Felix Yz

by Lisa Bunker

  F: It’s hard to explain. Gah, this is going to sound so dumb … it’s like there’s this other me inside me because of the you know

  H: Yah right Felix well you know what take responsibility for yourself. Forget it I’m gone

  F: Hector

  F: Hector?

  F: Hector?

  Zyx, I’m going to kill you.

  no kill why kill

  I was talking to him. You had no right to butt in.

  butt in question mark

  I barely stopped you from making it look like I said I love him. One more letter and it would have been for sure.

  felix love hector

  That’s not the point! You can’t just blurt it out like that.

  why not blurt

  Because I don’t know if he … I mean, just to say it like that in the middle of some random chat … I mean, what can he be thinking of me right now? And what am I going to say the next time I see him? That’s not going to be awkward, nooooo, not even a little bit.

  question mark

  I cannot even begin to explain. Talking about love might be all easy and perfect in your dimension, but not in mine. And I’m done. See you later good night bye. Sleep, wake, a day closer to death, tra-la.

  9 Days to Go

  I get so afraid I’m going to die. Then I start to hope. Then the fear comes back—whammo—and I feel like I want to destroy everything or just explode. And look: the words come out the same. They’re just regular words. Do they even work? Can they possibly say how incredibly awful my life is right now?

  I’m going to die.

  I’M GOING TO DIE!

  im going to die

  (That’s me this time being all e e cummings, not Zyx.)

  Hey kids, guess what? I’m going to die! Isn’t that exciting? Yay!

  OMG, this is so awesome!!!!! I’m going to die!!!!! :-D :-D :-D :-D :-D

  Words are so strange.

  Morning was a happy happy time. Mom was crabby because, I admit, it took me a while to get out of my chair. Not completely locked up again, so that at least was not as bad as it could have been, but just not interested in getting up. Or eating, or going to school, or anything really. And Bea was all disappeared inside herself, I guess still thinking about Ben, which I would be too if my head wasn’t full of looming death.

  So then tense silence in the car, Mom driving us because we’re late, and then I’m hurrying inside the building and Tim the Bore shows up out of nowhere and smashes my books out of my hands and then totally gets in my face: “Felix the retard, Felix the moron, Felix the i-di-ot-tuh!” And suddenly this hot red feeling rises up inside me, I guess it’s rage, but it scares me and somehow I push it back down. I don’t say a word. I gather up my books as fast as I can with him kicking them and stepping on the papers—the math worksheet I’m supposed to turn in has a big muddy sneaker print all over the front—and he’s still going at it: “You better watch it, retard. You just wait. I’m going to put such a hurt on you. You’re going down. Come on—fight back. What’s the matter with you? Fight back!”

  I feel like my teeth are going to shatter, I’m biting down so hard, but I don’t make a sound. My silence seems finally to confuse him or something, because he takes a step back, breathing hard, and glares at me, and I stare back, and I notice that he has a bruise over his eye, and for one second I feel the brain-eye-eye-brain thing happening, and I could swear that in that second I can see that he has some pain in him that is as big as the pain I have in me—which is a monster, a might-be-dying-in-nine-days monster—and he kinda flinches and looks away, and I walk past him, just brushing his shoulder, and go in to class. It takes me until the end of first period to stop shaking.

  Then I get *spoken to* by two different teachers, once for staring out the window and once for drawing a big black cloud on a worksheet I’m supposed to be working on. The school feels too warm and I can smell myself and I smell rank, which makes me squirm. The rage is still humming just under the surface, ready to burst out again, and don’t forget the heavy feeling, that black thing—it’s still lurking all the time too—so the color scheme of the day is red and black. And on top of all that, I also feel practically ripped in half by the equal and opposite pulls of wanting to see Hector really badly and talk to him, and having no idea what I would say and feeling like if he even looks at me I will die.

  So maybe it’s a good thing that the one time I see him during the day, way down at the other end of the long hall, even over all that distance he makes it clear that he’s not going to give me the present of eye contact today. Same thing after school, too, at the buses. I see him walking and take a step toward him from the side, and he gives me one quick glance and then locks his eyes forward and puts his chin up so you can really see the line of his whole profile clearly against the school bus yellow (and can I really be noticing what I liked about him even in that moment? Yes, it appears that I can) and walks past without turning. I try to say his name, but nothing comes out but air, and feeling pulled in opposite directions and all that, probably it’s just as well. But I still really want to talk to him.

  what say

  Oh, you’re awake, are you?

  never sleep

  I know. Sarcasm.

  …

  I would say sorry. I would say, please let me explain. I would say, I have this stupid alien in my head. Not metaphorically. Really. And sometimes this stupid alien uses my hands to talk. And I can’t say any of that, but I want to so badly.

  [Five minutes of staring at the screen]

  OK, so I hate the world and the world hates me. Fine. I don’t want to think about it and I don’t want to write about it. So I’m not going to.

  Aaaaand, here’s Mom.

  Me: “Fair warning, I’m typing everything you say.”

  “You are? Why?”

  “It’s this honest writing thing I’m doing, and capturing detail.”

  “Oh. OK, I guess.”

  Awkward pause. Then, “Well, I just came to say, it’s been getting warmer, so I changed the sheets on your chair today. I took the winter flannel ones off, and put the cotton ones on. And I changed out the heavy quilt for a lighter spring one.”

  I look at my recliner, and sure enough, the old quilt is gone. I didn’t even notice. All of a sudden I have an ache in my throat so bad I can’t speak.

  She says, “Thank you?”

  “Yeah, Mom, thanks.”

  “OK, sweetie.”

  She comes into the room and kisses my forehead, gives me a sad little smile, and goes away.

  My mom is a good mom. She gets seriously stressy sometimes, but she’s a good mom.

  8 Days to Go

  Home from school, and after yesterday I didn’t think things could get any worse, but it turns out they could. Hector. I tried to talk to him, I really tried, and it went … well, see for yourself.

  Scene: hallway, right after last bell. Lockers slamming, people talking and laughing, heading home. Hector has been avoiding me all day. Knowing where his locker is, I find him there. I approach. He gives me one look and then keeps his eyes away.

  Me: “Hector.” No answer. “Hector. Won’t you at least talk to me?” Still no answer. “About what I said …”

  Him, still not looking, his voice full of contempt: “Are you going to say it’s not your fault? That there’s some kind of alien inside your head?”

  Me, drowning in absurd irony: “No. I’m sorry I called you stupid.”

  At last he looks at me, but his face is cold. “You’re sorry.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, fine then. Whatever.” He turns away. “Doesn’t really matter.”

  “Do you mean like, no big deal, or because you don’t …” Hector slams his locker and starts walking away, so now I have to tag after him.

  “I mean, it doesn’t really matter.”

  Now I’m starting to feel mad. “OK, fine. No big deal.”

  “That’s right. You’re just some kid I know a little. So
yeah, no big deal.” His eyes meet mine for one second, and what is it I see? Hurt, sad, angry? Maybe a mix of all, maybe none. I can’t tell.

  Now I let the mad take over. “Well, you don’t have to be so touchy about it. See you around sometime maybe … or not,” I say in a mean voice. Our eyes glance off each other again, and suddenly I want to grab him in my arms and I’m thinking, What the hell?

  His mouth twists and he says just as mean, “I’m thinking not,” and then he turns and walks away fast without looking back, and I stand there with my mouth flopping like a fish in air, thinking, What the hell??

  felix love hector

  You said that, remember? But yeah, I have to admit it. You’re right. I’m in love with this boy, and he doesn’t want to have anything to do with me, and I’m probably going to be dead in eight days.

  My life sucks so bad.

  There’s the dinner call. Go down? Am I hungry? I can’t tell. Oh well, I guess. It’s something to do.

  After dinner, I mean after everyone else’s dinner, I see a look go between Mom and Bea and then Bea leaves, not to play the piano but up to her room, and I think, Uh-oh, and then Mom and Grandy are both looking at me with parental eyes, and I know I am in for a Talk. Great.

  I point my eyes at my plate, which still has all my food on it, and I notice that moving has started to feel hard again. Not lockup—the heavy black feeling again. It’s hard now, too, typing this. I’m getting so tired. Even fingers heavy. Zyx, help me type.

  Mom starts. “Felix, Grandy and I want to talk with you.” I don’t answer and the silence gets long. “And, for heaven’s sake, what am I doing over here on this side of the table? You’re not in trouble.” She comes around to my side and pulls a chair close. She hovers a hand by my shoulder, like she’s not sure whether I’ll allow her to touch me, which is smart, because I’m not sure if I will. She decides to do it. I let the hand stay. “Felix,” she says, all gentle, “I know how hard this must be for you… .”

  I shrug her hand off. She hovers it again, then puts it in her lap with the other one. “All right,” she says, “maybe I don’t.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Grandy (in Vera mode, it being Tuesday) says, “But that doesn’t mean we can’t help you, dearheart.”

  Another silence gets long. Finally Mom again. “Sweetie, maybe it would help if you said something, if you expressed what you are feeling.”

  I don’t answer, but inside I think, How do you put black infinity into words? Because I feel like that’s what I’m on the edge of now.

  You can’t see how hard this typing is for me.

  She waits and finally just to get her to stop looking at me like that I say, “You mean like that time with Penelope?” Who was a counselor she sent me to before. Let’s just say it didn’t go well. Pointless. Waste. Of. Time.

  Lead weights.

  Grandy says, “Not necessarily. Could be right now. Wouldn’t have to be words, you know. A primal scream or throwing your plate at the wall might be good alternatives.” That makes Mom twitch, but she doesn’t say anything.

  I look up at Grandy, and there’s that cat smile of veirs. I hate that smile sometimes. I look back down again.

  Black funnel going down.

  Mom says, “That’s right. It can help to express. Instead of keeping it all bottled up inside.”

  Same old happy talk. The black goes red for a couple seconds and I say, “Oh right. Like you kept Bea’s secret twin bottled up inside.” Mom jerks back. Grandy makes a little noise. I point my voice at ven. “And like I don’t know your name.” Somewhere inside I know that they are trying to help me and that I’m being mean, but this thing is rolling now. Can’t stop. Mom puts her hand on my shoulder again, which is maybe the only thing that could get me moving. Suddenly I don’t want anyone to touch me to talk to me to be near me. I want to go to my room and get in my chair and pull the covers over my head and maybe just die. Can you let go and die? If you really want to? Just let your heart stop beating?

  not die

  You shut up. Nobody asked you. So now here I am in my chair and there is one little part of me left (not Zyx, I have other parts that are not Zyx) saying get up, if you keep lying here you really might die, you don’t want that do you, but all the rest of me says whatever I don’t care I just want to let go and sink down and now the only thing that’s keeping me going is that I’m typing this and then I’ll stop and then maybe I’ll die no wait, here’s Bea.

  Bea: “Hey.”

  Me:

  Bea: “Mom says you seem depressed.”

  Me:

  A straw hits me. She threw a straw at me. Like we’re in elementary school again, trying to cheer each other up. It makes me look at her, and her face is sad and frightened and full of love i guess, but i can’t feel anything here comes the black going down into the funnel now too hard to type anymore too hard time to die i guess goodbye … … … .

  6 Days to Go

  Yesterday was the worst I have ever felt in my life.

  dark

  I guess you didn’t like it either.

  dark light two sides dance between

  You know, sometimes … ah, never mind.

  So, obviously I’m a little better now, because I can make my fingers move. I was in my chair all day yesterday. Not locked up—just didn’t get up. Mom coaxed and then threatened, but I didn’t answer, so she stopped talking and just sat for a while with a hand on my arm, which if I had been able to feel anything might have made me feel better, but I couldn’t feel anything, only black.

  I guess there was a phone call to Dr. Yoon because at some point Mom came with a pill and propped me up and washed it down my throat with some water. I dribbled on the pillow, so she changed it. Then I slept and dreamed that Mom and Grandy were standing in the doorway talking about me as though I was already dead, and I woke up in the dark, alone, and had a confused idea of dark inside and dark outside and the shell of me in the middle. It was like the idea I had in the Apparatus the other time, but that was all sparkly infinity, while this was cold dead emptiness. Here’s the weird thing: it was comforting. At least in the way of not having to try anymore. I just wondered a little bit, like, Hm, that’s odd, I’m not dead. How can I not be dead? Huh.

  And then a little while ago there was another pill and now there’s this weird glow on the edges of things and I feel like I can move again but other than that I don’t feel good. But look, I’m typing this, so that must mean something I guess.

  And here’s the other thing: that chess tournament is tonight, and we already know what Zyx thinks about that so please don’t say anything thank you for not saying anything, but I’ve gotten interested too. Oh hey, look, interested in something. So I must not be completely depressed anymore.

  I’m heavy and floaty at the same time. Mother Hubbard, I feel strange. OK, I want hot water now. Shower.

  Aaaaand, it’s late, but I have to stay up and describe what happened since this morning. Which was nothing most of the day. I didn’t want to go to school and Mom didn’t try to make me, so I spent most of the day lost in mindless websurfing. Just now though was the big chess tournament, Zyx playing against some of the best players in the world, and if there was time for the people who are all excited to do anything, there would be what Mom calls a brouhaha. Seeing as how in a week I’ll either be dead or a really bad chess player again, though, that can’t happen.

  It was Rick and Ursula again, just like before, and the setup was the same with the two computers facing each other across the dining room table, but this time Zyx was playing against other people. Ursula was signed on to the other computer so she could observe. Rick sat with her. He was going to sit behind me, but I gave him a look that Mom read right, and she said something about giving me some space and he looked at her face and switched sides. Bea (with a book) and Grandy (in Vern mode, with knitting) were also there, watching.

  While we’re waiting for the start, Urs
ula explains that this is an elite bullet tournament the chess-playing site is putting on as a fund-raiser, so a whole bunch of people are going to be watching. I guess there are enough serious chess geeks on the Internet to make that work.

  Bea says, “So if it’s only an exhibition tournament, does that mean that the players won’t really be trying?”

  Ursula opens her mouth to speak, but Rick pushes in ahead of her. “Oh, don’t worry about that,” he says. “These guys always go for blood. It’s what makes them the champions they are.” Then he gives me a look like he’s just imparted some great knowledge or something. Ursula makes a little pain-face, just for a moment, and says, “I would say rather that, as top-level players, they are incapable of playing at less than their best.”

  Tournament time comes, and the first game board pops up on the screen. The other player’s name has a dash and GM after it. Everyone else playing in this tournament is a Grandmaster. Doesn’t matter. Zyx rips ven to shreds, just like everyone else vo has ever played. Ursula and Rick do commentary, and I try to learn from what they’re saying. Like one time Rick says, “That can’t possibly be sound, saccing the knight like that.” Bea says, “Sacking a knight? What do you do to a bishop? Bag it?” This makes me snort. Ursula says, “No, you misunderstand. Sac is short for sacrifice. And it was a sound sacrifice. In fact, a brilliant one.”

  The other thing going on is that there’s a chat window next to the chessboard, and judging from how fast the comments are piling up, there must be a lot of people watching. Ursula clicks with her mouse and says more than two hundred people are observing our first game. Then Rick says talk is spreading in the Internet chess world about this new prodigy Felix1. So, people have come to check me, I mean Zyx, out.

  Game one ends when the other person runs out of time, and there’s a pause while other first-round games are finishing. In the chat window, people are guessing who I am. Rick and Ursula keep saying names and laughing, so I guess they are names of famous players. As I have mentioned, Ursula usually looks serious when she’s at the chessboard, but when she laughs her whole face opens up and her eyes and teeth flash, and it occurs to me that she might be really funny. I notice Bea noticing too, and she wrinkles her nose at me—the good kind of nose-wrinkle.