What Remains (6 page)

Nine

Thankfully, it's pretty easy to be distracted from your thoughts when everyone's looking at you like you've grown a second head.

Half the kids, even ones I don't know and have never really talked to before, want to ask questions. The others ignore me as if getting into a car accident and destroying your heart and your future is contagious.

Trying to get to class on my own is like running the gauntlet when all I want is for everyone to ignore me, to fade into the woodwork. I know they don't look at me as their star player anymore, but I want them to at least stop thinking of me as nothing more than transplant boy. Before I even get to my first class, I'm cornered by Assistant Principal Stiller. He's been assistant principal for a million years. I think it might have been his first job and it looks like he's going to stay in it until he dies. Every time the school starts interviewing for a new principal there are rumors that he wants the job, but he never gets it. This comes as no great surprise to anyone, it seems, aside from Assistant Principal Stiller.

“Calvin Ryan, hold up,” he calls as he runs toward me, layers of flesh bouncing in front of him.

I've only told him about a hundred times that I hate
being called Calvin. So now, along with my mom, that's
twice today, which isn't a really good way to get back into the swing of things.

“Mr. Stiller, I have Chemistry,” I say, hoping he'll remember that being in class on time is something he's made a personal crusade. “And I go by Cal,” I throw in for good measure, but he looks at me with a blank expression so I let it drop.

“I'll get right to the point, young man. We were thinking of having an assembly.” He stands there glassy-eyed as if I'm meant to know what he's talking about.

“Assembly?”

“Yes. What do you think?”

I try to remember if there's something I'm meant to be doing, some project I should have been preparing while I was in the hospital or something.

“Sorry, sir. You've lost me.”

His shoulders come up with an exaggerated sigh that hauls his too-small shirt up to expose a ribbon of flesh that burns my corneas. I pull my damaged eyes up to his face, which isn't that much better because he's looking at me like I'm an idiot and he's just going to have to resign himself to explaining what he means.

“We want to have an assembly.” He even slows his words and gets louder as if, perhaps, I've gone deaf. “You know, about you and your … ” He does that thing with his hands that people do when they don't know the word for something. It looks like he's mixing cake batter and pointing at my chest at the same time.

“Transplant?” I offer.

“Right. That.”

He stands there waiting for an answer he isn't going to like. The very last thing in the universe I want is to have a full-school assembly on anything having to do with me. The last time I stood on that stage was when the varsity teams were introduced. I'm not going up there as a loser now.

“You know, I'm not really sure that's necessary, sir.” I try to figure out what I could tell him that would guarantee that an assembly won't happen. “In fact, I don't think I'm meant to be in a room with that many people yet.” He looks puzzled. “Germs. And, I mean, if I got sick … I'm not sure the school is insured for that. But did you want to check and let me know?”

I'm being a smart-ass and if it was anyone besides Stiller, they'd see right through my act. But he scrunches his face up and shakes his head just as the bell rings, so I give him a smile and duck around the corner.

Thanks to Spencer's notes and the study sheets the teachers sent home, I'm not as far behind in my morning classes as I would have guessed. But still I'm relieved to survive long enough to make it to lunch, even though I had to get to the lunchroom the long way so that I could avoid walking by Lizzie's locker. I wasn't ready to see that yet.

The smell of pizza wafts through the air and my stomach grumbles as I look at the plate of salad with grilled chicken in front of me.

Given the weather, I might normally be running laps or throwing a ball around with some of the guys, anticipating the start of our season. But according to the doctor-approved schedule on my bedroom wall, I'm a week away from even doing something as simple as running laps. So, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I'm eating lunch alone, stuck in here hanging out with salad while Spencer is off at an emergency session to re-harmonize or something.

I have the new
Sports Illustrated
to read through while I try to pretend that I'm eating food with flavor, but even that isn't holding my attention enough to keep me from hearing my name being mentioned followed by a bunch of hand-slapping and wisecracks.

Justin Dillard is sitting at a table by the window with a bunch of no-necks from the wrestling team. I'd be more than happy to ignore them if they weren't being so obvious about high-fiving and pointing at me.

Finally I've had enough of both the salad and being the subject of their conversation, so I roll my magazine up and head over.

“Let's hear it, Dillard. You obviously have something to say to me.” I lean towards him with both palms on the table. He gives me a look that would curdle milk. It's an old game between us.

“Yeah, we were just over here wondering … ” He lifts his eyebrow, waiting to see if I'm going to take the bait.

I could walk away, but I really want this over with. I can't imagine what he's going to hit me with—questions about the accident? My hospital stint? What?

“Wondering what?” I ask, trying to sound bored. I
shift so that I'm leaning on one leg as if I'm really on my
way to someplace else.

“You know. If the rumors are true about you and her.”

If there are rumors about me hooking up with some girl, then someone in my school has one hell of a sense of humor. “Why don't you try to put it into English, and I'll let you know.”

“Shame they couldn't give you a new brain while they were at it, Ryan. We were wondering if it's true that you got Lezzie's heart.” That damned nickname, the one Lizzie “earned” by not wanting to go out with him, sets my teeth on edge.

Fuck you, Justin,
says the voice in my head at the same time the words come out of my mouth.

Then I stop to try and figure out what he's talking about. “What the hell are you talking about?” I creatively spit out. My shoulders tense. A muscle pulses in my arm.

“My mom heard from Lezzie's mom that she agreed to let them take her heart and give it to you. Guess that was the only way you were ever going to get a piece of her.”

The room goes suddenly quiet. It isn't that everyone has stopped talking or clanking silverware. It's my head that's suddenly a black hole of silence and confusion.

Some part of my brain must still be working because I know that trying to explain to Dillard that I never wanted “a piece of Lizzie” is a waste of time. Still, I can't just let it go because seriously, what the hell is he talking about?

“Once again, what the hell are you talking about?” I'm in his face now. I'm really not a violent person, but I have fantasies about wiping the floor with Dillard.

“You didn't know, did you? I bet they thought not even you'd want to walk around with that weirdo's heart inside you.”

I freeze because I have no idea what else to do. My chest is aching and I don't know if I'm going to pass out or worse. I want to defend Lizzie, but this jerk means nothing and I don't want to waste the energy on him and his bullshit.

I want to punch something so badly that I'm shaking from trying to hold it in. I manage to propel myself out of the cafeteria, bashing into a few kids who are standing talking in the doorway, and fall against the brick wall of the hallway trying to catch my breath.

I lower my head and shoulders and lean with my hands on my knees, on the verge of hyperventilating.

“Cal?”

A hand touches my shoulder and I lurch up in full defense mode but it's only Coach Byrne. I'm sure he's less than happy at seeing his once star player losing his shit in the hallway.

“Cal, are you okay?” he asks, all concerned. “Do you need to sit down?”

There was a time, back when I was on the team, that I would have told him everything. But now I'm nothing. I can't play varsity for him this year. I'll probably never really be able to play baseball again. Plus, Coach is going to have to start Justin Dillard at short and the thought alone would make me sick even if it wasn't going to cost the team games. I don't want to make it worse by wasting Coach's time.

I shake my head and force myself to smile and nod at the questions he asks that don't quite register in my brain. I guess I get it right because eventually he leaves. But all I hear in my head are Dillard's words over and over.

Lizzie's heart. Beating inside me. I can almost feel it now. Her. What's left of her. Pushing blood through my body. However much I want to dismiss it, I can't. I know it's true. There's no doubt in my mind and it makes more sense than anything I've heard in a while. I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

But the question is why didn't someone tell me? Anyone. I wonder if Spencer knew. Would he keep something like this from me? Ten minutes ago I would have said that I'd trust Spencer Yeats with my life. But now I don't know.

And what about Mom and Dad? Can I not even trust my own parents?

I glance down the hall to make sure Coach Byrne is gone and make my way to the auditorium. I'm so shaky I have to reach out one hand to steady myself against the wall.

Music seeps out from under the door. It pisses me off that anyone can sing these happy, stupid songs right now. Don't they know how wrong that is with Lizzie gone?

I pull the heavy door open and stand along the back wall, scanning the stage for Spencer. My arms are knotted over the chest that now contains what little is left of Lizzie. I want to hold her in, and at the same time I want to rip my chest open and pull her beating heart out of me. The urge scares me, so I force myself to place each hand behind me on the wall. My nails try to pierce the brick with no luck. But the trying feels good. Unlike me, this wall will not break and I need something that's going to fight back.

I stand there like that, my breath coming in fast, panicked gasps until I see Spencer pull Mr. Brooks aside and bend his head toward me. Mr. Brooks looks at me briefly and then back to Spencer and nods.

Spencer does a slow jog down the aisle and a hundred thousand emotions run through me. He usually makes me feel happy and calm, like I know where I'm meant to be. But my rage at Dillard is still churning and the thought that my best friend would keep something like this from me joins it, making me angrier than I can ever remember being.

Spencer sidles up to me, oblivious to the surging crest of fury that's sitting in my throat and threatening to choke me. Except that he has to know something is up or I wouldn't be here interrupting his rehearsal.

He grabs my arm and looks into my eyes with that sincere, caring expression that is all Spencer, and I just want to fall apart. He isn't upset that I'm here, interrupting his rehearsal. He doesn't look put out or even like someone worried that I've figured out what he's been hiding.

“Are you okay? You look pale,” is all he says.

I want to slide down the wall and cry, but I can imagine how that would look; baseball star turned Frankenstein losing his shit in the auditorium.

I must look as bad as I feel because Spencer pulls me back out into the hallway. Kids and teachers are milling around and running back and forth trying to make the most of their lunch hours. They're totally oblivious to us. So I sit down on the hard floor outside the auditorium door.

Spencer sits down next to me, giving me time to catch my breath and figure out how to accuse him of this horrible thing, but I need to get the words out of me as fast as I can. I can't stand being kept in the dark like this.

“Is it true? Did you know?”

“Know what?” he asks, but I can hear the admission in his voice. I don't even have to answer his question. He knows what it would take to make me this upset. I just stare until he closes his eyes.

“Cal … ”

“Don't fucking ‘Cal' me. Why didn't you say something?” My voice is loud enough to get the attention of a few kids who turn to look at us and then go back to their own conversations and keep walking.

“The doctor, your parents, they said … ” Spencer lists the people who swore him to secrecy and then stops. “Who told you?”

“Justin Dillard.”

“Right,” Spencer says, and sighs. Suddenly the entire thing is clear for him. “Right. His mom runs the bar that Lizzie's mom drinks at. I always forget that. I'm sorry, Cal. I'm really sorry. I wanted to be the one to tell you, but your parents and the doctors really came down on me for spilling about the accident. I was afraid if I said anything they wouldn't even let me anywhere near you.”

It's not Spence's fault,
the voice in my head insists. Lizzie's voice, I know that now. And I think I've known it all along.
Don't you think this has been hard on him?

The small part of my brain that can handle being
rational thinks about it and realizes that she's right. It isn't his fault. I'm sure he was pressured into keeping the truth from me. I try to exhale all of the anger at Spencer that I can. He isn't the right person to take this out on.

“Yeah, I get it. Man, it's so screwed up. This whole thing is so screwed up. Yeats, she's inside me. I can feel her sometimes. I've been having these dreams and I swear that they aren't even mine.” As I admit that, I realize that I want to tell him about hearing Lizzie's voice, too. But I'm already afraid to see Spencer's expression, worried that he'll think I'm crazy. That he'll call my parents, or the doctor, or some therapist that Dr. Collins suggested I talk to. But it's Spencer, so all he does is scoot over slightly closer to me so that I know he's still on my side.