The Sphere (2 page)

I look into the gray eyes in the mirror, take a deep breath, and make a promise to that girl with the dull hair who gazes back at me with hardly any expression: from this moment on everything will be different. I will be strong, I will be myself, I will do only what I want to do. My actions will reflect my thoughts. I will not be like my parents; I will not be so horribly inconsistent. And above all—yes!—above all I will make things happen. This summer something extraordinary will finally happen to me. I will leave this dull life behind.

“I’m not going to the beach.”

My voice is barely audible, but to me it sounds like a triumphant shout. This must be how great captains feel when they win a battle.

Nothing can happen. My parents aren’t going to kill me if I don’t show up at the beach. At this very instant my new life begins, my real life. For once the girl in the mirror and I smile at the same time. I let myself fall backwards and sink into the mattress. My feet join the feet of the girl in the mirror, rising, kicking in the air with new joy. I shake my legs and enjoy the feeling of blood flowing through them. I like the way my shoelaces dance freely. I feel the touch of the quilt on my hands, on my bare arms. I turn over and bury my face in the pillow. Everything is going to be all right, starting now. They’ve all gone, the house is quiet, and I could not feel any better.

––––––––

“I
t’s not fair,” I tell myself as I walk down the hill toward East Sands with my bag bouncing against my back. “It’s not fair to be born with this pathetic lack of courage. Not able to rebel even against my parents.” Before I reach the sand I stop for a second to find my family. It’s not difficult, I just have to look for the most garish towels and a couple of rugrats running around like they’ve got fire ants in their swimsuits. Shakespeare’s face and the logo of a major bookstore chain stand out from the rest of the towels—and somehow my parents have the nerve to ask why I can’t be normal.

I put my towel down a little distance away, so it won’t be obvious to anyone who doesn’t know me whether I’m with these weirdos or not. My mother lets out a sort of little grunt that I take as a greeting. My father moves his head, but it doesn’t mean he’s noticed my presence. It could be his way of greeting me, but it could also just be that he approves of what he’s reading. He’s always had a lot more to say to his books than to me. It isn’t his fault, he says, it’s because I’m so quiet.

I lie down without taking off my clothes. That way at least I feel ready to run at any moment, if I get the chance. But I won’t get the chance—I know it, the whole universe knows it. Even those seagulls laughing at me right now know it. I can feel my bad mood boiling up inside of me, just like when you boil milk in a saucepan and it bubbles over. That out-of-control feeling—that’s how my temper spills out of me. It’s not that I like it, but I can’t help it, either.

The wind tugs at my t-shirt. I look at the passing clouds and amuse myself by looking for recognizable shapes. The thing about my bad moods is that—just like the milk—they bubble up quickly, but they settle down quickly, too. I wiggle my bare toes a little. The fresh air and the sea breeze are nice today. It’s a shame not to have my iPod; the clouds could use a little music as they dance. I slip my jeans off without getting up and glance over at my parents, both of them with their respective novels. Suddenly I get goose bumps. I’m not sure if it’s from the cool wind or the sight of my parents, but I’m pretty sure it’s the latter. I look around, like always, with the feeling that the rest of the world must be staring and pointing at us. I feel sick wen I see how eagerly they shove their faces into their books. It’s just warped. When I was little I had terrible nightmares where some book swallowed my parents up, starting with the nose. In an instant the head disappeared into the pages, and then the body turned into a kind of goo, and seeped into the paper. Sometimes the overzealous reader disappeared entirely, and sometimes the book snapped shut with the feet still outside, wiggling like the antennae of an insect.

I sense a movement to my right. My mother lifts her head. No, please—not now! You’ve already greeted me with a snort, that’s more than enough. I look fervently up at the sky, wishing some being from on high would beam me up. But there aren’t any beings around this time of day; they must be napping. I settle on prayer. It’s not that I believe in anything, but I send my prayer up anyway, just in case it has some effect: “Don’t let it happen now. Don’t let this be one of those moments chosen to
share
one of those beautiful sentences or
oh-so-interesting
ideas that would put a rock to sleep.” My mother’s nose goes up and then down. I see her bookish profile disappear into the pages and then peek back out at the world. I feel it coming. I prepare for the worst: an entire passage that might take up two or three pages—it’s enough to make you laugh at water torture. I start to get up, determined to set off on a walk that will take me at least to Japan. I can understand that people might want to waste their lives behind a book, but there’s no reason to force everyone else to listen to stupid stories that don’t make any sense. I’m already on my feet when my mother closes the book and lies down. False alarm.

I sit down on my towel again and concentrate on the rocking of the waves, on the people passing by. With my eyes half-closed they’re nothing but little floating spots. I live in a world of little spots. I like the way everything loses its form and turns into something other than reality. I open my eyes wide. I can make out the twins from a distance—it’s them, unmistakable. I half-close my eyes again and their bodies blur until they disappear. I turn my head and do the same with my parents. They disappear. They all disappear and they don’t even know it. The perfect fantasy—though by the time I was eleven I had already learned that there are certain things you don’t share with other people. You can’t say that an ideal world would be one where your family disappeared. You can’t say that, much less write it down, if you don’t want to end up in the psychologist’s office after a visit to the principal. How sad, to learn at eleven years old that a “free” essay isn’t actually free at all! “Utopia, an ideal world”—from there you could write whatever you wanted... Damn school, nest of nasty, hypocritical rats...

“Listen, listen,” says my father, and the excitement in his voice startles me. I look at him as if he were speaking to someone else.

“Yes, listen. Your mother’s asleep.”

I deserve it. For letting my guard down—I should have walked all the way to Greenland. Seriously, what depraved being created literature? When? And above all, why? Out of all the useless things in life the most useless is inventing worlds with people who never existed and never will. My father has begun to read, so I nod as if I’m listening. I’ve had years to perfect this art. Suddenly a little whisper of pride sneaks into my heart, and I puff up like a balloon. My father’s voice as he goes on reading sounds farther and farther away. I’m not there anymore. I’m a great big hot-air balloon just starting to rise, buoyed up by the realization that I’ve gotten away with all of it. I give a little smile. I did it! I finished my mandatory education and got out of the rats’ nest and away from the hypocrites without being poisoned by uselessness. I don’t know how I did it, but I avoided every single reading. I can say with pride that not one
classic
has entered my system. And here I am—see, you can live perfectly well without the
essentials
. They even tested me on those books I was supposed to have read... I could call myself a genius. I really should call myself a genius.

“Aaah!”

The piercing cry isn’t part of my father’s reading. My brain doesn’t need even half a second to process the information, and before I realize it my parents and I are already on our feet, looking desperately for the twins. The beach has filled up—where on earth can all these people have come from? We make our way as best we can to the edge of the water. Right where the sand stays damp and soft I see five boys arguing heatedly. It looks like an older boy has just managed to pull them apart into two groups. Three little bullies on one side and on the other, the twins. Mercutio has his head thrown back. Bright red blood runs down his neck and stains his skin. Benvolio is crying and crying.

My heart is pounding in my ears from running—or is it from the sight of my brother covered in blood? I feel dizzy. I know it’s not a good time, but I feel dizzy. The people turn into little spots, but this time I’m not doing it on purpose. The world vanishes.

“Are you all right?”

I think it’s my father reading one of his passages, but his voice sounds different. And why would he be reading now? Something happened to my brothers—that should make him put his book down for once.

“Hey, how are you feeling?”

I wonder if I stayed in my room after all. Maybe I finally got hold of myself and got over my fear of contradicting my parents. I’m touching something soft, yes—it must be the quilt on my bed. I try to smile: I kept the promise I made to myself. I’m in my room. I open my eyes and the sun makes me close them again. Then I notice that something is casting a shadow over me. Whoever it is speaking to me has moved to block the light. My eyelashes feel heavy but I force myself to lift them. Hazel. Clear hazel. That’s all I can think. Hazel. Honey. No, hazel. The eyes looking down at me are hazel; my father’s are green. Now I know I’m lying on the sand. I felt it when the water wet my toes.

“What happened?” I ask.

“You fainted.”

Some fingers, which I suspect belong to the speaker, move my hair out of my face. It’s the most ridiculous thing, but it feels like a slight electrical shock passes through my body. Those hazel eyes go on gazing at me but a ray of sun passes between us, so I can’t make out the boy’s face. I turn my head gently and see my family: my parents are reading and the twins are playing cards. I can’t believe this! The only way they should be allowed to leave me lying here is if they had to go to the hospital. No, I correct myself—not even then. If they were in an ambulance speeding to the hospital I should be lying next to them and not here. There is no way this should be allowed to happen to me. There should be a parenting police—that’s right—and they should be arrested and never set free...

“You’re pale. Do you feel all right?”

I nod, which makes my head hurt a little. A familiar voice. I lean on my elbow and sit up. Everything is spinning. The outrage I’m feeling won’t even fit inside my body. I sit there, unable to take my eyes off my family. I see it, but I can’t believe it.

“Don’t worry about the boy from before, his parents already took him away. He’s fine.”

“I see that,” I answer, in a voice so soft I doubt it’s even audible. I clear my throat before going on. “It’s incredible.”

What really seems incredible is that right here on this beach, right now, right after what we talked about yesterday, I should find Axel.

“Well, it wasn’t anything serious. They packed his nose with some tissue and it stopped bleeding right away. It seemed like a volcano, I know, but it wasn’t serious... Anyway, the important thing is that you’re all right.”

Oh my God, Axel, why won’t you stop talking? If I weren’t so dazed I would look you right in the eye and ask. Of all the people in the world it had to be Axel who came to my aid.

He keeps on talking as he sits down next to me, without stopping even for a second. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. When I open them he’s still there—I know because I can hear him, but I can’t look away from my family. How can they be so calm? Oh, hey, I’m just sprawled out over here! Something happened to your invisible daughter.

Axel goes quiet. When I look at him it almost makes me jump. His eyes are shining, almost transparent, like a piece of hard candy... Why is he giving me such a worried look? I reach up and touch my head—am I bleeding or something? No, everything seems fine.

“Were you really scared? It was because of the blood, wasn’t it? You fainted.”

“Brilliant. I fainted.”

“Yeah... I guess that was obvious.”

Right away I feel bad for having said it. When will I finally manage to keep all these snarky things from coming out of my mouth? Sometimes I’m really a loose cannon. But Axel... well.

“Blood doesn’t scare me,” I say, trying to get Axel to pay attention to these words and forget my previous ones. “Besides, it had to happen. Not that I fainted, I mean, well... it’s just obvious: sooner or later Mercutio had to pay.”

“Mercutio?”

Beneath Axel’s calm, shining eyes is a smile I can’t identify—is it interest or amusement? No doubt it’s mockery, as usual.

“Yeah, it sticks out like a sore thumb, I know,” I say, with a sigh of resignation. “Mercutio and Benvolio. Only my parents would come up with something like that. Some names.”

“Your parents? So they’re your brothers?

“What do you think?”

Okay, so the sarcasm was unnecessary. I go to stand up but I’m still a little dizzy. I don’t want to be in view of my family. It’s not likely, but they could look out at the sea and find me in their line of sight. I don’t think they’d look at
me
, of course, but they might look out at the sea. If they happen to see me here, talking with him... I could end up being interviewed as tonight’s special guest at dinner, and I wouldn’t like that at all. I get up. I haven’t even finished brushing the sand off my legs when the twins run past me and splash into the ocean. Smiles spread across their faces when they see us, and they give an encore of this morning’s little kiss-throwing number.

“Your brothers are so funny!”

“Do you really think so?”

Axel doesn’t answer. This time I wasn’t trying to be sarcastic. The one time I ask something seriously... There’s an uncomfortable silence that lasts one or two seconds—eternal seconds, not regular ones. Axel and I avoid looking at each other. “What’s weird is that something didn’t happen sooner with those two little brats,” I say, in the most casual and relaxed tone I can manage. “They think they can mess around with anybody without anything ever happening. I guess deep down it’s really my parents’ fault.”