shooting like a comet through the abyss of space—

Plunk
.

I'm back in the bed next to the door.

I blink hard, then blink again. I tear off the covers, roll up my gown, examine my thigh. My now de-muscled, uncut thigh. No blood, no red lines anywhere. Just a few bumps along my shin. (Yeah, I know. You're not supposed to shave with soap, but I was in a hurry this morning.)

I hear a strange sound, like a cat howling. I turn my head. In the bed by the window, her face buried in her pillow, her long blond hair fanning onto the mattress, Vardina is trying to stifle her sobs.

Maybe it
was
a dream. Maybe it got triggered by her crying. Was there any filleting done at all? Did I even talk to her?

I lie back in bed and stare at the ceiling. My headache from the concussion is worse, like my brain's been pushed through a grater and shredded like cheese.

Except it didn't feel like a dream, and I was fully conscious. Was it another out-of-body experience? Does sharing someone's body count as an OBE? One thing for sure, this was no seizure, at least not like any I've ever had. Then again, how would I know? I wasn't conscious during the others.

A hallucination?

I look back at Vardina. Her sheets are stained with blood.

Come football season, she's going to need a lot of concealer. Either that, or tights.

Three

Truth, Tact, and Tampons

It's Sunday afternoon, precisely six days since the accident. I'm lying on my bed, earbuds in place, listening to Cora Wood while contemplating auras and scratching my cat, Oreo, behind his not-so-perky ears. He doesn't look good. His black-and-white fur has lost its luster, and lately he's been kind of mopey. And let's not discuss his issues with the litter box. I'm seriously thinking of buying him diapers. The vet says he's fine for an old cat, but I'm not so sure. My mother thinks I should switch him to a vegetarian diet. Majorly nonsensical. Does she not know that cats are carnivorous? As if he can read my mind, Oreo looks up at me and yowls.

“Poor kitty,” I say. “Cheer up. Things could be worse. You could be me.”

Because of the bus accident, my mother is more annoying than ever. For instance, she made me stay home from school the entire week. Fact: You know you're bored when you want to go to school. She took off work to be with me, which was bad enough, but she kept staring at me as if afraid I'd self-combust if I so much as blinked. Two more facts: I always know when I'm about to go off, and it has nothing to do with blinking.

Which brings me back to auras. Some switshetsheliacs sense auras just before a seizure, like a sudden breeze or a loud bell. I sense the scent of lilac. It happens when the brain misfires, nothing mystical about it, and until last Monday it hadn't happened in over two years. Except what followed was no seizure. A seizure doesn't propel you into someone else's body. More specifically, it doesn't scoop out your mind and drop it into someone else's head. (Though realistically, where else would a mind hang out? In their fingers? Their toes?) I saw what Vardina saw, heard what she heard. I experienced everything along with her—every painful puncture, every drop of blood—through the filter of her brain.

Her severely twisted brain.

When I told Leanne, she said I was releasing unconscious desires. In other words, dreaming. Hello again, Dr. Freud. I had enough of him in my psych class, thank you very much, and I don't play with safety pins, in any state of mind.

Sprawled out on the carpet, Leanne is flipping through
Craze Magazine,
looking for ideas on what to wear to prom. “How about something like this?” she says, pointing to a blonde in a gold shimmery gown. It's so tight you can practically make out the outline of her bolt-ons.

I pull out my earbuds. “Can you say tacky?”

She flips the page to a girl in knee-length plaid. “What about this?”

“She looks like a tablecloth.”

“Can you please help me here? Prom is less than a month away.”

“What's wrong with the dress you bought?”

“Josh doesn't like it. He thinks it's inappropriate. He wants me to wear a gown.”

“So now he's dressing you? Leeny, you look fabulous in that dress. It's slinky and chic, classy but sexy. What is his problem?”
Aside from being a jerk
, I think but don't say.

She shrugs. “I just want to make him happy. It's
his
prom, not mine. Anyway, he's right. Prom is formal. Which means no thighs.”

What about props? That leash he has her on will make a wonderful accessory. “That's so old-fashioned,” I say. “There's no such rule.”

“I'm getting something new,” she insists, “so stop trying to talk me out of it. I can wear the one I have to the concert. It'll be perfect.” She tears out the page with the tablecloth, folds it, and tucks it in her pocket. The subject is closed.

I pick up one of my decorative pillows, then put it back down. I pick it up again. And drop it again. I sigh. “About the concert…”

She looks up. “What about it?”

“I'm having issues.”

“You
always
have issues.”

“I'm talking about Amanda. I don't think we should be out having a good time while she's in the hospital. It doesn't seem right.”

“You're not serious.” She pauses. “Are you?”

I sigh again. “Look, I get why you have to go to Josh's prom. He's your boyfriend and he's graduating. It's practically mandatory. The concert's a whole other story.”

“Please. How long are we supposed to act solemn? Besides, it's not like we're still friends with her.” She rips out another page. “Life goes on, and this is a lifetime opportunity. We're talking about tickets to Cora Wood. Four
free
tickets. Who knew being an accountant could be so cool?”

Josh's father is always getting tickets to events from his clients, but they're usually for snoozers like car shows or exhibition golf. This time he scored big. Cool, yes. Actually going when Amanda is in a coma? Not so cool.

“I can't believe you're even considering it,” I say.

“And I can't believe you're considering not going. It's not like staying home and moping will do her any good. Anyway, it's two weeks away. She'll probably be awake by then. And who knows? You might even have fun for a change. Plus, you get to bring a date. Perfect timing, now that Zack is flying solo.”

I shoot the pillow at her. “Very funny. As if I'd ask him.”

“So ask someone else. You can do better anyway. You heard he got fired, right? Josh says he was sleeping on the job. They found him snoring in the pantry.”

“There's no crime in snoring.” Or in conking out. If it were a crime, I'd be in jail. “It can't be easy going to school all day, then waiting tables at that snooty country club,” I say.

Leanne snorts. “Josh works two shifts, and you don't see
him
passing out.”

And when he's not working, he's playing football. Which doesn't leave him much time for anything else, namely her. “Josh has more stamina,” I say tactfully.

Her face brightens. “You know what? You
should
ask Zack. I mean, you like him, right? That's what counts. So what if he's tired?”

“Get real,” I say. “Even if I did work up the nerve, like that's ever going to happen, what about the warden?”

She gives me a look.

“What?” I say.

“You know what. Wanna go shopping in the city? You can't,” she mocks. “Mommy won't let you. Wanna get a henna tattoo? No way, Mommy will freak.” She motions around the room. “Look at this place. It's not a prison—it's a nursery rhyme. Cheese Louise, the knobs on your dresser are
hearts!
You want to know what I think? You
like
being Mommy's little girl. It makes you feel safe. You use her as an excuse. You're afraid of everything.”

“That is so untrue,” I retort. “I'm not afraid. I'm…limited.”

“Please. You've been seizure-free for over two years. Look, I understand this thing you have about water, but it's a concert, not a swim party. Mother Goose doesn't even have to know. Just tell her you're staying over at my house.”

The truth? I want to go. I
really
want to go. Cora Wood, now she's my jam. I've downloaded every one of her CDs, every one of her videos. When she's belting it out over her screaming guitar, it's like she knows exactly how I feel. She's coming to Danbury and I've got a free ticket. Two, in fact. For me and a date.

But what about Amanda? Life might go on, but I just can't pretend everything is fine. Besides, I hate lying to my mother, even if she
is
neurotic. (She'd have a point, though; those strobe lights can be lethal.)

I admire Leanne, really I do. She's not unfeeling, just practical. She knows what she wants and goes after it. Plunges ahead, doesn't look back. I wish I could be more like her, but I'm not. She doesn't let anything or anyone stand in her way.

Except for Josh, of course.

“Just like I thought,” she says when I don't reply.

Feeling the weight of her glare on my face, I plug in my earbuds and lie down again. Pump up the volume, close my eyes.

Tune out reality.

The scent of lilac drifts through the room.

Oh, no. Please no.

***

Oreo is hissing. His back is arched, his tail puffed up and rigid. They say cats can predict an earthquake moments before it happens. They sense things that aren't normal. I don't know about earthquakes, but something in this room is definitely spooking him. He runs off to my desk, settles underneath, twists into a ball.

For some reason he looks bigger. Monstrous, in fact, even though he's curled up like a baby. I feel myself shudder. It's like I'm seeing him in a new light. Except when exactly did I open my eyes?

I get off the floor (huh, what am I doing on the floor?), grab Leanne's purse from the top of my desk, and head for the door.

Glance back at myself lying on my bed.

It's happening again.

Take a deep breath, I tell myself, but my body doesn't obey. Though I suppose it makes sense, since it's not my body. It's Leanne's.

Every instinct I have is screaming fear, but like the last time, it's not fear I'm feeling. I don't know what I'm feeling, only that I have to pee. I really, really have to pee.

Well, not
really
. The
real
me is currently in La-La Land, oblivious to the world, lying under my lace-trimmed canopy. My intensely
pink
lace-trimmed canopy. Why am I just now seeing how pink it is? Why did I let my mother talk me into it?

The hardwood floor creaks as I sprint down the hallway. In the kitchen downstairs, the fridge kicks on, filling the house with a mechanical whirring. Is this house noisy or what? Strange how I never noticed that before. Maybe I just got used to it, the way I got used to all that pink.

I drop the purse onto the bathroom counter, catching a glimpse of myself in the cabinet mirror. No longer in its unnatural state of flat-iron smoothness, my hair is falling in waves. Well, yeah, it's not me I'm looking at. I'm looking at Leanne. Except somehow her face looks different. Like her chin, for instance. It's a lot pointier than I remember. And when did her nose get so long? Huh. Here I thought Leanne was so pretty. Actually, I still think she's pretty, when I'm the one doing the seeing.

Plus, for once in my life, I feel tall. Not that she's a beanstalk. She's five-foot seven, but standing next to her, I always feel, well, dwarfed.

I unzip her purse, remove her purple makeup bag, fish out a tampon.

Oh. Okay. It's that time of the month. Right on schedule for Leanne, but a week early for me. I suppose it's better than being a week late. Just kidding.

I notice the round flat packet.

What's this? Is that…?

The pill?

Leanne is on the pill?

While I'm processing this information, she pulls down her jeans and panties and sits on the toilet. Ew. Time for me to leave. Or wake up. Or whatever. I have no idea how all this body-jumping works. But before I even get a chance to panic, as quick as a snap on the top of a soda can, I'm back on my bed, listening to Cora.

I look up at the canopy. My pink but no-longer-
so
-pink canopy.

Leanne returns a few minutes later. She plops down on the carpet and resumes her research. I sit up and pull out my earbuds.

“It happened again,” I say. I know I'm risking another lecture, but I can't not tell her I've been sharing her body. How else can I ask her about what I saw?

How could she not tell me she's on the pill?

“What did?” she says, flipping through another magazine.

“I left my body.”

“That's nice,” she says. Flip. Flip, flip.

“No, listen. This time I was in
your
body. I was using
your
brain.”

“I lobe you too.”

I scowl. “You could at least pretend to have an open mind.”

She looks up. “You want me to lie? You want me to say I believe in this boo-loony? Fine. You're psychic. So tell me what I was thinking.”

I pause. “I don't know. I don't think it works that way.”

“Right.” She goes back to her magazine.

“You never told me you were on the pill,” I blurt.

She looks up again and blinks. “What did you say?”

“You're on the pill. You're having sex.”

She glances at her purse. “Have you been going through my stuff?”

“You're not listening, Leeny. I was in your body. I saw the pills through your eyes when you were in the bathroom. I'm not a snoop.” Except when I'm unconscious.

Her face goes all red. “Have you been reading my diary? You have, haven't you! Some things are sacred, Cass. I thought we were friends.”

“My point exactly! Friends confide in each other. You didn't even tell me the first time it happened! We took an oath, Leeny. That's what I call sacred.”

She shrugs. “It was two years ago. We were in his room and it just happened. Why are you making such a big deal?”

Two years ago? They've been doing it for
two
years? “Because it
is
a big deal,” I say. “How could you not tell me? You've been doing it for two years and you never said a word!”

Her lips purse. “I knew how you'd react.”

“You think?”

“Just like I thought, Miss Goody Two-Shoes is upset.”

“The only thing I'm upset about is that you didn't tell me!” Actually, that's not entirely true. Two years ago she was fourteen. At fourteen I was playing with Barbies. Okay, not really. But still.

She sniffs. “Well, do you blame me? I just have to mention his name and you start in on him, nitpicking away. I tell you he got an extra shift at the country club, you tell me he's neglecting me. I tell you I'm going to watch him at practice, you tell me to get a life of my own. Anyone would think you hate him, but the truth is, you're jealous. I have a boyfriend and you don't. A boyfriend who idolizes me. If I kept the details of my love life a secret, it's your fault, not mine. You're so jealous, the green is oozing out of your ears.”