Untethered (5 page)

So now I volunteer.

Today there are about thirty kids in the center, ranging in age from six to twelve. Most of them are gathered around the table where the afternoon snack of the three C’s is set out: cheese and crackers and carrots.

Angie, the director, smiles and waves me over. “Hey, Sylvie Sweetheart! Did you have a good summer? What d’ya got for today?”

I hold up a huge shopping bag, full of materials. It’s a little crunched from spending the day in my locker, but nothing’s ruined. “Paper bag kites. We can decorate them and fly ‘em. Not much wind, but ...”

“That’s a big bump.” Obviously, she’s talking about my forehead.

“Yeah.” I shrug. “I’m such a klutz.”

We discuss her vacation in Door County and my summer stuck at home. The kids that are new, the ones who’ve come back.
American Idol
. I don’t bring up bad stuff like my dad leaving. I talk as if life were normal. As if I were normal.

About half the kids do the kite project with me. We spend a good hour preparing the kites with paint, glitter, ribbons, and crepe paper. Most of the kids progress on their own, not caring if lines are straight or if the paint runs — what they want is to take the thing out to fly it. They hop up and down and push and shove to bring me their bags so I can punch holes and thread the string through.

Their excitement buoys me. Mondays are actually my fun days. Nobody here calls me Psycho, or treats me like I’m contagious, or forces me to eat bean sprouts. These kids have siblings who’ve died violent deaths, or parents who need to work three jobs. They’ve seen so much. Yet they still believe in the magic a grocery bag, glitter glue and a bit of wind can create.

And they allow me to believe it, too, if for just a thin slice of time.

When Sam and I get home, Mom is dressed in stiff brown pants and standing at the kitchen table with her hands on the back of a chair.
Oh, crap
. I feel a family meeting coming on.

I squeak past Mom and slide into the pantry. “Just getting a granola bar,” I lie. Among the packages of prunes, rice cakes and Mom’s huge jars of flaxseed, hidden behind the dusty ice cream maker is where Dad always stashes the chocolate. He hides it there for us so we can get proper junk without Mom on our case. I run my hand behind the ice cream maker and my stomach sinks. There’s only one bar left. A cheerful red, white, and blue Nestle Crunch bar. Only I don’t feel so cheerful. Now that Dad’s gone, who’s going to stock the pantry with contraband? And not only that. Now that he’s gone, all of us have lost our sense of humor. Three months ago, Sam and I were still playing practical jokes on each other. In June, I poured Wasabi on his All-Bran and he froze my underwear. But now ... who’s going to
laugh
every once in a while?

“Sylvie. Come here, please. We have some things we need to discuss as a family.” Mom sounds like someone’s strangling her.

Sam is already sitting at the kitchen table. Mom motions for me to sit across from him.

I can’t keep the sarcasm from my voice. “I don’t see how we can discuss anything as a family: the whole family isn’t here.”

There’s a heavy pause.

I sit down. “Sorry,” I say.

Mom finally looks at me properly. “Oh, dear Lord. What happened to your head?” She moves towards me, inspecting the damage even though I hold up my hand to keep her away.

“I fell,” I say. “By tripping. Like normal people do. Nothing strange, so don’t even ask. The school nurse took care of it. I’m fine, really. It’s just a big bump.”

Mom rips off the checklist. The same list of questions as to what the nurse did or didn’t test every time anything ever happens – dizziness, eyesight, hearing, memory ... She’d make Dr. Hong proud.

When she’s finally somewhat satisfied, she moves back to the head of the table and launches into her talk. “Your father and I discussed the ... details of our separating this morning.”

That was only this morning that Dad came? It seems like so long ago.

“We’ve decided that you’ll both stay with me, at home, during the week. You’ll spend Friday and Saturday nights with him.” She holds up her hand, silencing Sam. “Nothing will change except for that. Your dad won’t be living with us, but everything else will stay the same. You can still go to St. Anthony’s. You’ll still get an allowance. Life won’t change that much.”

Sam and I look at each other.
Yeah. Right.

“Now.” Mom sits down. “Did you want to talk about how you’re feeling?”

We’re silent. Then I open my mouth. I need to know. To make sure. “Why?”

“Well, because talking about how you feel just might—”

“No. I mean why did Dad leave?”

Mom’s eyes fill with tears. “Because I ... I’m not ... he’s not ... we’re ...” She sighs. “It’s complicated, Sylvie. I don’t know what to say.”

So no one says anything.

Dinner that night is quiet. Mom asks us about school, but there isn’t much to tell. It’s the same torture as last year, all over again. All we say is “fine.” We sit in silence eating our cremated kale casserole until we can escape to our rooms.

I’m at my desk dragging ink across vellum when Dad calls. Sam talks to him first, then knocks on the door and hands the phone to me. I consider hanging up right away, but instead I say, “What do you want?”

“Hiya. Just to see how you are. See if you have any questions about the arrangements.” Dad’s voice is soft and low.

“Yeah. I’ve got a question: why did you go?” My stomach twists. I know the answer.

He kind of moans and I can picture him on the other end rubbing his hand over his face. “We’ve talked about this, Sylvie. I told you that when you’ve been with someone for a long time you have to keep working at it.”

“So work at it.”

He moans again and exhales loudly. “Yeah, well, sometimes it’s too late.”

I get up and walk to my bedroom window. It overlooks our front drive. There’s an oil spot where Dad’s car should be. Sadness smacks me so hard in the chest, I can’t breathe for a moment. When I do, it hurts. “Just try it with Mom again, Dad. I’ll pick up your shoes. She won’t have to. I’ll even eat your All-Bran for you while her back is turned.” Then I lie to him like I did to Dr. Hong, my voice breaking. “There haven’t been any more incidents, Dad. I’m okay. Really. You and mom can try again.”

He’s quiet and then says, “Sylvie, it’s not about you. Honestly. And I don’t want to try anymore.”

All the sadness I’ve been feeling, all the guilt, bunches into an angry ball. “Well maybe I don’t want to try, either! Maybe I don’t want to see you on the weekend and pretend everything is all right.”

“Sylvie—”

“And it’s your fault there aren’t any more chocolate bars in the pantry. I’m too skinny to be eating rice cakes!”

“Sylv—”

But I hang up. I press the END button as hard as I can and then I throw the stupid phone against the wall, hoping it’ll break.

A jolt of pain shocks me as I lean my sore forehead against the window pane.

It’s dusk. A pink sky hugs silhouettes of treetops and telephone wires. Down below, next door, Cassie’s dad is putting out garbage cans on the curb. Just as he is about to turn around, Cassie’s mom comes up behind him, an empty bottle in her hand. She throws the bottle into the trash, then puts her arms around him. They stand there, hugging on the curb, for a long time.

My throat gets tight.

Cassie’s parents really, really love each other. I mean, to the point where Cassie thinks they forget she even exists. My parents used to smile at each other over breakfast. They even used to hold hands. Until I ruined everything.

Cassie’s parents saunter back into the house arm in arm.

Why can’t my parents be like that?
How can they be, with you here, Sylvie?

I think of Cassie instead.

Why can’t
I
be like
her
?

October 28
^th

The ambulance turns the corner, and its sirens fade as it races further away.

I collapse on the sidewalk in front of my house. My chest is ready to burst and my head feels like it’s going to explode. “This isn’t happening this isn’t happening” runs on a loop in my brain. Oh, God. I’m going to be sick. I crawl to the curb on all fours and vomit into the street. I start bawling. The noise of it is low and rough.

Behind my sobs, I hear Cassie come out her front door and run down the porch stairs. She’s screaming something over and over. It’s my name. No, it’s his. No, I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. Oh, no, oh, hell.

I sit up on my haunches and Cassie squats down next to me. Her face is pale and her eyes wild. Tears streak her face. Her nose is running. She swipes at it with the sleeve of her sweater. She’s bawling, too. And babbling. “Something happened to Sylvie. I don’t know what happened. I don’t understand. She just ... The emergency people kept asking about drugs. She doesn’t do drugs. We were just trying ...”

Drugs. Could that be it? Maybe I’m tripping on something and I don’t even know what. Maybe for once I’m really hallucinating.

Please, let me be hallucinating.

But I know I’m not. I feel the hard concrete sidewalk under my feet and taste the salt of the tears that are running down my face. This face.

The tears taste just like my own.

I’m stiff. Numb. But I need to hold on to something. Someone. So I reach for Cassie and she lets me. We wrap our arms around each other. Cassie puts her head on my shoulder; her tears soak my sweatshirt. Her soft hair is like silk against my cheek. Her shampoo smells like coconut.

I’m supposed to have silky hair, a tropical smell. Not, not ... this!

Cassie’s body is solid against my own. She’s here. She’s real.

Where is he?

I don’t know. But I’m here. And I’m in him. And it’s real.

“Help,” I whisper.

Seven

August: TGIF ... or Not

The first week of junior year isn’t any better than the first day.

I was barely out for a minute in Art class when I fell, but it’s made for a good four days of entertainment. For everyone except me, of course.

Psych Ward: 687-2222

Someone’s taped the note to my locker. Hilarious.

To add insult to injury, every time Kevin passes Cassie in the hall or the lunch line or the parking lot, his eyes lock on her like he’s hypnotized. And she seems to be enjoying the attention. But he’s not the only one to notice the new Cassie. Practically every guy in school walks past her panting.

Normally, I’m a decent student. All A’s. But I suddenly can’t concentrate. For the first time in my life, my classes are a nightmare. In Trig I do my homework every night only to find out the next morning that I did it all wrong. Mimi Wilder raises her hand in excitement when Mrs. Zimmer asks a question, but Mrs. Zimmer likes calling on everyone. So, in the first week I’ve managed to give the wrong answer nine times (who’s counting?). In fact, the only right answer I give is to problem number 13, page 3. The one perk to my in-school out-of-body experience.

Mr. Crawford’s class, where we answer music trivia and listen to classic rock instead of Geography lectures, should be fun but isn’t. I never get the trivia questions right to win a Twix bar. And then suddenly he gives us a pop quiz to see if we’ve been reading in our Geography book everything he hasn’t been teaching us — everything I haven’t been learning.

Nelson’s the new model in Art, so I don’t even have him to talk to during class. He has to sit still on the stool, while we capture him from every angle. I draw the strong line of his jaw, the soft edge of his lips. As I shade in his eyes, something inside me stirs. He’s got thick lashes. Like Kevin’s. My mind wanders as I sketch and at the end of the period I realize I’ve drawn Kevin on the paper instead of Nelson. I smear the charcoal with the side of my fist before anyone can notice.

The goose egg on my forehead seems to get worse each day. All shades of purple and yellow and red. Just when I’m thinking I’m going to live through to the end of its transformation, Tori Thompson catches me at my locker.

“I think the bruise on your forehead is an improvement, Psycho. Takes people’s attention away from the rest of your hideous face.”

I stare at the vents in my locker (why do lockers need vents, anyways? so the freshmen who get stuffed in them by seniors can breathe?) and say low and even, “Leave me alone, Tori.”

She raises her eyebrows. “You’re telling me what to do?” Then she cackles down the hallway.

Even the news from Dr. Hong sucks. My test results are inconclusive. “I was sure it was narcolepsy, Sylvie. All the signs pointed to it,” he says when I go to his office Thursday afternoon. “I think we have to re-explore the fact that this might be psychological.” At the look I give him, he shakes his head. “The brain is very complex .... Look, I want to get you back into the psychiatrist and the neurologist. For some more tests.”

Luckily, there’s no room with either of them until Halloween.

By the time Friday afternoon rolls around, I’m ready for the weekend.

“Free at last! Free at last!” Cassie’s looking at her reflection in our locker mirror. She dabs a bit of lip gloss on her bottom lip and smears it around.

I stick with Vaseline; with all my allergies, anything else makes my lips peel. I end up looking like my mouth is molting. Ugh.

“I’m going out with Victor Moreno tonight. He said he’d take me to Milwaukee and we could sneak into the casino.” Cassie pulls a package of Sugar Babies out of her bag, pours a bunch into her mouth and slams the locker shut. “Why don’t you ask Kevin out and we could make it a double date?” she asks, mouth full.

Hasn’t she noticed that Kevin has been undressing
her
with his eyes all week? “Uh ... Hello? He’s not interested, Cass.”