“Okay. Wait. You want to test the planes? Correct me if I’m wrong: That does involve forcing a fighter jet into uncontrolled spins at, like, Mach Two, and then hoping you can get them back under control before you land, right?”
I nod. “Mach Three, some of them. Depends on the model. It’s not really much crazier than strapping yourself to a bomb and flying into space.”
He laughs. “I dig your logic. Although, I feel the need to point out that there’s no danger in your equation.”
“Danger isn’t a variable in any equation—the math would never check out. It’s unquantifiable.”
This makes him smile, which makes me consider the possibility that certain kinds of dangers, especially ones involving manga-character doppelgängers, actually are quantifiable.
“What’s your favorite thing you don’t know?” I ask.
“Right now? You.”
I cover my face and groan.
“Too slick?” he says, and I can hear his smile getting bigger.
“Yes.”
“Fair enough.”
Nate should be back. I have a sneaking suspicion he’s taking twenty years to look for chips on purpose.
I stop covering my face and look up at Ben, and looking at him makes me feel like I’m back at space camp, in the tank, weightless, all the air sucked out. But also like my feet are on solid ground.
“You know what’s really crazy?” I say, because I can’t stop myself, because I want to tell this mystery in front of me about the biggest mystery of all.
He scoots closer. “Hm?”
“That all the matter and energy that formed the whole universe as we know it was once smaller than a marble. The size of an atom. Doesn’t it make your mind COMBUST imagining holding the ENTIRE universe in the palm of your hand?”
Maybe I would say more, except my eyes hit his eyes and for a second we just stare at each other.
“I’m in so much trouble,” he breathes.
I blink. “What?”
Glass shatters in the kitchen, and I’m on my feet in a nanosecond as my sister’s angry snarl cuts through the swinging door.
“Jesus Christ, Nate, get off me.”
I bolt.
Toward my sister, away from—oh god, what just happened? What is happening?
I push open the door and stare. A supernova has exploded on the kitchen floor, an eruption of waves of hair and a red dress and bourbon and shards of glass, skin and flecks of chipped black nail polish.
Nate is staring down at Nah as though she is an equation he can’t possibly work out, and maybe she is. My sister is a mystery I will never solve.
“Nah.” My voice is faraway, tinny.
I took the pills away. How is this happening?
I can’t move. I need to. I should. Mom would be on the floor already, cleaning her up, fixing this, but it’s like someone’s put weights in my shoes.
Gravity is a bitch.
She looks up at me. “I wish I were you.”
Nah lets out a laugh like the lady on the boardwalk at home who sells incense and tells everyone she’s Cleopatra reincarnated and also she knows who killed JFK and do we by any chance have some weed we can give her because she just needs a little something.
“You think you know everything, Mae, but you don’t know—you don’t know…” She breaks down, hacking sobs that echo throughout the kitchen. “People like me, like Mom—we’re never enough. That counselor at the clinic lied, she lied, because we’re not, we’re not.”
“What are you talking about?” I lean down, just outside the puddle of bourbon and miserable sister. “Nah, please. I know this is the most horrible thing, but you can’t do this, you have to stop, you have to … to find something to keep breathing for—”
“I’m not like you, Mae,” she says, her eyes so bright with fury that they look like the Helix Nebula in infrared: two bursts of green fire. Dad’s eyes. “I can’t just forget them, put my head down, and get on with all my grand plans for life—”
“Forget them?”
I shoot up and, oh, that fight-or-flight response kicks in and I want both at the same time—how dare she, and maybe she’s right, maybe I’m a terrible daughter, but Dad said, he always said I had to never give up and—
Nate pushes off the counter and gets in Nah’s face. “Not cool, cuz.”
I am being flooded with chemicals and my body responds to the increased adrenaline by shaking uncontrollably, because I thought I’d worked the problem, gotten us here, away from the pills on the boardwalk, but our problems have followed us and now I don’t even have Micah to help, and danger is in the equation, an X that ensures no matter how many experiments you conduct, it will never come out right. This addiction, this sister—how can I solve problems with variables like these?
Something warm and solid rests between my shoulder blades—Ben’s hand. For just a second, there’s quiet. I breathe.
It was so nice in the living room. Fixing Nate’s project. Talking to Ben. I didn’t realize I needed a break from my sister, from her weather system, until I had it. Every time I’m with Nah these days, it feels like liftoff will never happen. Like we’ll both be grounded by the wave forever.
Nah starts to hoist herself up, and Nate reaches for her arms, but she pushes him away. “I don’t need a fucking audience.”
“Then maybe stop giving such heart-stopping performances,” he says gently.
“The glass,” I say. “You could get hurt, Nah.”
“Well, at least I’m not dead at the bottom of the ocean.”
I let out a breath. Ben’s hand moves softly between my shoulder blades, up and down.
My sister’s eyes fill, her face falling like an autumn leaf, beautiful—done. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I glance at the floor, sticky and littered with glass. “I’ll clean up.”
“I’m sorry,” she says again.
I nod. “I know.”
We watch her go. She floats away like space debris into the darkness of the hallway, up the stairs. Gone.
Nate grabs a mop from a closet by the pantry and starts filling a bucket with water. “It’s a good thing my parents are still out. Mom would have blamed herself for this, I bet.”
Aunt Nora has been at a loss, I think, when it comes to Nah. Annie died before she ever got close to being a teenager, and Nate’s always been easygoing. For a minute, I almost tell Nate the truth about Nah, the pills and rehab last spring and all of it, but I can’t. Mom and Dad were always clear: It’s Nah’s story to tell. But what if it’s all starting again? I want her to be okay, and I don’t want my aunt and uncle to regret taking us in.
“Your parents have been amazing. Nah’s just having a hard time. I’ll make sure this never happens again. I don’t want us to be a burden—”
Nate glares at me. “Hush. Burden. You’re ours. We don’t want you anywhere but here.” He glances at Ben, raises his eyebrows. “Do we?”
I knew he was purposefully staying out of the living room all that time.
“No,” Ben says. “Who would make sure you don’t fail out of MIT?”
He squeezes my shoulder as Nate cackles, then steps into the center of the kitchen and leans down to begin picking up glass.
I move to join Ben, but he holds up a hand. “I got it.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Mae, let the guy earn his keep,” Nate says. “By the way, I figured out what’s wrong with my plane’s design.”
“What’s that?” I grab a broom and the dustpan.
“We don’t have enough lift,” he says. “You can have all the thrust you want, but that forward momentum won’t get your plane off the runway or your rocket off the launchpad without proper lift.”
“How do you get lift?” I cross to the puddle in the center of the kitchen and lean down to pick up the largest shards of glass.
Ben looks up at me, black lashes flicking over deep brown eyes. “By figuring out what’s dragging you down.”
i wish I didn’t look like my dead mother.
Window on Train Car Door
The C Line
Boston
14
Hannah
I wait until we’ve been at school for two days before I start talking to the maybe-dealers. The headaches, my bones hurting—I can’t hold out much longer. Withdrawal is probably worse than death. At least after you die, it doesn’t hurt anymore.
They’re not hard to spot. The dealers. They look grungier than everyone else at this fancy private school that my aunt’s insisting on because Nate went here.
They’re always looking over their shoulders. Their eyes have secrets. I go for the cutest one first because why not? Also, he’s in my dumb-person math class.
I find him after school, leaning against the flagpole. Waiting. For someone like me.
“Hey.” I stop in front of him.
“Hi.” His eyes narrow, suspicious.
“Math class, right? Algebra Two with Stephens?”
He just looks at me. Right. I shouldn’t expect my dealer to be sober.
“I’m Hannah. New girl. From LA?”
“Hi, Hannah New Girl From LA.”
Fuck this guy. “This is the part where you tell me your name.”
He smirks. “Drew.”
“Okay, Drew, I’m not one for small talk, so this is the deal: I have a wad of cash in my pocket and I’d really love some pharmaceuticals. So what do you have and how much is it?”
“Why are you asking me?” A sliver of fear catches in his eyes. Good. I don’t like his upper-hand vibe.
“Lucky guess. Now, are you holding or not?”
Drugs were so much easier to find in LA. All I had to do was walk two steps down the sidewalk from my door and I’d be on the Venice boardwalk, the real Boulevard of Broken Dreams.
“If I was holding—and I’m not saying I am—why would I sell to someone I don’t know?” Drew says. “In case you aren’t aware, Hannah New Girl From LA, buying or selling drugs here will get you expelled. They have a zero-tolerance policy at Saint Francis. And I’m on scholarship.”
“I know the drill.” What a little prick. Fucking standing there, toying with me. Even drug dealers are patriarchal assholes. It’s always dudes that are holding, and they often get more than just money in exchange for their wares. Is that what he wants? “Look, I’ll go ask someone else. Whatever.”
I turn to go—one step, two—
“Wait.”
I smile and turn around. “Yes?”
“What do you want?”
“Percs. Vicodin.”
Oxy. Oh boy, do I want Oxy. But I don’t deserve to feel that good. Although—
“I ran out of Vicodin. I have Percs. And, before you ask, I don’t sell cotton to people I don’t know. That shit’s intense.”
“Okay, whatever. I’ll take what you have. How much?” I see Mae come out the front door, talking to some girl. Shit.
“Five for five milligrams, ten for ten. I recommend the ten—it’s a great high. Five will get you there, though. Just not as quickly.”
“I don’t need to be schooled on what will get me high. Look, I have to go.” I start backing away. “Can I get it from you tomorrow?”
“I might not have any tomorrow. But, whatever, it’s your deal.”
“I don’t want my sister to see,” I say, nodding toward Mae. “She’s … not like … us.”
His eyebrow raises just a tad. “Us?”
Losers.
“She’s a good girl.”
His mouth turns up a little. “Well, I’m certainly not one of those.” His eyes flick up to mine, and I force myself to hold his gaze. “Tomorrow at lunch,” he finally says. “Under the bleachers near the baseball diamond.”
Diamond. Perfect.
I suddenly feel a rush of gratitude for this asshole. “All right. Thanks.”
When I get to Mae, she’s looking over my shoulder, craning her neck to get a better look at Drew.
“Who was that?” she asks.
“Dude from my math class. I forgot to write down the homework.”
“He looks like the guy from that vampire show you like—the one with the brothers. The bad brother.” She bumps her hip against mine. “Ohhhh, I’m telling Micah.”
We’re trying to do this, to be like we used to. But it feels like we’re reading lines in a play. Even though I apologized for being a mess the other night, breaking that bottle in the kitchen, I’m still so mad at her for taking my pills.
I smile. “Shut up.”
I can always not meet Drew tomorrow, just forget I ever had that conversation by the flagpole. Make another quit attempt. Come clean to Aunt Nora and Uncle Tony and Nate. I know telling would be the first step in really trying to get sober.
But then I remember my parents are dead and my boyfriend is on the other side of the country and also that I’m a fucking loser piece-of-shit junkie.
“What’s wrong?” Mae asks.
Everything. Obviously.
“Nothing,” I say. “Why?”
She shrugs. “Besides the obvious? I know you don’t like it here. School. Boston.”
“I’m cool, Mae. Just … don’t breathe down my neck so much, okay? I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”
“I know,” she says, her voice quiet.
Fuck. Nothing comes out right anymore.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I just … you know. It’s hard.”
She takes a breath.
The kind before you jump into the deep end of the pool.
“Nora thinks we should talk to someone. A therapist.”
“Oh God,” I say. “That’s a quick way to make us feel shittier. The last thing I want to do is talk about it. Any of it.”
“It could help, Nah,” she says in a small voice. “With … everything. You know. The pills—”
“Is this voluntary?” I ask.
“Not so much. No. I suppose you could go on a hunger strike or something, but she says we need to talk to someone. Who it is—that’s our choice.”
* * *
When we get home, my fears are confirmed.
“So I have a list of the therapists in our area,” Nora says.
“I’ll look at it later,” I say. “I’m really tired.”
The next day, I make up an excuse to be late for lunch with Mae and her new friends, all confirmed nerds, and hurry over to the bleachers by the baseball field.
Drew is already there. He’s wearing a black hoodie with a puffy vest, ripped jeans, a beanie. Total drug dealer chic.
“I kinda thought you might not show,” he says, keeping his hands in his pockets.
“Well, I’m here.”
“How’d you know I’d be able to hook you up?”
“You just look…”
“Shady?”
Most of the guys here go for the I’m-applying-to-Harvard look: docksiders even though it’s too cold to go boating, khakis, polos.
“Pretty much, yeah.” I hand him a hundred bucks. “I’ll take ten tens.”
Money was never a problem for me, for anyone in my family. My lifelong savings did get low in the worst months, but then my parents died and everyone felt bad and Aunt Nora put a lot of money in both my and Mae’s accounts. Supposedly to get Boston wardrobes, since we’re basically in Siberia and you can’t wear jean shorts and flip-flops in places with negative degrees. When you’re a privileged junkie, it means you don’t have to stoop so low as to steal from the people you love or do all the things girls can do to get their fix. I’m the luckiest unlucky girl I know.
His eyebrows go up a little. “I’ve got fives if you—”
“Ten is good.”
“Ten it is.” He pockets the money, then takes out a bottle.
“Hold out your hand,” he says.
I do and he pours ten blue little circles on my palm, then one more.
“A little something extra for my new customer,” he says.
; “Thanks.”
“So, you’re from LA?” he says, following me as I start for the caf.
“What do you care?”
He shrugs. “Just making conversation.”
“I give you five stars for customer service, okay? You can go … wherever you go at lunch.”
“I was just wondering what a nice girl like you is doing buying opiates.”
“First, I’m not a nice girl. Second, it’s none of your business.”
“Fair enough.”
We walk in silence for a while, and I can’t stand it.
“My parents died in that tsunami in Malaysia. Both of them.”
I see the weight of my truth settle on him. But instead of getting awkward, he looks at me—really looks at me.
“That is one of the most fucked-up things the universe could do to someone,” he says.
The absolute most right thing to say. I’d give him six stars for that.
I nod. “Yeah.”
“I shouldn’t have sold it to you,” he says quietly.
“Jesus. Don’t give me your pity—trust me, I have enough of it. I just need something to get me through senior year. That’s all. And if you tell anyone I told you—”
“That would be a violation of doctor-patient confidentiality,” he says, with a half smile.
I give him a long look. “Are you actually a nice guy?”
“Total hardened criminal. But I have a soft spot for brunettes.”
“My hair is actually black. And I have a boyfriend. In LA. In college, actually.” It feels important that he know because he’s flirting with me and I suddenly feel guilty because I want to flirt back. I miss Micah so much.
Drew whistles. “A college boy. Are your dates at the library?”
“Very funny.” I point to the caf. “I’m gonna grab some food before sixth period.”
He nods. “I’ll see you around, Hannah.”
I head to the bathroom and don’t make eye contact with anyone as I hide in a stall. I gulp down a little blue pill with some water from one of the metal bottles Mom sold at her studio. It says ALL WHO WANDER ARE NOT LOST. This water bottle doesn’t know shit.
I wonder if Mom and Dad can see me here, now. They’d be so disappointed. Ashamed, maybe. My eyes fill and I press my hands against my lips to keep the sob in, to hide it behind the gossip and the makeup sharing and the I need a tampon-ing of Saint Francis’s largest female-identifying bathroom. I’m the last to leave when the bell rings, when it’s quiet and no one will talk to me.
Little Universes Page 11