What Curiosity Kills (3 page)

"Heroin," Dad pronounces once they've wrestled me off my hands and knees. "You fall asleep in the middle of the day and eat off the floor when you're on heroin."

  Octavia says, "She's not on heroin."

  "Well, grass doesn't do that."

  Octavia shakes her head. "Dad, nobody says grass."

  Mom's never been one of those parents who, when they come in from outside, wash their hands before they hug you. She doesn't like clutter, but she's not a neat freak either. Right now, she's standing sock-footed in spilled milk. Her hand hasn't left my forehead.

  "She's burning up, Scott. She has a fever."

  Without another word, Dad scoops me up, all fire and rescue. I hear him stifle a groan from my weight. I'm not heavy, but I'm not a little kid anymore. The first time he carried me was when he taught me to ride a bike in Central Park. My front tire hit a crack, and I flipped over the handlebars. He left the bike there and carried me all the way home. We never saw that bike again, and my parents swore they didn't care. In all my life, I'd never felt so loved. For the next year or so, I walked into walls, shut my fingers in doors, and chewed too fast so that I'd bite the inside of my mouth to test that their love wasn't fleeting. Every time I cried out in pain, Dad scooped me up and whisked me to safety. A cure was always in their medicine cabinet.

  Dad sits me down on the closed toilet in their bathroom. He's the managing editor of a financial news website, so he's no tough guy, but he keeps his cool in the face of a skinned knee, a nose bleed—or, in this case, a fever of a 102.

  "Scott, should I call 911?" Mom asks anxiously from the doorway.

  "Calling 911 is going to land her in the emergency room. We'll be there all night, and she'll catch something worse. Give her four Tylenol and get her into a lukewarm tub. If the fever doesn't break by midnight, then we'll take her to Lenox Hill."

  Dad leaves to clean up the kitchen. I'm weak, so I let Mom draw my bath and Octavia hold a Dixie cup to my lips as I swallow each extra-strength caplet. When the tub's full, I wave them away.

  Mom says, "I'll be right outside."

  Octavia goes with her. I imagine my sister plants herself back in front of the TV, but I know Mom's ear is pressed against the bathroom door, eavesdropping for the slightest sound of distress.

  I take my time peeling off each sock. I unzip my jeans. To slip out of them, I ease down onto the black-and-white checkerboard tiled floor, so if I get dizzy, I won't fall off the toilet and crack my skull. I shimmy out, and the tiles are cool against my bare legs, which feel as fevered as my face. Off comes my Nada Surf hoodie. All that's left on me is my pitiful A-cup padded bra and Victoria's Secret boyshort panties that read I ♥ Geeks.

  Mom calls, "Are you in the tub yet? Do you need help?"

  "No," I manage. "I'm fine."

  Mom hasn't heard the bathwater splash. If I don't make some noise that shows progress, she'll be in here, and I'll be mortified. Sleeping, crying, licking milk off the floor—I'm not about to add public nakedness to my growing list of humiliations. I prop myself up on my elbows and glare at the small black radiator that hisses to life.

  Mom hears it too. "Do you want me to turn that off for you, baby?"

  "No, thanks."

  Most everyone in our co-op is in for the night, so the super has cranked up the heat. All over the apartment, I hear the iron beasts clank, spit, and roar. To turn the blistering on/off nozzle righty-tighty, I use my sweatshirt as an oven mitt. Even with the valve shut, the radiator ribs will remain hot and turn this bathroom into a sauna.

  I brace myself along the long side of the tub. I've sweat through my underwear. My hair sticks to the back of my neck. I'm trembling, but the thought of getting into the tub makes me cringe. The water is a sheet of glass. If I touch it, it will shatter. Then, I'll be in worse pain.

"Baby, are you all right?"

"Yes," I lie.

  I have to do something or Mom's going to come in here. The only thing that sounds good to me is sleep. That milk was a sedative. I fight the urge to lie back down. Maybe if I stir the water around, Mom will believe I've done what she wanted and I can go to bed. I reach my hand into the tub to test the temperature.

  "Good girl!" Mom thinks the splash was my foot.

  I jerk my hand out, and Mom claps because she thinks it's my other foot going under the surface.

  I shake the water off, and it splashes the shower curtain, which has sailboats on it so the bathroom isn't too frilly for my dad. The water is slimy like the inside of a sink pipe when you stick your finger down it to fish out a ring. To placate my mom, I stir the water with the plunger.

  Mom calls, "Cool off. I'll come back in a little while with the thermometer." Her footsteps fade, and I wonder why she's not worried that I'll pass out and drown.

  Outside the bathroom window, kids are yammering and smoking while waiting for the Crosstown 72. Our apartment is on the second floor above the bus stop. I can hear entire conversations, and while I'm not a smoker myself, I can smell the difference between Marlboros and American Spirits. This is a prewar building from 1917. Even with the windows shut, everything gets in, including a draft.

I rest the side of my head against the blinds. It's less than

30 degrees outside. The icy air seeps through the window. I'm covered in goose bumps. I unhook my dad's terry-cloth robe from the back of the door. The robe is heavy. My knees buckle. I steady myself and then part the blinds and peer out.

  The neon lights of the bus stop glow in the dark. The kids, four boys and a girl, are talking about—what else?—how cold January is. The boys are bundled in what never goes out of style in Manhattan: black down jackets that make them look like charred Michelin Men. I'm sure that three of them don't go to my school because their haircuts would never fly. Too cool for wool caps, one kid's hair is spiked with Elmer's Glue, another's is dirtied into blond dreadlocks, and a third's is shaved to reveal a scalp tattoo.

  The remaining boy better fits the Purser-Lilley mold, except for the cheap black-and-gray-checked scarf wrapped around his nose and mouth. By the way that he tugs at it, I can tell it itches and ain't Barney's cashmere.

  The boys might be my age, might be older. I think everyone in high school looks older than me. Every time I look (or don't look) in the mirror, I feel like I'm twelve. Mom says she forever feels sixteen. I don't know who I feel sorrier for.

  The girl wears a white version of the Michelin Man jacket. The hood is trimmed with rabbit fur. The drawstrings end in fuzzy rabbit balls. I've seen it on skinny Purser-Lilley moms; it seems too expensive for this crowd. The girl throws her head back and laughs.

My eyes widen. Hello, Ling Ling Lebowitz.

  Ling Ling, a tiny girl who is always cold, is warmed by the group. She slips in and out of their spooning embraces. She's a dodge ball that's not thrown but gently passed from one easy catch to the next. The boys encircle her and take turns getting cozy. If Octavia saw this, she'd call Ling Ling a ho. But Ling Ling doesn't look ho-ish. She looks perfectly at ease. I'm jealous. No boy has ever wrapped his arms around me, let alone four at once.

  The bus arrives, and the group piles on. Ling Ling chooses a window seat. The boys elbow each other over who's going to sit beside her because they can't pass her around on the bus. The driver closes the doors, and the bus rocks from the suction. The boys stretch out their arms and pretend to be surfing.

  Ling Ling snatches the tail end of that one boy's cheap checked scarf. The boy tips toward her, bats her hand away, frees himself. Fringe comes off in her mitten. Ling Ling grabs another handful, higher up at his throat. The scarf tightens around his nose and mouth. His forehead turns red. Does she want to borrow the scarf or cut off the blood to his brain?

  The other boys prod him. Ling Ling has chosen him; he should sit his ass down. He settles in beside her and loosens his scarf but doesn't remove it. He takes his cap off, and out pops a cloud of black curly hair. He turns toward Ling Ling, leans into her, and whispers I don't know what. But I see who he is.

  Nick Martin.

  The one Purser-Lilley boy who is not too skinny and not at all fat. He's not too tall and not shorter than me. He has dark brown eyes and what looks like a year-round tan. Every summer, he disappears from Manhattan and goes to Athens and the Greek islands to spend three months with his grandparents. Every first day of school, he smells like the beach.

  Do I need to mention that Nick Martin is my not-so-secret crush? With that description, what else could he be?

   The bus veers into traffic, and Nick looks over his shoulder in my direction as if he's forgetting something. That I live here? That instead of being the tablespoon in Ling Ling's measuring set of boys, he'd meant to acknowledge me for the first time in our lives? He keeps his gaze in line with mine. The bathroom blinds are closed, but I get a weird sensation that we're making eye contact. I feel something between us—something warm and incredibly real.

  I put my hand over my drumming heart. Like the bus, Nick is now long gone, but I feel like he's still out there. Closer than before…getting closer…about to ask my doorman to give me a buzz. It's ridiculous, I'm ridiculous, but I take another peek. For what? His bus dust?

  What I find is a cat.

  Sitting on top of the bus stop is the strangest cat I've ever seen. It's not six-toed or deformed in any way. It's a calico, but its markings make it look like it's wearing a mask. The rest of its face is copper, except for a patch on its mouth that looks like zinc oxide. It has long black whiskers. Its eyes are emerald green.

The thing is big. And this big thing is looking right at me.

  Except for deli cats, you never see strays in Manhattan. Health inspectors fine delis $400 the first time they find a cat, then $1,000 the next. Owners won't get rid of them because cats keep out rats, and rats will shut a place down. Deli cats are obese and dirty from sleeping on floors covered in filth from constant streams of customers. Octavia won't go into delis because she swears she can smell cat piss over burnt coffee, open vats of creamed soup, stale mops, and even sponges. Plus, she's scared of a paw coming out from under somewhere and taking a swipe at her shoelaces. Often, you see a pair of eyes blink at you from behind the potato chip rack. I recognize these emerald eyes from the deli, right around the corner.

  What these eyes are saying to me is: Open your window, and le
t
me spring in.

  There is a knock on the bathroom door.

  When I don't answer right away, Mom turns the handle. Her face melts in relief. She's happy to see me on my feet and in Dad's robe. She thinks I did my time in the tub and felt well enough to get out and get dressed. Slipping the digital thermometer under my tongue, she steers me to sit down. She sweeps my clothes into a messy bunch under one arm and drains the water by pulling the plug. She's out and back from the hamper before the thermometer beeps. She reads it. More relief.

  "Ninety-nine point nine. This must one of those twenty-fourhour bugs. Twelve hours maybe. Thank God for small miracles."

In bed, I'm too hot to get entirely under the covers. I start with one leg out and then stick both legs out so I'm wearing a loincloth. Then, I'm on top of the duvet. I push and pull at it with my feet and hands until I've made a feathery nest. I'm not interested in my pillow. I kick it off my top bunk onto the floor.

  "Stop squirming!" Octavia scoots out from her bottom bunk. She picks up the pillow and swings it military, soap-in-asock style across my side.

  "Oof! Quit it! Leave me alone."

  "Leave me alone," Octavia says. "You're like a wrestler up there. How many body-slams does it take for you to go to sleep?"

  "Girls…"

  My dad's voice is right outside our closed bedroom door. He's in the kitchen, and we're getting too loud. Riled up is what he calls it. We have to calm down. It's a school night. There is nothing my parents value more than a good night's sleep.
Girls…
used to be followed by don't make me come in there, but in all these years, he's never come in.

  My folks dread a rebellious phase, but they should know that such a phase will never come. When you've lived the lives Octavia and I lived before we were adopted, you've been punished enough. Nowadays, you do what you're told. You are grateful for parents who love you (or even tough-love you). You are grateful for corny TV shows, for a roof over your head, and beds—even if those beds are bunk beds and y'all are sixteen.

  My sister whispers, "Go to sleep, and cover your face with your pillow. I've got a debate against Nightingale tomorrow, and I am not catching your germs."

  "I'm not sick."

  "Okay, Britney, then you are delusional."

  "Am not."

  "You have a fever."

  "Do not! I'm just warm. Like I've got a mohair sweater on and can't take it off."

  Octavia says, "Thanks so much for the gory details. The flu is all I need tomorrow when I argue whether Harry Potter is a threat to Christianity."

  "You're not going to catch anything! There's nothing to catch."

  "How do you know?"

  "I don't know. I just know. It's like a lisp. You can't catch a lisp."