Untethered (12 page)

When I’m finally home, I lie on my bed and let myself cry. I cry big, sloppy tears. I hate Dwayne. But more than anyone, I hate Tori. She’s made my life hell from day one.

My cell beeps. I pull it out of my pocket. The message is from Cassie: “
u ok?
Can I cme ovr?”

But I’m not in the mood to talk to her or anyone. “
No thanx”
I write back.

My cell beeps again. This time it’s Nelson: “
Wanna talk?”

I write “
No thanx
” again. Then I turn off the phone and wipe my tears.

Sam bangs on my door, “Sylvie? Can I talk to you?”

“NO!”

“I just ... come on, Sylvie.”

“I said no. Leave me alone.”

Then my mom knocks, quietly. “Sylvie?”

But I can’t face anyone.

It happened again today. Psycho me. That bit that I do at the worst times. – what the library books call a ‘spontaneous projection’. I let a bitter laugh escape. And here, just yesterday I was thinking it was like a superpower. Yeah, right. What good does it do to slip out of your body every time you hurt?

Come off it, Sylvie. Yesterday you controlled it. It
is
a super power.

I close my eyes. That’s it. I need to
do
something with it. Something real.

Thirteen

September: Just Like Heaven

The shadows are there when I slide out of my body. I can hear them, their strange language a harsh hissing in my ears. Their long fingers wrap around me like tentacles. I struggle and start to scream, but then something strange happens. Their cold breath tickles my neck. And soothes me. It feels ... good ... so good.
Why have I been fighting them all this time?

I stop struggling and the hatred and hurt in me swell to something strong, something majestic.

My fear falls away and I let the shadows in.

We ascend through the attic, out the roof and past the trees. Below me, Racine is a pattern of lights against the darkness, getting smaller with every moment. We speed up higher, up farther until I’m surrounded by stars. Earth is just a marble in the distance.

Quiet as steam, the shadows meld with me. I can feel their power in my core. Thick as tar, cool as metal. Their language suddenly makes sense. They tell me I can be whoever I want to be. I can inhale the galaxy and exhale the universe.

I’ve never felt so strong, so smart, so sure.

It’s divine.

I am beautiful out here. I know I am. The knowledge courses through my veins like an elixir. It sweetens every move I make. Its power tastes like heaven.

Then I tumble back down to Earth, back through the trees, the roof, the attic, and back to my room. I collide with my body and watch as the shadows disappear, along with my confidence.

So I slip out again and call back the shadows to spend the night in their embrace.

October 28
^th

We drive to All Saints Medical in silence. The only noise is my heart, this heart, pounding loudly in my ears. Sweat trickles down my spine, though it’s freezing in the car and I’m not even wearing a coat. I do all I can to not go completely crazy. I pull at the hairs on my forearm. I chew my tongue. I shake my legs. I count backwards from a hundred but have to start over three times because I can’t concentrate enough to even get down to eighty. What I really want to do is scream and rip up the upholstery. Instead I tell myself, “Everything will be okay, Sylvie. Breathe in. Breathe out.” Maybe he’s in my body by now. Maybe we can get together and figure out how to go back to being ourselves.

I spread my fingers out on the back of Cassie’s seat, amazed at how they stretch across almost the whole thing. I pull them back and form a fist.

I run my hand across the slight roughness of his cheek, still able to feel the smoothness of the skin underneath the spare whiskers. As I move, I smell the tang of sweat and I know it’s coming from my armpits.

Mr. Sanders creeps along the road. He’s careful. Utterly and annoyingly careful. He slows at every traffic light, even if it’s green. He doesn’t exceed the speed limit.

Cassie says something, but it’s soft. Mr. Sanders doesn’t hear her. She shifts in her seat and looks out the window at the ugly store signs as we pass. McDonald’s. Walgreen’s. Family Dollar.

She says it again, only louder this time because she’s still facing the window: “What if she’s not okay, Dad?”

“She’ll be okay, Cassie.”

“But what if she’s not?”

Mr. Sanders doesn’t answer. He just shakes his head.

Suddenly, I can’t get enough air. I push on the little button that makes the window go down, and I stick my head out. Like a dog.

That’s when we pass the cemetery. The tombstones glow eerily in the light from the hospital sign just next door. Neighbors in sickness and death.

I silently will Mr. Sanders to go faster.

Fourteen

September: My Jawa Audition

The confidence I get from projecting isn’t there when I wake up Wednesday morning and remember the whole spaghetti incident from the day before. I so do not want to go to school, but there’s a Trig exam that’s worth a third of our grade. Plus, instead of handing us the box of All-Bran for breakfast, Mom serves us tofu on burnt toast like it’s something special. “I thought I’d make the two of you a meal this morning,” she sobs between sniffles. “Because you both are everything to me.” Sam and I exchange terrified glances and get out as fast as we can.

All morning, I scrape my tongue against my teeth. It tastes like something moldy is in my mouth, thanks to the shadows. My eyes look bruised, the circles under them are so dark.

I wear my brown hoodie to school to avoid the stares of the other kids. I shrink down inside of it every time I walk the halls.

At lunch, Cassie hisses, “We can figure a way to get revenge on Tori, Sylvie. But take the hood off. You look like those little Jawas in
Star Wars
.”

“It helps, Cass.” The hood works like blinders. I don’t have to see Tori gloat in the hallways, at lunch, or in Morality class. And no one has to see me.

“But you look like a freak.”

Sam and Michelle and Sarah nod their heads. Actually, today Sarah and Michelle have moved a seat over at our table so they’re across from Sam and Cassie but no one is across from me.

“Deal with it,” I say and poke at my stale nachos. I let them carry on as if I’m not there.

My hoodie becomes a part of me. A shelter. I figure I’ll wear the thing until I die, and then I’ll probably even be buried in it. But Art class gets me to take it off. I walk through the door and shove the hood off my head, but right away, I put it back on. Our silk-screened tees are ready, and mine is draped over the table at my spot. Most of the class is gathered around it. They lift their eyes from the shirt to stare at me.
Oh, God
.
Now what?

“You’ve got fans, Sylvie. Your design turned out beautifully.” Mrs. Stilke smiles at me. I blink at her, and then at the group by my place. My stomach twists in fear – I’ve had enough being the center of attention — but it’s true: nobody is looking at me in disgust or pity or indifference. They’re looking at me with ... respect. I swallow hard.

“Put it on!” Nelson’s practically ecstatic. He grabs the T-shirt and holds it out towards me. I walk the length of the room and take it from him.

Melissa Scott says, “Looks really cool. You should wear it.”

I hold it up to my shoulders like you would a shirt you don’t really want to try on in the store.

But Mrs. Stilke sighs. “Take the sweatshirt off, Sylvie, and put your T-shirt on over your clothes. I want to see how it looks.” She gestures to the rest of the class. “All right. Everyone to your place.” She crosses her arms and waits for me to put the stupid shirt on.

So while the class is moving around, I quickly slip off my hoodie and pull the T-shirt on over the one I’m wearing.

At first glance, my design looks like a giant lace circle. But when you look again and see the details, you can make out the teachers at St. Anthony’s, St. Anthony himself, parts of the building and icons to represent different subjects weaved into the design. I smooth my hands over the shirt and look up at Mrs. Stilke. She nods and winks.

Nelson nudges me in the side and gives me a quick hug. As he pulls away, he brushes a stray hair from off my forehead. “Lookin’ good, Sylvie,” he says softly.

Other kids have their T-shirts on, too, showing cartoon characters in front of the school, or the St. Anthony’s seal, or books and rulers in a pile. Nelson’s shirt has St. Anthony himself on it, ears pierced and wearing combat boots under his robe. I can’t believe Mrs. Stilke let that be printed. The principal would have a cow.

“There’s a contest to design the yearbook cover. The winning design obviously gets on the yearbook, but also on the T-shirts to sell for the fundraiser,” Mrs. Stilke announces when everyone is sitting. “I’ve already submitted everyone’s work.” Here she rolls her eyes and looks at Nelson. “Well, almost everyone’s. Let’s hope someone from this class wins.” Then she goes on about our new assignment.

Once we all get started, she comes up to me and whispers, “Would you be okay with helping a student from another class? He’s really struggling and I think he might respond better to a peer’s help.”

“You really think I could help him?”

“That’s why I’m asking you, Sylvie.” Mrs. Stilke squeezes my shoulder.

“Sure,” I say, suddenly feeling better.

As the hour progresses, confidence builds inside me and I know I want to do something other than hide away in a hoodie for the rest of my life. I want to take back some control.

“Psst.” I poke Nelson. “Your offer to personalize Dwayne’s locker still stand?”

“Hell, yeah.” He grins. “I’m gonna make him a masterpiece.”

Nelson’s work
is
a masterpiece. And for once my projecting serves us well.

“Look,” I say when the halls are free of students. “You draw. I keep watch. But I’ll do it from around the corner over there.”

Nelson frowns. “How can you see from there?”

“Trust me,” I say. Then I hide and go astral. I watch from above as Nelson recreates the cave man drawing on Dwayne’s locker. He bites his lip in concentration and drags the marker over the metal. It squeaks under the steady grip of his fingers. The veins on his hand pop out in relief, and the muscles on his arms create a solid surface under his long sleeved T. He’s lovely, in a way, and I almost forget to watch for the custodian because I want to keep watching him. But then I float around the school and see Mr. James making his way up the stairs. Had I stayed solid, we’d probably be caught. But instead I’m back in my body and tugging on Nelson just as Mr. James comes into view.

We run down the hallways, our shoes slapping on the marble floor. Nelson grabs my hand and we practically fly down the stairs and out the back door of the school. We bend over to catch our breath, but we’re laughing hysterically. It’s been too long since I’ve laughed this hard.

“I can’t believe we did that,” I pant.

Nelson shakes his head. “That was epic! What have you got, some sixth sense in order to know Mr. James was on his way?”

“Something like that.”

Our breathing slows to normal and we stand up. Nelson’s eyes look turquoise in the sunlight. The second I notice them, my insides tilt, like I’m going high and fast on a swing.

“Want a ride home?” Nelson asks, keeping his eyes on me.

But right then the pool building door opens and a bunch of guys come out, Kevin Phillips among them. His hair is still damp, and he sees me.

That’s when I realize Nelson and I are still holding hands. I let go.

Kevin saunters over to us.

“Hey,” he says. “I gotta get this thing for Art in by tomorrow – I gotta draw a bowl of fruit. Mrs. Stilke just texted me to say maybe you could help?”

In the back of my mind, a little voice is saying:
The struggling student is Kevin?
I freakin’ love you, Mrs. Stilke!
“Yeah,” I say out loud. “Yeah ... uh ... yeah!”

“Cool,” he nods. “Can we go to the art room? Now, maybe?”

“Yeah ... uh ... yeah.” My eloquence is staggering.

“Later,” he says to Nelson.

But when I look at Nelson to say good-bye, I hesitate. I notice the spark has gone out of his eyes. The effect is like a kick to the chest. I mean, we just had a great time together, defacing school property and all. Maybe it would be ... nice ... to spend a little more time with him. “Or else maybe tomorrow—” I start.

But Nelson cuts me off. “Gotta go. Guitar lesson.”

“I didn’t know you played guitar,” I say.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” His voice is angry and for some stupid reason I feel tears prick the back of my eyeballs. “You guys better get to the art room before Mrs. Stilke leaves.” And he takes off, without looking back at us.

I watch him walk to his car, sudden annoyance taking over.
What the hell?

“Okay?” Kevin nudges me.

I nod and follow Kevin back inside the building. We go down to the basement. Mrs. Stilke is in the storeroom. When she sees us, she comes out.

“Hi, Sylvie, Kevin.” She smiles at me. “I appreciate your helping out, Sylvie. I’ve got to get some of this inventory done, since I didn’t do it the second school started. So your being here giving pointers frees me up.”

I nod. “Sure.”

“Plus, I think it’s good experience for you to teach a bit.” Mrs. Stilke gets out a wooden bowl a banana, an apple, some grapes, a pear, and a pineapple. She sets it on the table closest to the storeroom and says, “Go for it ... oh, and Kevin, don’t bother asking Sylvie to draw it for you. I’ll know.” Then she goes back to taking inventory.