Ghosting (17 page)

There was a story

printed in the Chicago paper

saying that,

back when he was in middle school,

Walter Smith

had

stabbed

a teacher

in the neck

with a pencil.

That’s when his grandmother

pulled him out of school

and started

homeschooling him.

But it turned out to be

another kid entirely,

a kid whose name wasn’t even

Walter,

and who went to a

different

middle school.

I found myself

feeling disappointed,

wishing it were true.

Because then I could see

Walter Smith

as a

neck-stabbing monster,

not the pathetic boy

in too-big glasses

who couldn’t stop

crying.

Like me.

Thursday, October 7

ANIL

1.
I visit Felix sometimes

at the hospital,

just sit by his bed,

listen to the machines

that keep him alive.

I even talk to him,

though at first it felt awkward.

But research shows that people in a coma

really do hear what you’re saying.

Once I talked to him about Maxie.

How even though I hadn’t met her

until that night,

I miss her in this bottomless way,

as if I had known her

my whole life.

And then one afternoon

when I get to Felix’s room

Maxie is sitting by his bed,

reading him a book.

I watch her face,

her lips moving.

And suddenly,

it’s like I’ve turned into

a slab of granite,

completely unable to move

or speak.

I’m reminded of what my mother

once told me about snake charmers in India,

with those cobras in a basket,

who seem to be hypnotized

by the music of the flute.

But it turns out that cobras,

all snakes in fact,

are mostly deaf.

The only way they can hear is through vibrations

in their jawbones

and flute playing doesn’t send out

a ton of vibrations.

So scientists figured out that it wasn’t the music

that hypnotizes them,

but the movement of the charmer’s body.

Just like it’s the movement of Maxie’s lips

that has me transfixed.

My mother also told me that,

for obvious reasons,

snake charmers will often either

defang their snakes

or sew their mouths shut,

leaving only enough room for the tongue

to slide in and out.

Hi, Maxie,
I say softly, finally able to move my own tongue.

Her head jerks around

and she almost drops the book.

But like at school,

she won’t even

look at me.

I have to go,
she says to Felix, knowing I’m the only one who can hear her.

2.
Maxie hurries out of the room,

eyes down.

I watch her go,

helpless as a snake with its

mouth sewn shut.

Saturday, October 9

MAXIE

One Saturday night

Emma ambushes me.

She shows up at my door

on crutches,

carrying a stack

of DVDs

and popcorn.

Before I can react

she is on my couch,

TV remote in

her hand.

Come on in,
I say, still standing by the front door.

Yeah, well, thing is, Maxie,
Emma says,
I hear you’re like a total recluse. And me, I’m sick of my friends being so fake nice all the time. And I know all they want to do is get back to normal, go out, and get drunk on a Saturday night. So I thought maybe you and I could hang out.

I look at her, my arms crossed

over my chest.

We don’t have to talk,
Emma says.

Okay,
I say, and sit beside her on the couch.
What’d you bring?

So we settle back,

eat popcorn,

and watch a movie

about time travel.

We don’t talk.

It isn’t until the movie’s over

and she’s getting ready to go,

that I blurt out,

Have you seen Brendan?

She doesn’t speak,

just stands there

leaning on

her crutches.

The silence hangs

between us.

No,
she says finally.

Do you know anything, how he is?

No,
she says again, her voice flat.
And yes, I’ve heard the rumors, too, that he’s brain dead in some Chicago hospital.

Her eyes suddenly fill

with tears.

I start to go to her,

to hug her,

but she puts up a hand

to hold me away.

I’m fine,
she says.

But she isn’t.

And how could she be?

Whatever’s happened to Brendan

happened because he was

trying to

save her life.

Monday, October 11

CHLOE

“Spirit Week”

Before ghosting I loved Spirit Week,

the whole gung-ho, rah rah,

support-your-school thing.

Coming up with silly, over-the-top outfits

while still trying to look cute.

But when I get the schedule

for this year’s Spirit Week

I feel sick to my stomach.

MONDAY—Tie-dye

TUESDAY—Rock band/Concert T-shirts

WEDNESDAY—Patriotic

THURSDAY—School Pride (scarlet and yellow)

FRIDAY—yellow ribbons to honor shooting victims

I mean that’s great,

everyone showing their sympathy and support,

but what good are a bunch of cheap little yellow ribbons

going to do for

Faith,

Emma,

Felix,

and

Brendan?

Friday, October 15

MAXIE

Poor Rita Bell.

Rita,

cheerleading captain,

vice president of student council,

queen of community service,

not to mention

friendly green eyes,

tumbling black curls,

wide smile,

whitest teeth.

In a normal year,

a year with

no ghosting,

no Walter Smith,

Rita would’ve been

a shoo-in for

Homecoming Queen.

Sure, Emma and Chloe

would’ve come close,

but no more than second and third,

probably in that order.

But because of

that night,

poor Rita

comes in a distant third.

Even though Emma

told everyone
not
to

vote for her

since she wouldn’t even

be in town for Homecoming,

a third surgery,

in Boston this time,

she comes in

second anyway.

It’s Chloe

who is crowned

Homecoming Queen.

By a landslide.

And she looks luminous,

a simple white dress,

her honey-colored hair

hanging loose,

her face pale,

standing beside

the Homecoming King.

Brendan.

In his wheelchair.

BRENDAN

Homecoming King.

What a fucking joke.

I wave to all the faceless,

clueless people in the stands.

Then my eyes light on Bobby,

sitting in the front row, between our parents.

He’s got this huge smile, beaming like I’m

some kind of hero. And that’s what I am, right?

The guy who stepped between Emma

and a bullet. Except for one thing.

I’m
also
the asshole who fired off Daddy’s gun

and got us shot, maimed, almost killed.

But hell, in this country

we like our messed-up heroes.

So here I sit in my wheelchair,

Homecoming King.

Got my khakis, button-down shirt,

red tie, hair neatly combed.

Right smack dab in the middle of the field

I used to play lacrosse on.

But it doesn’t matter,

none of it fucking matters.

Then Chloe leans down

and whispers soft in my ear.

This sucks, doesn’t it?

I look up at her in surprise.

Yes,
I say.
It sucks.

EMMA

If someone takes a bullet for you,

saves your life,

what do you owe them?

Everything?

Or the truth?

BRENDAN

I’ll never forget the moment

when my dad realized.

When the last expensive doctor

spelled it out for us in black and white.

That no amount of money,

no number of pulled strings,

no browbeating or foot stomping,

yelling or bullying,

that no ramped-up brand of positive thinking

would get him a son with legs that worked.

We were sitting in the office of the best orthopedic

surgeon in the United States of America.

I am very sorry to have to tell you, Brendan, Mr. Donnelly,
Dr. Wyamussing said, looking at each of us in turn,
but there is nothing that can be done to reverse the paralysis.

My dad went all quiet.

Then the doctor’s pager beeped.

Sorry, I have to take this,
Dr. Wyamussing said, after a quick look at the pager.
Take however long you need.

I can’t say it was a big shock.

I think I knew it that first moment.

When I woke up in the hospital

and couldn’t feel my legs.

But the finality of the doctor’s words,

the cold, hard fact

that I would never walk, run,

play lacrosse, swim, ski,

that I would never do

any of the things you do with legs . . .

Well, it gave me this sick, frozen feeling

that made it hard to breathe.

Okay,
Dad says.
So now we know.

I had closed my eyes,

and was taking deep breaths.

I felt his hand on my shoulder

and opened my eyes.

His eyes were bright,

almost as if there were tears in them.

But he was also wearing this

wide, manic smile.

What do the Donnellys do with lemons, son?
he said.

I stared back at him, my entire body feeling

as if it had turned to ice.

Make fucking lemonade,
I said.

That’s my boy,
he said.

Wednesday, October 20

FAITH

It has

been

almost

two months

since

that night.

Front stoops

in the

neighborhood

are dotted

with orange

pumpkins,

and ghosts

made of white

bedsheets

hang from

tree limbs,

fluttering

in the autumn

wind.

We’ve

just

finished

dinner,

and Emma

and I have

hobbled out

to the

backyard

with Polly.

It is one

of those

mild nights

you sometimes

get in

mid-October,

and we’re

lying,

side by side,

on the

hammock,

with our

matching casts

on our

right legs.

I mean,

what are

the odds that

two sisters

would have

fractured

bones

in the

same leg?

One from

jumping out

of a car

and

the other

from

a bullet.

Turns out

Emma’s was more

complicated,

fractured in

three places.

Mine was a

cleaner break,

but the scar

on my leg

is ugly,

a great

puckered

dent in

my thigh.

They said

that I

can have

plastic surgery

later,

which will

make it look

a lot better.

Emma likes

to tease me,

calling me a

psycho nutjob

for setting out

that night

on my bike

to save

our family.

I don’t mind

her teasing.

In fact,

I call her a

psycho nutjob

right back

for jumping

out of a

speeding car.

We have this

running joke

about which

one of us

got it worse.

And tonight

on the

hammock,

we start up

again.

Okay, Polly, you decide,
Emma finally says, reaching over and rubbing Polly’s ears.

And Polly

looks from

me to Emma

as we make

our case.

I came this close to dying,
I say, holding up my thumb and forefinger with barely a sliver of space between them.
Twice.

I’m gonna need at least three more surgeries,
Emma says.

I’m gonna need one more, plus I got a cracked skull and a burr hole,
I say.

I got a concussion,
Emma says.

I’ve got four pins in my leg,
I say.

I’ve got five pins and three screws,
Emma says.

My thigh looks like one of those sinkholes in Florida,
I say,
plus I lost twenty percent of my blood.

No more soccer scholarship at Penn for me, plus I may never play soccer again,
says Emma.

I look

sideways

at her.

That’s bull,
I say,
I mean about never playing soccer again.