Untethered (27 page)

I’m such an idiot.

Bryce searches through the pile of mini candy bars on the table and turns to Cassie. “Hey, Cass? Got something sweet to give my man Phillips? Your Mounds, maybe? That’d give his Almonds some Joy—”

Ashley whaps him on the head. “Don’t be a douche, Bryce,” she says, but she’s giggling pretty hard. “Besides, Kevin’s appendage isn’t gonna fall off from lack of use.”

“That’s only ‘cuz he’s got his hand,” Bryce says and the whole tables explodes in laughter with him. Only Cassie and I are completely silent.

Cassie stands up. Bryce says quickly, “It’s a joke, Cassie. No hard feelings, eh?”

Part of me wants to curl up in embarrassment and part of me wants to wipe his face across the cafeteria floor. But I’m Kevin. He wouldn’t curl up, for sure, but he probably wouldn’t hit Bryce, either. So I lean across the table and hiss, “What’s your problem?”

The bell rings and we all get up. “Lighten up, both of you. I was kidding,” Bryce says, eyeing me. “One more day, dude. See you at practice.”

I make my way to Art. Cassie follows me out of the cafeteria and downstairs.

I don’t want to talk to her. I know what she’s going to ask, and I don’t want to tell her that Kevin wasn’t the good guy we thought he was. I don’t want to have to see the hurt in those green eyes. “You’re going to be late to class,” I say to her as we enter the basement corridor. It’s dimmer here than upstairs. Half of the fluorescent lights are burnt out.

“What was that about with Bryce?”

“I don’t know.” The lights in the hallway flicker as I say it. My whole body tingles.
Fluorescent lights flicker all the time, Sylvie,
I tell myself.
Keep your cool.

“He’s acting like an ass.” Cassie crosses her arms. “I’m glad Kevin’s not like him.”

In the corridor, it’s just me, Cassie and ... I turn around. No one else is there, yet I have the feeling we’re not alone. Panic seeps into my gut.

“Yeah,” I say. “But he’s not perfect, either.”

Cassie looks like she wants to ask me more, but the warning bell rings. She takes off up the stairs.

“Kevin
is
an ass,” I croak out to the empty hallway.

Something as airy and light as a breath brushes my cheek. I rub it briskly and whip around, but no one’s there.

“Boo!”
comes from absolutely nowhere.

The lights flicker and hum once more, and I run as fast as I can to Mrs. Stilke’s room.

I spot Nelson in the parking lot as I’m heading out of school. He’s at his yellow Nova, a car that’s twice as old as I am. I sprint over to him, and poke him in the shoulder as he turns his key in the doorlock. “Hi, Nelson!”

His eyes get really wide and he glides a step further away from me. “Kevin ...”

Looking at him, I feel a dizzying warmth, and all I can think is
Did you really like me when I was me?
I think of how softly he kissed me. Of the heat of his hands on my hips
.
But I don’t think I can tell him who I am right away. And I’m supposed to be a guy. So I try some male-talk: “Nice car you got there.”

“It’s a piece of crap. The floor board on the passenger side is completely rusted out, the gas gage is broken and the window won’t roll down.”

“But it runs.”

Nelson crosses his arms. “What do you want, Kevin?”

I spit it out. “Are you seeing Melissa Scott?”

Nelson pulls open the driver’s door. It squeaks loudly. “Why? You interested in her?”

“No, no, it’s just ...” That’s when it hits me. That’s when I realize I know nothing about Nelson. We laugh and joke in class, yeah. And I share all sorts of things about my life with him. But I don’t really ever ask him anything.

I suddenly want to ask him everything. I suddenly want to know every little detail about who he is. Like what kind of music he plays on his guitar. Or if he likes dogs. Or even why he decided to dye his hair blue in the first place. “I don’t know anything about you,” I say.

Nelson freezes, his hands gripping the top of the car door. His face turns bright red. “Yeah, well. That’s okay, Kevin. You can’t know everyone.”

“Do you like Sylvie Sydell?”

He turns on his heel and gets into the driver’s seat.

But before he can shut the door, I grab it. “I’m only saying that because I know she could use a friend right now. That’s all.”
And a freakin’ lobotomy.

Nelson’s brings his black lacquered fingertips to his temples. “She’s not even conscious.”

“So, you don’t want to be her friend? Or more?”

He looks at me, his mouth twisting downward. “Yeah. I, do. I’ve always wanted that.” He takes a deep breath. “Now, leave me alone.”

I nod, but as he takes off I whisper, “No way.”

The ICU might as well be Fort Knox for how hard it is to get in. And when I do finally get in, I reach the room where my body is only to see my parents standing outside the door, looking weary.

So I can’t get in the room, but I stretch out on a hard love seat in the waiting area. A couple is there, holding hands and watching CNN. I do my best to ignore them and try to relax.

Maybe if I’m close to my body, I’ll be able to project. I try my best for a good hour.

Nothing happens. It’s like my essence is suddenly super-glued inside. For all my effort, I don’t even feel the slightest twitch towards freedom.

I walk back towards my room, fear trickling through me at the sight of all the patients in their beds. Here there are more machines, more tubes, more drips than I’ve even seen before. In fact, it’s hard to see the actual people underneath it all.

I stop outside the room with my name on it, taking deep breaths to calm me down.
In, out, in, out.
Then I push the door open a crack.

My parents are still there. They’re blocking the view of my body, but I can make out a myriad of machines around the bed. I hesitate, not sure if I should try convincing them I’m not some idiot guy here to make jokes about their daughter, or if I should just leave and come back later.

Before I make up my mind, my mom puts her hands to her head and says to my dad, “Not pneumonia, Michael.”

Dad’s voice is strong and somewhat angry. “The doctors know what they’re doing.”

Mom lets out a strangled laugh. “They don’t know anything. They haven’t been able to figure out anything yet. Not one damn thing.” She sits down in the only chair in the tiny room crowded with medical equipment.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn around to see familiar set of hairy nostrils. Dr.Hong. “Visiting hours are over.”

“What are you doing here? You don’t work in the hospital.”

He doesn’t seem overly surprised at my familiar tone. “Neither do you. I, however, have the right to check up on a patient.” He glances into the room and his voice goes soft, like he’s talking to himself. “Someone I hope I haven’t failed.”

He puts a hand on the door but I stop him. “Wait! Pneumonia? Is that ... is that a bad thing?”

Dr. Hong narrows his eyes at me from behind his glasses. Then he sighs. “It’s not good. But Sylvie’s a spunky one. A fighter. If she finds the strength to fight this infection, all will be okay.”

He goes into the room, shaking hands with my mom and dad. The door shuts behind him and I stand there, letting his words echo in my ears.

But how can I fight it when I’m not even in my body?

Thirty-Two

Testosterone Trouble

Back at Kevin’s house, I check the internet on pneumonia. Apparently, it’s one of the major causes of death in comatose people. Great. Just great. Even without me in it, my body’s managing to screw things up. And if I can’t get in there and fight the pneumonia, things will be more than screwed up. They’ll be over. I was already worried about how much time I had. Now I’m freaking.

If my body dies what happens to me? To Kevin?

I slam shut Kevin’s laptop and knock a half-eaten box of cookies off the desk at the same time.

This place is disgusting. I can’t even think in this kind of mess. Not to mention something reeks like death in here.

I go downstairs to the kitchen and search for the garbage bags. Amanda is on the couch, feeding David. I can feel her eyes follow me as I open and close cupboards.

“What are you looking for?” Her voice is suspicious. Like she thinks I’m up to something bad.

But I find the bags under the sink. “Got ‘em. Garbage bags.”

“For what?”

“Cleaning Kev ... my room.” I run upstairs, but not before I see her mouth gaping open.

I chuck the dirty clothes in the laundry, the food wrappers and peels and empty cans in the garbage bag. I line Kevin’s shoes up in his closet and pile his books next to his bed.

And then I pick up the notebook. The one I found when I came into his body. I open it and page through, stopping at a random page:

I kissed her today. Then Bryce and Ashley came out by the pool and we got distracted. But all the AP is working. I know her like the back of my hand. One remark about parents not paying attention and I’ve got her. It’s easier than I thought to —

I stop reading because it makes me feel sick.

I need to get out of him. I throw the notebook into his backpack and bring the garbage bags downstairs. Kevin’s dad and step-mom are watching the 10:00 news.

I go back upstairs and pace the carpet. Kevin’s phone buzzes. It’s a message. The number comes up only as UNKNOWN:

“rd sum mr”

What’s that supposed to mean? Red summer? And who’s it from? I put the phone back in my pocket, annoyed.

Think.
How am I going to get out of him? I remember the discussion in the chat room and how KEV told me to tell the truth. Fine. I’m willing to try anything. Besides, I’ve got to talk to someone. I need to get out of this hellhole and see a friend. And I need to tell Cassie the truth. I text her: “
30 min. Your bckyrd
.” Two minutes later she responds: “
OK”

I’ve heard Kevin talk about sneaking out his window. So I lock the bedroom door, put on a jacket and lift the window screen. The family room adds a slanted bit of roof outside. Just enough to climb out onto. I scoot down the shingles and take a big breath. The jump isn’t that far, but it scares me. I land on my feet in the grass, a thud of pain reverberating up from my soles.

It takes me twenty minutes to walk to Cassie’s. I pass my own house, my insides a jellied mess when I see the place is completely dark and the car’s gone.

I walk down my driveway with a hole in my gut and squeeze through the hedge, the branches clutching at my jacket. In Cassie’s yard, the grass is damp and colorless in the dark. Like a rectangle of muck. I sit in a hot pink plastic patio chair instead of on the lawn.

Cassie huffs out the back door, slamming it, and plops down into the chair next to mine. From the glow of light coming though the kitchen windows, I can see her eyes are puffy. She has a can of beer in her hand, and she pops it open with a loud fizz.

“What’re you doing?” I say.

“What it looks like: having a beer.” She points to her house with her chin. “They can get drunk all the time. Why can’t I?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not stupid.”

“Cassie,” I take a breath. “Drinking isn’t going to make your parents notice you.”

She stiffens and puts both hands over her mouth. Then she moans and starts to sob, tears coming down her cheeks faster than rain.

All of a sudden, it’s like there’s a ten-ton machine crushing my chest. “I’m sorry, Cass. I didn’t want to hurt you, I just—”

But she cuts me off, her voice choked between sobs. “My mom got fired. I thought she was bad, but I didn’t know it all. She even drank at work.”

“Oh, no.”

“And now we’ll need a little money to tide us over, she says. So they sold my car. I mean, I get home from school and they sell it. Gone. They didn’t even warn me.” She shakes her head and wrinkles up her face until she looks like a raisin. “I don’t care about the car. Really. But some of my butterflies are missing. The most expensive ones ... You know, it would be nice to have parents who might actually worry about my feelings. Or worry about me. They’re in there right now drinking and swearing and blubbering together – like that’s not what got them into this mess. They pat my head, tell me to be a good girl and then I’m dismissed. They don’t even notice me, really. It’s like
I’m
a butterfly in a frame, you know? Just decoration.”

A few days ago I would have argued with her, told her that she was nothing like a mounted butterfly. That her parents let her free to fly when and however she wanted. That if anyone was stuck behind glass, it was me with my parents constantly looking over my shoulder. But tonight I understand. I understand that her parents coo over her and dust her off every once in a while, but in general, she’s that work of art on the wall no one sees anymore. Her parents are too into each other and too into booze to remember her sometimes.

I’ve always told myself that Cassie’s life is better than mine. But Cassie’s parents are inside doing God-knows-what when she’s out here in need of a hug, while my parents have practically given up their lives to camp out by my side.

I lean over and pull Cassie to me, hugging her hard. She’s bawling, taking deep, trembling breaths every couple of seconds. Her hair is smooth on my cheek and her shoulders shudder against my own each time she inhales. Somewhere in the depths of this body, there’s a pull ... a fierce desire to run my lips down the length of her cheek and to her mouth. Like I won’t be at peace until I do. It’s the same feeling I usually get when I’m in front of an empty sketchpad. Like if I don’t touch it, I’ll go nuts.

Damn Kevin’s body.  Like this isn’t already awkward enough.

With effort, I smooth down her hair and breathe in the scent of her. Desire is replaced by familiarity. She smells like chocolate and Aviance Night Musk. She smells like Cassie. She smells like the girl who, despite it all, has always been my best friend.

She pulls back stiffly, wipes her face with her hands and looks at me. “It’s strange giving you a hug when you’re him.”