Maybe We’re Electric

by Val Emmich

  “We should keep moving,” Mac says.

  I heave myself over and notice that he’s shivering.

  “You can have your coat back,” I say.

  He reaches into a shopping bag and removes a clear plastic pouch. He opens it and snaps the plastic at the air. It’s a poncho. He slides it over his clothes and pulls on the hood.

  “I’m good,” he says.

  He looks ridiculous and I like it.

  Waterproof now, he asks me, “You mind if we take the long way back?”

  9:22 PM

  The long way back takes us up Morton Road. I’m only realizing now, as I’m struggling to climb this snowy slope with flat-bottomed sneakers, how steep this street is.

  Several times Mac offers his hand to help me, but he’s on my shy side. It’s unfortunate how my hand has to appear in and out of my consciousness like a confused chameleon, blending into the background when I’m among friends and jumping into the foreground when meeting strangers. If I was with Neel right now, for example, it would be the last thing on my mind. But I’m with Mac.

  At the top of the hill, he stops and points across the street. “You ever go sledding over there?”

  It’s impossible to see where he’s pointing, hard as I try to make it out in the misty atmosphere. “No. Where?”

  “Behind that house there’s a crazy drop. My brother and I used to go when we were kids. Usually it was him and his friends. I’d tag along.”

  Even though he’s describing boys at play, the boyish playfulness he’s sported for most of the night is missing. In its place, a weight. I never got the impression when James was in our school last year that he and Mac were tight. Most people wouldn’t guess they were brothers.

  “Are you guys close?” I say.

  Mac turns away from the house. “Not super, no. But we’re cool.”

  He nods, confirming it for himself, and walks off. Very quickly he remembers to wait up for me. He offers an apology smile while I catch up.

  “I did go tubing once,” I say.

  “Once?” Mac says.

  “At least once.”

  “Not into winter sports, then.”

  I kick up snow. “Oh no. I am extremely dispassionate about all sports.”

  He shakes his head in exaggerated horror.

  “No offense,” I add.

  “I’m not offended. You just don’t get it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Have you ever been to a professional game of any kind?”

  The answer is no.

  “I guarantee if you sat in the stands and watched, you’d know what I’m talking about. I’m not saying you’d start loving soccer or whatever. But you’d see how other people can love it. Because you’re watching these people who are so dedicated, who really care about what they do, and that kind of passion, it’s just… powerful.”

  He checks to see if I understand. I do. He couldn’t have explained it better.

  It occurs to me only now that maybe not every guy who plays sports is a jock. Mac not playing for the school team means he can’t benefit from one of the main perks of jockdom—visibility. He clearly loves watching sports, but I’m not sure how much he cares about being watched while playing them. He’s some kind of sports purist.

  We turn down a street that leads back to our neighborhood. I still can’t believe I’m walking next to Mac Durant on a Saturday night, just the two of us. I’m not sure why he’d purposely add time to our return journey when he’s lacking warm layers, but I choose not to question it. This night has already gone in so many unexpected directions that I feel woozy. But also, I’ve never felt more alert. I have plans tonight. Plans with Mac.

  Staring ahead, Mac asks, “Are you going to tell me who that guy was?”

  A street sign reads WATCH CHILDREN, and suddenly I’m worried that we’re the children being watched.

  “Charlie Most,” I say.

  “Am I supposed to know who that is?”

  “You might if you were into crashing weddings.”

  He drops the grocery bags in the snow and blows warm air onto his hands. The bandage I applied serves as a makeshift glove.

  “I can hold the bags if you want,” I say, realizing I might not be pulling my weight on this adventure of ours. To be fair, this trip wasn’t my idea in the first place.

  He takes out his phone and stares at the bright screen. I watch a decision being made—whether to check for a message that’s come in or compose a message to send out. But to whom? A girl? A guy? A mother? A father? So many possibilities. A moment ago the universe was just Mac and I and a whole lot of snow. His phone is a cruel reminder that there’s a world out there full of other people.

  Mac tucks his phone back into his pocket, never actually engaging with it. “I got it,” he says under his breath.

  He means the bags. He picks them up and moves on.

  But it’s hard for me to keep moving when I realize we’re turning onto Anchorage Road. It’s the street Mac lives on. The same street where Mac saw the guy in the garage.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I have to make a quick stop,” Mac says.

  “But where?”

  “Here.”

  We’ve paused in front of a tan house partly hidden behind a mighty tree. I’ve traveled past this house a hundred times, always wondering what goes on inside, curious which window belongs to Mac.

  I throw off my hood, suddenly sweaty. There’s no number on Mac’s house, but the one to the right is 90 and the one to the left is 86, and that makes this one 88. It’s the address I gave the dispatcher on the 911 call.

  “Why are we here?” I say.

  “I live here.”

  “But you said you…”

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  “You didn’t want to go home. You said that.”

  “Yeah, well, old habits die hard,” Mac says helplessly.

  He starts up the driveway.

  “Wait. Where are you going?”

  “Inside,” Mac says. “Come on.”

  I grab his poncho. I had a feeling when Mac had me call 911, but I pushed the feeling away, buried it deep down. I couldn’t let myself consider what the call might be about—who the call was about.

  “Who was the guy in the garage?” I say. “The guy you said you saw. The one who was trying to hurt himself.”

  Mac dips his head. “I’ll tell you later.”

  “No, I need to know.”

  “When we get back,” Mac says, pulling away. “We’ll be in and out.”

  “Please. You have to tell me.”

  “I said I would. What’s your problem?”

  He doesn’t understand. It can’t wait any longer. I need to know the truth. Because what Mac doesn’t know is that the truth might have something to do with me.

  “You made me get on the phone,” I say. “I did that for you. Just tell me who he is. That’s all I’m asking. The guy in the garage, was it—”

  “My dad.”

  Inside me an alarm sounds. The volume is deafening. I want to bend over in pain, but I can’t, I know I can’t, I have to remain absolutely still, I must, so as not to give myself away.

  “Oh,” I say.

  Already a night of surprises, and here now is the worst of them. It’s the beginning of my nightmare—and the end of the lie I’ve been living.

  It’s true that you’re quiet. At school, especially. At school, quiet is the Tegan most people know.

  But there’s another Tegan. Another you. A you with a loud, powerful voice. Everyone in school knows this loud, powerful voice. But they don’t know it belongs to you. No one has figured out who it is. The voice has no face. Only a name: Nightshade.

  Some call Nightshade a hero. But others don’t see it that way. To them, Nightshade is a troll. A bully. A villain.

  Mac is one of these other people. You know this without having to ask. You know this because weeks before this night, he became one of your unlucky targets.


  9:43 PM

  Is your dad… okay?” I ask, my feet firmly planted on Mac’s unshoveled driveway.

  Mac winces like he’s got a migraine and I blasted a spotlight in his eyes. “I’m sure he is,” he mutters, dissatisfied with the answer, or merely annoyed to have to report it.

  “How do you know?”

  “I called home before at the museum.”

  “But I didn’t hear you talk to anybody.”

  “My dad answered, and I hung up.”

  People have been whispering for years that Mac’s dad has a drinking problem. These were merely rumors—until a video went around.

  “Did the ambulance ever come?” I say.

  “I have no idea,” Mac says, looking more and more exhausted. “I was with you. I texted him before, but he hasn’t responded.”

  “What about your mom?”

  “She’s sleeping at my aunt’s house tonight.”

  Now he’s got all the answers. I don’t know why I didn’t ask sooner. (Actually, I do know—I was afraid of what he might say.)

  “Listen,” Mac says. “I’m freezing, and I really don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to. Please, let’s go inside. It’ll only take a second. I promise I’ll explain everything to you after.”

  This plan might sound reasonable to the innocent outsider, but I’m an insider and far from innocent. “I’ll wait out here.”

  “You’re acting crazy right now. Just come in already.”

  Another guy calling me crazy. I shake my head. I’m staying put.

  He looks up at the house. “My dad’s probably passed out. He won’t even know we’re here.”

  Is that supposed to make me feel better about going inside?

  “Besides,” he says, turning back, “I thought you had to pee.”

  “I’m good,” I say. I’d rather wet myself.

  “Whatever,” Mac says. “I’ll leave the door open in case you change your mind. Bathroom is inside on the right.” He pauses for a deep breath. “Be right back.”

  His poncho flares out like a see-through cape as he strides up the driveway and onto his porch. He swings open the screen door but delays at the main door. He digs through each of his pants pockets. His keys! I retrieve them from his coat pocket and walk up to the porch.

  “Here,” I whisper.

  He reacts with relief and unlocks the door. Before going inside, he gives me one more chance to change my mind. I shake my head. He rolls his eyes and vanishes.

  I’d love to see what Mac Durant’s house is like on the inside, but engaging with people’s messy lives online is one thing and facing it in the flesh is another. It’s too much, too real, too fast.

  I wait on the porch, hugging myself for warmth. Mac could totally change his mind when he’s in there and decide to stay home instead, leaving me out here shivering by my lonesome like a fool.

  Headlights appear as a car creeps down Anchorage. I wonder whether the careful speed is due to the slick roads or because the driver’s on the lookout for someone.

  The car glides nearer. My hand takes hold of the cold latch on the screen door. Behind it, the front door is wide open. I try to make out what kind of car it is, but I can’t see past the bright lights. When the car that might be Charlie’s is almost upon me, I enter Mac’s house.

  There’s light ahead, but the hallway is dark. I turn right and find the bathroom. I go in and lock the door behind me. I don’t bother turning on the light. First, I pee. It’s painful before it’s satisfying. Once I’m empty, I remain seated, pants at my ankles, in complete darkness.

  I listen. The house is silent. I’m scared that if I flush, someone will hear it. Then again, I can’t leave my pee in Mac Durant’s toilet. That’s not a thing I can do.

  I wipe and pull up my pants. I unlock the door and open it just an inch. Directly across is a set of stairs. Farther away is an unlit living room. Above me, footsteps. Before I can strategize, the footsteps barrel down the stairs. I pull the bathroom door shut so Mac won’t see me.

  It doesn’t work as planned.

  “Tegan,” he says through the door.

  “Just a minute,” I say.

  I flush, wash my hands, and meet him in the hallway. His clear poncho is gone, replaced with a proper winter jacket. His backup coat. An army-green wool hat lies haphazardly on his head.

  His smile is cocky. He knew I’d eventually cave and come inside. I’m a little embarrassed to have lost that battle. Mac turns every trivial exchange into a meaningful competition.

  He heads toward the kitchen. I take a moment and peer up the dark stairs. All is quiet. I guess Mac was right. His dad must be asleep.

  Gazing into the void, I almost lose track of Mac. He opens a door and disappears. I hurry to catch up, not wanting to be left alone in this unfamiliar place. At the door I find stairs leading down to a dimly lit basement. I listen once more for a sound from above. Nothing. I follow Mac down.

  When I reach the bottom, there’s no sight of Mac. The basement is unfinished. A lone light bulb on an exposed wooden beam casts shadows over naked cement walls. There’s a washer and dryer and shelves full of sporting equipment. Hockey sticks and collapsed nets. Balls of all sizes and colors, some in need of air.

  Mac slips out from behind a hanging bedsheet that serves as an improvised partition. He walks past me to a tall armoire, removes a folded blanket, and steps back around the sheet. I catch a glimpse of an entertainment console with a record player and bookshelves containing rows and rows of vinyl. Mac wasn’t kidding when he said his family owned a lot of records.

  I step closer for a better view. A patterned rug. A crowded coffee table. It’s like a little apartment. Mac’s back is turned to me, the blanket hanging from his outstretched arms. He drapes it gently over a couch. Poking out from beneath the blanket is a man’s head, eyes closed.

  I head for the stairs. Climbing out of the basement, I turn and find Mac right behind me. We surface together in the kitchen. He pays me no mind, still focused on completing whatever mission he’s on. As far as he knows, I saw nothing in the basement. A whole lot of nothing.

  I see something now in the light of the kitchen. Mac is holding a large glass bottle with a clear liquid inside. Alcohol of some kind.

  With his free hand, he digs through an open fridge and finds a lone chicken finger that he savagely tears in half with his teeth. He offers me the cold remainder. I shake my head no thanks.

  “You sure?” Mac says. “From Flannigan’s. Super good.”

  How can he eat at a time like this? Isn’t this, like, the scene of a crime or something? For all we know, paramedics were standing in this very room a few short hours ago, wondering about the anonymous caller who tipped them off to the situation.

  “Shouldn’t we be going?” I say at a volume so low I’m surprised Mac can hear me.

  His mouth is too busy devouring the chicken finger. Or maybe he’s buying time to figure out how to break the news to me: Our plans have been canceled. I’m on my own again.

  “It’s fine if you feel like staying,” I say. “I totally get it. It’s cool. I’ll let myself out.”

  “Damn,” Mac says, trying to finish chewing. “Give me a sec. I’m coming.”

  I’ve annoyed him, I see, but it’s all good—a small price to pay for not being abandoned.

  He shuts the fridge and looks around the kitchen one last time. I get a head start for the exit.

  At the front door, I loop the handles of our EZ Mart bags around my wrists, plunk my hands into my coat pockets—Mac’s pockets—and elbow open the screen door. I take one last look inside Mac’s house, all but certain I’ll never be back.

  Mac locks up. The alcohol bottle sticks brazenly out of his jacket pocket.

  We walk in silence to the end of the driveway. Reaching the curb, he bends down and starts digging through a random snow pile. When the cold gets too extreme, he pauses to blow on his hands, and then digs some more.

  “What are you doing?” I
say.

  He holds something out to me. I take the snow-covered object and realize from its gritty texture and blunt weight that it’s a brick. There are more bricks. A whole pile. Mac grabs one for himself.

  “Should we toss it through the window?” he says.

  I don’t get the joke.

  “Nothing will happen. I promise.”

  He’s smiling, but there’s no glow of humor on his face, only a vacant stare.

  “We should go,” I say.

  My request doesn’t reach him.

  “Mac.”

  He snaps his head my way—sudden recognition. He lets the brick fall, as if quitting a long fight.

  I leave my brick with his. “What is this?” I say, gesturing to the pile.

  “My mailbox,” Mac says. “It was until a few hours ago. Before my dad ran it over with his car.”

  10:31 PM

  I stand at the end of Mac’s driveway and picture how it might have happened. His dad behind the wheel, whatever shape he was in. The car leveling the hardy structure. The wreckage visible on the grass until the snow came to cover it. Was his dad hurt? Was Mac in the car? What the hell is going on? Suddenly, the two of us walking out of here together like it’s no big deal seems unlikely.

  “Do you need to stay here? With your dad?”

  “No. Definitely not.” Mac steps away from the curb, as if I might try to force him to remain here. “If you feel like going home, that’s fine, but—”

  “I’m not saying that.”

  He repositions his hat on his head. “Cool. Let’s head back to the museum.”

  Is there nowhere else we can go? As much as I’d like to spend more time with Mac, being at the Edison Center adds this weird pressure: like I’m the host and it’s my responsibility to entertain.

  “There’s not much to do there,” I say. “It’s really small and—”

  “We still haven’t had dinner,” Mac says, his smile returning, bright and true. Once again, he seems more than willing to lead the way.

  I look at the bags around my wrists. He takes one of them so we’re sharing the load.