Untethered (13 page)

Kevin and I look at each other. Six years of Kevin-worship erase any worries about Nelson’s strange behavior. Because Kevin is here to spend time with me.
Me.

My breath is stuck somewhere between my lungs and my mouth. I have to remind myself to exhale.

“So Mrs. Stilke didn’t like my take on the still-life.” Kevin pulls a heavy piece of peach colored paper out of his backpack. The charcoal is smudged quite a bit, but I can see he’s drawn the fruit bowl. The bowl is lopsided and the fruit is basically floating in the air. It’s messy and obviously quickly done.

I raise my eyebrows and say, “Oh.”

“I’m not an artist.”

“Uh. Yeah.”

At first I have Kevin try drawing the still life on scrap paper, giving him pointers, trying my hardest to explain what seems natural to me. “We need to work on your perspective. Right now everything looks flat. I know the front lip of the bowl isn’t really lower than the back, but you’ve got to draw it that way for it to look round ... see how you can shade this in? See how it gives it depth?”

I have him start again on the bowl, but already it’s too shallow. I reach over to stop him, my fingers touching his. Lava surges through my veins.

He doesn’t pull away. I don’t dare breathe but feign nonchalance as I wrap my fingers around the charcoal pencil with his and guide his hand. His fingers are thick and strong but so, so soft. If only I could lace mine in with his, if only –

“How’s it going?” Mrs. Stilke breezes into the room with a bunch of paintbrushes in her hand.

I yip like a little dog and jump up. Both Kevin and Mrs. Stilke widen their eyes at me. “Uh ... you scared me.” I sit back down, only stiffer now.

“Nice start,” Mrs. Stilke looks over our shoulders, then disappears into the storeroom again.

We get back to work, and Kevin manages to get the bowl looking somewhat like a bowl and the grapes and apples are more than just circles. When we start on the pineapple, he puts down the pencil and stops. “You’re okay, Sylvie.”

“Huh?”

“You’re okay.” He smiles at me, his eyes warming up as he does so. “I mean, some people give you a hard time ‘cuz you ... well, you know ... but you’re okay. Most girls will sit around and bitch about other girls. But you don’t. And you’re wicked with charcoal,” he says holding up the still-life.

I can’t do anything but snort out a little laugh.

“I heard about what Dwayne did yesterday.” His eyes are on me.

Now I really can’t do anything. I’m too mortified to move.

“Sometimes we hang around the same crowd. So I know him. A little. They should really get him in for scientific study; he’s the only human alive who is functioning without a brain,” Kevin says, shaking his head. “Plus, have you noticed the size of him? He’s probably a mutant, too.”

“Like Randy Lang?” My voice is so quiet, I’m not sure he even hears me.

But he bunches up his eyebrows, remembering. “Holy shit. Yeah. Like Randy Lang. I’d almost forgotten about him. Man, what was he? Part gorilla?”

And amazingly, unbelievably, we both burst out laughing.

I have to remind myself this is real. That Kevin is not even six inches from me. He smells like Polo cologne and chlorine. His lips are Rose Petal Pink and his eyes dark as Hershey chocolate bars. I’ve been dreaming of this moment for six years. The moment where he tells me he doesn’t think I’m a freak. The moment where he tells me I’m lovely and smart and everything he’s ever wanted.

When we’ve finally stopped giggling, he tilts his head and I know he’s about to ask me something. I feel my hands shake.

“Can I ask you something, Sylvie?”

Oh, yes, oh, God, yes.
“Mmm hmm.”

“You don’t think you could draw the pineapple for me, could you?”

“I HEARD THAT!” Mrs. Stilke yells from the storeroom.

“Was worth a try.” Kevin shrugs, grinning. “My dad says, ‘Try until you succeed.’”

I hand him the charcoal. “Okay, then. Try this.”

Fifteen

September: A Bitch in Time Saves Nine

Dwayne goes insane when he sees his locker. He charges through the hall like a rhino and when he comes up to me I can tell he’s barely holding it together. “I’ll get you, Psycho,” he whispers in my ear. Fear trickles through me like ice water.

I don’t tell anyone about Dwayne’s threat. Not even Nelson. Besides, he’s forgotten all about Dwayne and is focused on Kevin instead.

“So how did the art lesson go?” He keeps his eyes on his work as he asks.

I’m about to apologize for the whole thing yesterday, but then I realize that I have nothing to apologize for. He’s the one who took off in a fit. So instead, I remind myself of Kevin’s soft fingers and how he said I was okay. “Good.”

“You gonna do it again?”

I stop working and blink at him. Again? I hadn’t thought of that. But I could help Kevin out regularly. Then maybe ... maybe it could turn into more. Definitely more. What did Kevin say?

Try until you succeed.

“I think I will.” I nod.

Nelson doesn’t reply.

I avoid Dwayne for a few days. I also have another tutoring session with Kevin. We are two inches apart, breathing each other’s air. But he doesn’t seem to notice more than his pencil on the page. I shouldn’t be surprised, after all. And I’m not. But it doesn’t stop me from being disappointed.

What is surprising, though, is that Dwayne’s not as dumb as I thought. He doesn’t talk to anyone about wanting to pound me. He keeps a low profile and the days go by with people believing he might actually have a sense of humor about the whole thing.

After another art session, Kevin goes to the pool for an extra practice and I start on my way home. Everyone else left an hour ago and all’s been quiet on the Dwayne front. So I’m not expecting Dwayne to pull up in his truck the second I step off school grounds.

I run. Panic sends me the wrong way. I should run back to school, where if he touches me he’s out on his ass, but I go towards home. And take the park as a short cut.

On the other side of the park is the grade school and its high, gated fence. Today’s a school day. I’m not worried about it being locked.

But it is.

Crap!
I reach up, but the edge is too high for me to grasp, even on tip-toes. And the boards are smooth and slippery. No place for a toe hold. My heart pounds. I have to go around.

I can hear Dwayne’s footsteps whacking the pavement. He catches up to me before I can go anywhere and pounds me against the wooden boards. The noise is deafening, but no one comes out to see what’s going on.

Don’t project. Don’t go astral. Stay inside. If you don’t, you’re dead.

“You little bitch!” Dwayne’s hands are on my shoulders now. He slams me against the fence. Once, twice, three times. Tears spill onto my cheeks as he grinds my spine against the wood. Visions of Randy Lang and fifth grade swim in my head. I picture Kevin biting Randy, picture his heroics.

Only now, Kevin isn’t here to save me.

So I save myself. Kevin style.

I turn my head and bite Dwayne on his large hairy hand with all my force. He tastes like sweat and rotten salami, but I keep digging my teeth in until I realize he’s actually screaming.

Dwayne backs away. His eyes are wide and wild. He looks at me like I’m the one who’s the monster. “Fucking psycho bitch! I’m gonna need rabies shots now!”

I spit the taste of him out at his feet and sprint towards home.

Once I realize he’s not following me, I collapse onto some stranger’s front lawn and gulp down deep breaths. When I stop shaking and realize the terror has seeped away, I start laughing.

I laugh and laugh until I cry.

Sixteen

September : The Gateway Drug

Every day after school I astral project.

I project to Kevin’s and watch him lounge in front of the TV. I project to Mrs. Zimmer’s and get the answers for the Trig test. I project to Tori’s to figure out how to get even. I project everywhere I want, but then I come home and come back to being me. It’s like the longer I’m out, the more I want to stay out. The more I want to forget who I am. It’s a strange high, and the crash back to reality is always brutal: Someone rips the ANIMAL CONTROL page out of the Yellow Pages and tapes it to my locker. Tori puts the video she took of me in the cafeteria on YouTube —on it, I wilt like week old lettuce, sliding under the lunch table while Tori’s laughing makes the soundtrack. My mom erases my dad’s name from our answering machine. Cassie and Kevin seem to have whole conversations with just a look. My little brother is already a hell of a lot more popular than I’ll ever be.

I stay strong. And I’m no longer afraid of Dwayne. Now that he believes I’m certifiable, I have no reason to be scared. He’s more scared of me.

But it’s lonely. And it hurts. All of it.

So I go astral as often as I can. Every day the shadows are waiting to cradle me, their touch cold as winter frost. But I’ve learned to like the chill. To crave it.

The whole experience leaves a permanent bad taste in my mouth. I go through packs of mint gum to get rid of it.

But I never think of stopping. I can’t. I’m addicted.

Seventeen

September: The Inside Counts for Crap

Kevin comes up to our table at lunch and invites us to a party that same night, this time at his own house. “You gotta come,” he says to us. “Wear your swim suits, ‘cuz I’ve got a pool.” His eyes hesitate over Cassie, then move to me. “Hey,” he says. “Got a C+ on that Art project.”

Anything below a B is bad news for me. But Kevin smiles. “She was failing me. Getting a C+ is major.” He slaps the table in a little drum roll, then winks at Cassie.

After he walks away, Cassie lifts her eyebrows at me. “Wow. You’ve made him happy.”

I enjoy a little swooping in my stomach at the thought.

Then she whispers, “Looks like you’ll finally get to see the inside of his place.” We’ve gone past Kevin’s house probably 300,000 times since the fifth-grade, with me wanting to see him and yet ducking behind a bush anytime he’s been around.

“Yeah.” She doesn’t know I’ve done better than see his place, I’ve seen his room. Well, in a way.

Michelle suddenly slams her Diet Coke onto the table. “Wait! My dad’s using the car tonight.”

Cassie smugly sucks up the last of her Suicide Mix with a loud gargle. “I’ve got a new car, people. My
own
. I can pick everyone up.”

The bell rings and we all head to our next classes. Cassie and I have religion class – Morality. It’s the junior class’s curse. Not only is the subject unbearable, the teacher reeks like B.O. If you get him last hour, your eyes actually water from the stink.

The tardy bell rings just as Cassie and I slide into empty desks.

“All right, Ladies and Gentlemen. Today you are going to split into two groups: male and female.” Mr. Walker begins waving all the boys over to one side of the room, while we girls form a circle with our desks. I try to get mine as far from Tori as possible. Ever since the whole thing with Dwayne’s locker, she hasn’t let up.

Mr. Walker sets a large piece of paper before me and explains the assignment to the group. The smell of his armpits almost knocks me out. “You will define the perfect male. You have twenty minutes to do so.”

The others start to give ideas so quickly I can barely write them down fast enough.

“Blonde.”

“No way, I like ‘em dark.”

“Tall. Six feet. Or taller, even.”

“Not too tall.”

“Athletic.”

“But smart. Like making lots of money smart.”

“What about gallant?” This is Cassie’s input, surely because we’re reading Jane Austen in English. I start writing it down, but the other girls laugh like she’s made a joke. “I’m serious,” she says.

Across the room, the boys are debating on the merits of the perfect female. I hear things like, “Big tits” and “Long hair” and I swear I even heard someone say, “Cassie.” I glance at Cassie, but she seems to not have heard it.

“Keep writing, Psycho,” Tori drawls. “
The Perfect Male.
You do know the difference between a man and a woman, don’t you? Or do you need me to draw you a picture?” Then her eyes flit over to Keri Nielsen. “Or Keri could draw it for you. She knows, for sure.”

Keri sticks out a pierced tongue (that somehow got past the authorities) and gives Tori the finger.

Tori gets up. “Gotta use the little girls’ room.” Everyone except Mr. Walker knows she really goes out to smoke.

I write down our final list for the perfect male, but I’m really thinking about the party tonight. How I can get Kevin to look at me and forget to look at Cassie. Mr. Walker takes our paper and gives us another blank sheet. This time we have to list out the perfect female. Tori slides back into her desk reeking like cigarettes. She rolls her eyes at the new heading on my paper, but she doesn’t give me a hard time. The suggestions come quickly.

“Pretty.”

“Friendly.”

“Can keep a secret.”

“Is loyal.” This time everyone agrees with Cassie.

When we’re done. Mr. Walker collects the second list and then tapes all four to the board. “Do you think God’s list for a perfect male and perfect female read like this?” He points a chubby finger to one of the lists. “Size 38DD bra. Long legs.” He grimaces toward the group of boys, who double up in laughter. Then Mr. Walker points to one of our lists. “Or this? Tall. Rich. Muscular.”

He faces us and stares at us, one by one, with those hard eyes shoved into folds of flesh. “Ladies and Gentlemen, you’d better think a little more about this. Those lists? Perfect Male and Perfect Female? They should be the same. The perfect human. There shouldn’t be different criteria for men than for women. Because it’s not the outside that counts. It’s the inside. Don’t let the wicked world convince you into thinking otherwise.”

There are some groans from the boys’ side of the room and some simulated barfing from the girls’.