Girl Minus X

by Anne Stone

  Forty minutes later, the driver pulls out of the elementary school parking lot. In the back seat, Mac is prying open one of the small white boxes. Soon, Mac’s popped two chicken balls into her mouth. With one in each cheek, the kid looks like a hamster.

  “Look at the box,” Dany says. “It’s got a really smart design.”

  She reaches for the box, but the kid sees the gist of it. Dumping the chicken balls in her lap, Mac traces the lines with her finger, then pushes and pulls. A moment later, the box is completely flat.

  “But can you make a rabbit appear?” asks Eva.

  “Or how about a box to, I don’t know, hold chicken balls?” Dany asks.

  The kid works the pieces back into place, and a beat later Eva is tossing balls of chicken in the air. Dany, horrified, grabs the box to catch them.

  Even Mac is laughing – silently, yes, but the grin is on her face, and little breaths of laughter escape from her mouth.

  “I owe you for the food,” Dany tells her friend, seriously.

  “No,” Eva says. “No you don’t, dummy. It’s an early half-­birthday present, ’kay. I’ll still make you a cake and everything.”

  Dany stops. “Wait, what’s the date?”

  “I don’t know, math genius, what’s the day before the day you were born, give or take six months?”

  “Half birthday,” Dany repeats. “That’s a thing?”

  “Yes, that’s a thing, DJ. A definite thing.”

  “Quarter birthdays?”

  “No. Not a thing. Err, not yet.” Eva smiles, cocks her head, and lifts an eyebrow.

  The driver pulls up outside of Bea’s house, next to the squat apartment building Dany and Mac call home. Liz has parked herself on Bea’s front stoop, and there are textbooks spread out all around her, four of them open at once. When the car pulls up, Liz yanks off her hoodie and glares.

  Definitely pissed.

  Her expression cheers up a bit, though, when the driver emerges from the car, just behind Dany, toting a half a dozen boxes of Chinese food.

  “I think you just saved my life,” Dany says.

  “It’s pretty much a full-time job,” Eva says and laughs. “Look, I’ll get up early for class tomorrow.” Eva is always late for first period, when she doesn’t skip it entirely. “I want to be front row centre for the Danielle-Jean show!”

  “You won’t miss anything if you sleep in,” Dany says. “I promise.” She draws an X across her chest.

  “Call me later,” Eva says and hops back into the car. “We need to talk.”

  Dany nods at her friend’s back. They do, they really do. About a lot of things. But as the car pulls away, it hits her. She won’t call Eva. Because she can’t. With her aunt gone, they’ve cut off the stupid phone.

  Bea’s house is filled with light. Even in April, Bea’s Christmas lights are up. Her latest find is a string of vintage chilli peppers, glowing softly red, up there in the maze of twinkle lights that hang from her living room ceiling like an irradiated spider’s web.

  Today, Mac has squeezed herself halfway behind the huge cabinet radio, to see its inner workings. Bea is describing all the old radio shows she’s heard on that thing, while Mac’s eyes trace arcane routes through tubes and wires. The radio hums out old acoustic blues and ancient tube lights glow orange.

  At Bea’s, there’s so much light, it’s overwhelming.

  You have to be pretty lonely, Dany figures, to need so much light and sound. Bea leaves Mac where she is and slips over to the liquor cabinet. She does that every now and again, sneaking little sips. “A bit of sparkle never hurt anyone,” Bea says, with a wink Mac’s way. “A little nip helps the lights shine.”

  Mac doesn’t so much as notice. But Liz side-eyes Bea. Lifting her hand to her mouth, Liz ­­Greene pretends to guzzle from her thumb.

  Dany shakes her head at Liz. But Bea, at least, doesn’t seem to care. Finally, when the lights are bright enough for her, Bea slips the unlabelled bottle back into the cabinet.

  “You sure you don’t care if we study here?” Dany asks the old woman. “Are we in the way?”

  “You’re getting in it now.” The frown on Bea’s face edges into a tight smile. “Look, I promised Mac a game of Scrabble.”

  “If it’s okay?” Dany asks.

  “If it’s okay,” Bea repeats, shaking her head. But with Bea, love comes with sharp edges. Bea gives Dany a look and then sets the Scrabble board on the coffee table, and Mac settles in beside her on the couch. Dany takes the two of them in and knows, no, they aren’t going anywhere. Not for a good while.

  At the kitchen table, Liz is thumbing through one of Dany’s books on the plague. Every few minutes she mutters or shakes her head. Finally, with an Eeyore sigh, Liz sticks a yellow Post-it Note on a woodcut picture of a plague doctor. “I guess this is the best we can do,” she says, eyeing the image. “It’d be better if we had real plague masks for the class, like crow doctors. Creepy as fu-fu-fudge?” Liz finds the word just in time.

  Looking at Liz’s face, Dany can’t help it – she snorts. Little bits of fried rice fly out of her mouth and dot the pages of her plague book. Dany plucks up a soggy pea, a few stray grains of rice, pops them back into the spent box.

  “But seriously,” Liz says quietly, leaning forward. “I’d like to have seen London back then. The bubonic plague, now that was a real plague. Not like this virus.” She says the word derisively. “Back then, they would’ve had total anarchy. You know, you could riot and loot. Smash the system. Smash the vending machines.”

  “In 1665,” Dany says dryly, and shakes her head. “We’re probably looking at the end of the world right now, and you want free Doritos.”

  Liz shrugs her off, eyes on the crow doctor. Her expression is intense. It’s almost as if Liz is waiting for him to come to life, hand her a sledgehammer.

  “Where are we gonna get twenty crow masks, anyway?” Dany asks, ignoring the rest.

  “We could make them,” Liz says.

  “I’ve got a box of N95 respirators at home. Field models. You know, the disposable ones.”

  Liz raises an eyebrow and searches Dany’s face. “Of course you do,” she says, deadpan. Liz shakes her head and, once more, silently communes with the plague doctor.

  Dany frowns and picks the last grain of rice out of her copy of Shrewsbury. She reaches for the fried rice container, but Liz is faster. “You need to show a little more respect for your elders,” Liz tells her, holding the container just out of Dany’s reach.

  Liz has all of eleven months on Dany, but she’s been holding it over her forever. Well, since kindergarten, when Dany was five and Liz six. Only three kids from their elementary had made it into the micro-school, and until Eva, Liz had been pretty much her only friend there.

  As Liz wipes the last traces of salt and soy from the box with her finger, she keeps up a steady stream about old-school apocalypses and their shiny silver linings.

  An hour later, the presentation talk roughed in, Dany sits back. Her belly is still bulging – a strange feeling. She doesn’t remember the last time she felt … full. Dany is always hungry. Always. Most days, a small monster lives in Dany’s belly, one that is all gaping maw and jagged teeth. But tonight, thanks to Eva, they’ve eaten enough for ten. The little monster in her belly has been neatly anaesthetized.

  Bea and Mac are still at their Scrabble game, sitting at the coffee table – and for a little while, Dany watches them. But Mac still hasn’t got the gist of the game. Bea sounds out a word, and sets her tiles on the tray. But then Mac leans in, plucks up a couple of tiles and undoes Bea’s word. When Bea spells out mom, Mac takes away one of the m’s, leaving mo on the board. And when she sets out the letters for Bea, Mac removes the final a.

  But Beatrice doesn’t get mad. She just goes along with Mac, sounding out the new syllables as Mac a
rranges them on the board.

  Dany can’t help it. She feels a pang of shame.

  Sometimes, Bea is too much. Too nice. People can be too nice, so you kind of feel ashamed. She doesn’t mind when Bea is cutting. Because when she’s soft, that hurts more. “Mac,” Dany calls out. “Will you just try for once?”

  But Mac ignores her.

  The kid is completely focused on the board. Only she isn’t laying out words so much as random letters. Like bh and be, mo and ta. Still, some of the time the kid pairs a consonant and a vowel, and that is kind of like language. Well, it’s sound. So maybe Mac is learning after all.

  “Earth to Dany,” Liz says.

  Dany frowns at the dark hoodie that shadows Liz’s face.

  “So, where are we?” Dany asks her friend.

  “The Orion arm of the Milky Way,” Liz reminds her. “Virgo Supercluster. Circling a sphere of hot plasma. On the verge of a global extinction event.”

  This Dany knows. “Earth,” she answers.

  “Glad to have you back.” Liz gives her a cockeyed gri­mace – her idea of a smile. In the seven years she’s known Liz, Dany has never seen her in such a good mood. Liz probably lives with a monster in her belly, too. Sometimes, towards the end of the month, when things get bad for Liz too, she sticks around after lunch and together they forage from abandoned cafeteria trays. She and Liz never talk about what they’re doing. They just clear tables and stack trays and talk philosophy or whatever. Like it’s nothing at all to be discussing the arbitrary axioms Immanuel Kant uses in his ethical system while chewing on somebody’s abandoned pizza crust.

  “You’re happy,” Dany says.

  “Look, about tomorrow,” Liz says and frowns. “About the talking part.”

  Dany looks down at the table, struggling to put something into words.

  “I was wondering, maybe I could do the talking,” Liz says. “You could just click the pictures and let me be the mouth.”

  Dany nods, relieved.

  Liz flashes a gap-toothed smirk at Dany. “I mean, it’s only fair, since you wrote most of the stupid thing. But don’t forget the masks.”

  Dany nods. “Deal.”

  Liz supervises while Dany washes up the dinner plates. Mac is sitting at the kitchen table and, behind her, Bea attacks the tangle of Dany’s kid sister’s hair with a spiky brush. The kid dodges and ducks, but the old woman never once raises her voice.

  “Aie, aie, you win,” Bea says, setting down the brush. Bea turns hawkish eyes on Dany. “You need to condition her hair,” she snaps. “What have you been washing it with?” The old woman’s lip curls and she sniffs at a tangled lock.

  Dany can feel her face flush red.

  Eyes on the collar of Bea’s blouse, she answers: “Dish soap. We learned about it in chemistry. There’s no difference between dish soap and shampoo.” Besides, only dish soap is available at the food bank.

  “She’s not a dinner plate,” Bea snaps. “I’ll bathe her properly. Tonight, she can stay with me.” Her voice goes soft as she leans in to talk to Mac. “It’ll be a slumber party – just us girls.”

  Dany frowns. “Mac stays with me.” The words come out hard. Harder than she means them to. But Bea doesn’t look offended.

  “You can all stay,” Bea says, her tone easy.

  Dany shrugs the question over to Liz.

  But Liz shakes her head. “No, not me.”

  Bea gives Dany another sharp look. “Someone needs to properly wash and brush this child’s hair.”

  Dany sighs. There’s no arguing with Bea, not when she gets something in her head.

  The kid in the tub, half-bearded with foam, Dany leaves Bea to do her thing. Back in the living room, Liz is already into the liquor cabinet.

  “Don’t worry. The bottles aren’t marked,” Liz tells her. “I checked.”

  Dany rolls her eyes.

  Liz shrugs and takes another gulp. Wiping her mouth on her sleeve, she offers the bottle to Dany. “Want some sparkle?” Liz asks, in a fair imitation of Bea.

  Dany shakes her head.

  “Seriously, though. I think you should be careful,” Liz tells her. She screws the cap back on the bottle. “Did you see that set-up she’s got out back?”

  Of course Dany has. Every day, the old woman puts out kibble for the stray cats and water for the virals. For a moment, she imagines Jasper’s voice, reminding her that these are not walking viruses but people. Still, when Dany thinks about the stupid bowls Bea sets out each day, she can only shake her head. “She loves Mac,” Dany says finally. Because, really, that’s all that matters.

  “She’s batshit crazy,” Liz shoots back. “Mark my words, that woman is going to snap. And when she does, she’s going full-on Vesuvius. It will not be pretty.”

  For a long moment, Dany can feel Liz looking at her face, appraising her.

  Finally, Liz puts the bottle back in the liquor cabinet, easing the door to a close. “So, you going to call your aunt?” Liz asks. When she turns to Dany, her eyes narrow. “You know, ask to sleep over?”

  A knot tightens in Dany’s stomach. She’s forgotten about Norah. “Aunt Norah’s pulled overtime. She won’t miss us.”

  “I get it,” Liz says, scratching her forehead. “I mean, I get why you lie to the school and your landlord. But why lie to me? Why lie to the kid?”

  Dany looks at Liz.

  The monster is back now; only it doesn’t live in her stomach. The monster lives in her heart. The truth is, Dany hasn’t lied to the kid, not exactly. She’s taken her to the prison-hospice to see her aunt, after all. And everything she’s told both Liz and the kid about their aunt is true. Prisoner or not, her aunt does work there. Technically.

  “Look, I won’t say anything,” Liz says with a frown. Her breath is a potent mix of soy sauce, garlic and barrel whiskey. “Forget I brought it up.”

  “Mac’s little,” Dany says. “She might … say the wrong thing.”

  Liz guffaws. “The kid’s a vault.”

  “She’s just a late talker,” Dany tells her.

  “Yeah, I know, Einstein blah blah blah. The kid knows her periodic table, that’s for sure.”

  Dany narrows her eyes at her friend.

  Liz frowns and glances across the room to the Scrabble board. “Like I said,” she tells Dany, “the periodic table.”

  Dany takes in the Scrabble board – the random letters and broken syllables her kid sister spent so much time on. And for the first time, Dany sees it. The Scrabble board is the periodic table.

  Dany knows the table of elements perfectly.

  There is one, after all, tacked to the door of her bedroom. The mo isn’t a failed attempt to spell mom. It stands for ­molybdenum. The ta isn’t a child’s version of give it here. No, ta stands for titanium. In her mind, Dany flips through pictures of Scrabble boards past. The one the kid did last week, last month, last year. Six months now, the kid has been doing this for a full six months – and Dany hasn’t once put it together.

  The kid is smart. She is so goddamned smart.

  “So, where is your aunt?” Liz asks quietly, her eyes still on the board.

  “The prison-hospice,” Dany says. She’s not sure why she tells Liz the truth. Whether it’s because her friend has caught her off-guard, or whether Dany is just so grateful to be able to see the Scrabble board for what it is.

  Liz doesn’t say anything, but her expression says it all. That’s bad. Like really bad.

  “She’s not infected,” Dany tells her. “Her parole got revoked, that’s all. And they haven’t even given her a stupid hearing yet. The whole thing’s going to get tossed out by the board. So like she’s getting out. Soon. It’s all a big mistake.”

  But Liz is looking at her in that strange way again. On her face, the doubt is plain. “I should go,” Liz says, tucking her fa
ce into her hoodie.

  Dany nods, but she’s looking at the Scrabble board.

  When she looks up, the patio doors stand wide open. And her friend Liz ­Greene has been swallowed by the night.

  Another few nips at the sparkle and Bea transforms into a sea star, snoring face down on her queen-size bed.

  On the fold-out in the living room, Dany and her sister cuddle up with a book. Mac flips through the bug entries in her illustrated encyclopedia until she finds the entry for cockroaches.

  “Yeah, oh man, they had fast ones back at …” Dany doesn’t finish. She doesn’t want to talk about that place. She and her sister are here now, together. No matter what, they are going to stay that way. “Did you know cockroaches can eat glue?” she asks the kid.

  Mac’s fingers underline those very words in sequence.

  She can read – Dany is sure of it – though her teacher doesn’t seem to think it’s possible. Mac’s lips move when she reads, but no sound comes out. Still, Dany thinks that this is hopeful. If her lips move, Mac is practising. The muscles of her mouth are getting ready. At some point, the kid will simply open the faucet and the sound will pour out.

  Einstein was a late talker. Richard Feynman and Julia Robinson, both mathematical geniuses, were late talkers too. “Look here.” Dany points a little lower in the page. “They can eat soap, hair and nylons too. Pretty amazing, eh.”

  The kid looks up at her big sister. But still, she doesn’t speak. Dany is about to kiss the kid when she pictures Jasper and stops herself. Instead, she nuzzles the top of the kid’s head with her chin. Her hair smells good now, like the conditioner Bea has doused it with.

  “I love you,” she tells the kid. “Do you know how much?”

  The kid spreads her arms as wide as forever and her eyes, Mac’s eyes, are good to look into, and never hurt, and Dany looks into her kid sister’s eyes and, inside of her, the sun breaks the dark line of the horizon. Smashes that line to bits. Dazzling.

  | Chapter 0 = X + 8

  The next morning, Dany sits at the very back of the history classroom.