All These Lives

by Wylie, Sarah

  Then she takes it and tucks the sleeves in, folds it down the middle and in half, the way Mom does.

  “Why don’t you just leave it till later, if you’re tired? Or Mom could do it for you.” Really, I mean: if you went to all the trouble of pulling down all the hangers in your closet and kicking around your shoes and slamming your hand in the wall—I can’t find the dent, but I know it’s here somewhere—and playing your pretentious and angry underground-band music, why didn’t you do it properly? Why didn’t you leave it? Why are you Jena-halfway some of the time, and not my sister Jena all of the time?

  “The mess was driving me insane.”

  Liar, I don’t say.

  “So will you help me?” Jena asks.

  I pick up a pair of shorts and start folding. Of course I will help you. I will help you back down and cower and hide the fact that you’re secretly pissed about this whole being-sick thing, but not really sure how to show it. I will help you pack up the mess you made for what we both know is a false sense of accomplishment. That sense of “God, Jena, but you are such a badass. You made a little mess in the back of your closet where no one can see it? Bad. Ass.”

  She’s wearing a multicolored beanie, the edges pulled down tight over her ears, because her ears are always cold, even inside.

  I get on my knees and start folding. Beside me, Jena keeps moving slowly, breathing loud.

  “I want that twenty,” I tell her as I stuff a folded shirt into the back of her closet.

  While we’re cleaning up, one thought runs through my mind, makes me feel better. I can help her.

  I’m still on number six.

  12

  Dad drops me off at school early on Thursday morning and, I have to admit, words cannot describe the satisfaction that arises from being the first person there. There’s something invigorating about being first at anything, especially if you take full advantage of it and sit at the entrance, staring down people like they’re late as they come inside.

  There’s also the fact that I beat Lauren to math class, which is basically unheard of. Her lateness, however, gives me a chance to sit back, fold my arms across my chest, and admire the hotness that is Jack Penner. When he glances at me uncomfortably from the corner of his eyes, I even tell him so.

  “Sorry,” I say, leaning forward in my chair. “I just forget everything when I look at you.”

  He’s gotten pretty good at pretending not to have heard me, but the way his cheeks redden like overripe tomatoes always gives him away.

  “I think we should meet at the library to work on our assignment next week,” Jack says, refusing to meet my eye. “We didn’t get very much done last time.”

  “I know, it was really unfortunate,” I agree, even though I’m still harboring a lot of hurt over the fact that he rejected the ideas I presented. And almost let a bag of chips ruin what we have.

  Halbrook announces that we’re watching a movie he hopes will inspire us for our assignments. And for a second, we are hopeful. Today’s class might not be a total bust.

  Then, he brings out an ancient-looking video and VCR.

  Many heads hit desks, and palms embrace cell phones.

  I’m more open-minded, so I’m willing to give it a chance—that is, until black-and-white figures begin to scurry across the screen, robotic and scratchy-voiced. Then I’m done.

  I notice that Rachel Talbot is sitting by herself in the row beside ours, unwrapping a Fruit Roll-Up beneath her desk, and I wonder aloud if Lauren is sick.

  “Didn’t you get the e-mail?” Jack whispers back.

  “E-mail?” I forgot I had that.

  He nods. “About the walkout. Lauren’s staging a walkout for eight-forty.”

  I glance at the clock. It’s eight thirty-five. “Why is everybody still here, then?”

  Jack shrugs. “I guess they’re not going. It wasn’t really clear what exactly we were supposed to be protesting. Plus, it sounds like trouble.”

  I think back to the conversation Lauren and I had yesterday. About her wanting to speak out and be heard. It really looks like she’s going to be the only one at her own walkout, and I can’t help but feel a little bad for her.

  Just seeing an e-mail with sender “Lauren Friedman” would probably be enough to get half the student body to delete it. The other half might or might not read it, and those who do are hardly going to stick out their necks to support her political agenda. What I don’t understand, though, is why she’s not here, but Rachel Talbot is. I mean, isn’t Rachel supposed to be her mentor or something? Her new political adviser? The girl that is a cause before a person?

  But here she sits, slumped in her chair, watching the grainy black-and-white video. She’s on to her second Fruit Roll-Up.

  There’s something wrong with this picture.

  “Are we supposed to be taking notes?” Lance Hutchinson, the only other kid watching apart from Rachel—even Jack is reading a book—asks, raising his head.

  Of course Halbrook says, “Yes. All material presented in class is testable.”

  And I want to pummel Lance because a) I’ve always had unhealthy aggression issues, and b) you should never give teachers the chance to say, “I told you it was testable.”

  It doesn’t matter, though, because nobody moves to pull their notebooks out, and Halbrook himself is reading Time magazine behind his desk.

  I rest my head on my desk and determine that if I wasn’t so lazy, I’d probably join Lauren. The “academic discipline” our student handbook refers to has to beat watching this video.

  * * *

  Lauren is back by lunch, her lips forming one thin, angry line. She flops down across from me at a table in the cafeteria.

  “I hate this school,” she announces.

  “I know,” I say, determined to be understanding and supportive of her failed mission. “You were right. We’re all very complacent.”

  “What?” she says, opening a container of blueberry yogurt. “Well, yes, you are. But what I mean is I hate this school. They are running a complete autocracy.” She dips her spoon into the yogurt and shakes her head. “Do you know that they tried to sabotage the walkout? I don’t know how they found out about it. Rachel thinks they probably hack into our e-mail.”

  “Why was Rachel in class, by the way?” I ask. “During the walkout?”

  “She couldn’t do it because she’s already on a tight rope. If she gets kicked out of Quentin, she’ll have to be homeschooled. And her parents are apparently really psycho and think the world is flat.”

  It’s not? “Well, that sucks.”

  Lauren nods. “Anyway, I have detention for skipping class. Detention.” Something about her voice suggests she cares more than she’s letting on. Lauren Friedman doesn’t get detention. Ever. And although she’s trying to act like she’s forgotten who she is, she still remembers.

  “I’m going to get my parents to call Principal Motley.”

  Forgetting yourself is probably the hardest part of changing who you are. But if that’s true, then there’s something wrong with me. I remember specific things—what I wore when I auditioned for Oklahoma! two years ago; that I placed third in Quentin’s spelling bee in sixth grade—but I barely remember who I was, if I even existed, before.

  13

  On Saturday, the morning of my callback, I wake up early to the smell of vomit and bleach. From my position in bed, I hear the sound of footsteps, desperate and heavy on the other side of the door.

  Next comes a loud silence in which I try to breathe quietly. All I hear is the sound of the tiny white fan in Mom and Dad’s room, the one reserved for sticky summers and heat waves, beating and swiping angrily at the air.

  Are we all holding our breaths?

  Then the sound of her retching. A violent, gurgling noise that seems to come from someplace deeper, more hollow than her stomach. I close my eyes so I don’t have to imagine it.

  Make it stop. I wish someone would make her stop.

  She keeps doing
it, and our house shakes with the loudness. My father charges up and down the stairs, delivering my mother’s orders of a glass of cold water, Eric and her tablets, Eric! You know the ones, the ones she takes. The ones she always takes. I imagine his knees kicking up close to his jaw from the effort when he runs. Maybe he’s dressed in green and gold jogging gear, with a matching headband. Maybe he trips over his own feet on his way down the stairs.

  It’s quiet for a few minutes, and then Jena is back at it.

  “Again?” My mother’s voice breaks and falls apart on itself. “On what, Eric? She hasn’t eaten anything.”

  Dad mutters something soothing and comforting, and I wonder if it’s actually helping or just freaking Mom out.

  A couple of minutes later, the door of my room opens, a trail of blue light from the hallway traveling in. I freeze, my eyes shut. I don’t want them to know I’m awake.

  “Dani?” Dad brushes a strand of hair from my face and nudges me gently. “Dani, your mother and I are taking Jena to the hospital.”

  I know I can’t keep pretending now. I have to say something. Maybe to Jena. At the very least to Dad.

  Is she going to be okay?

  Should I come?

  “What about my callback?” That’s what I say.

  Dad swears softly. “I’d forgotten about that. I don’t think we’ll make it. I’ll call you from the hospital and let you know what the plan is, okay?”

  “Yeah.” Other words rise and fall between us. They scurry into the darkness, the farthest corners of my room. I can’t make my lips move.

  “SHIT!” More retching. My mother’s feet urgently moving across the carpet downstairs. “Eric?”

  He places a kiss on my forehead. “Try to get some sleep, okay?”

  I don’t answer and then he’s gone and I’m left in the darkness with the words I can’t make myself say.

  My mind won’t let me sleep so I lie there, breathing in the vomit-tainted air, the smell of too much bleach, the odor of dying sisters. And I’m still on number six.

  I pull the covers over my head to make it stop.

  * * *

  They’ve been gone a couple of hours when I leave.

  The ride downtown takes just over half an hour and then I’m stepping off the bus and walking toward Heaven’s Cycle. The store is located in the most deserted part of downtown, the place where all the crimes and muggings take place. It also happens to be where Spencer works.

  “Hey!” He is surprised but pleased to see me. He comes around from behind the counter to meet me. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was just in the neighborhood.”

  An eyebrow goes up as an unbelieving smile plays on his lips. “Oh yeah? Doing what?”

  I tell him what I want and, for a second, he just stares at me. “Please?” I ask.

  “All right,” he says finally. I exhale. “But I don’t get a break for another hour.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  Right then, a tall guy with greasy-looking blond hair, wearing a red Heaven’s Cycle shirt, comes out from the door behind the counter. “Dude, it’s not acceptable to just leave … Who’s this?”

  “Dani.” I nod at him.

  The man throws Spencer a look. “Nice to meet you. Spence is usually too cool to bring his girls around.”

  “Girls?” I repeat as Spencer rolls his eyes, giving BILL R. a playful shove.

  “He’s joking.”

  “So you need a bike?” asks BILL R.

  “She’s waiting for me.”

  BILL R. shakes his head. “Oh, no you don’t! Dude, don’t even think you can try to ditch me with all the work we have for the rest of the day.”

  “I’m not,” Spencer says, but BILL R., not appearing to have heard, continues, “I mean, I’m glad you have a girlfriend or whatever, but—”

  “She’s not”—Spencer glances at me—“my girlfriend.”

  “You know Trey doesn’t like us getting visits during work hours.”

  “I am NOT leaving you,” Spencer says.

  BILL R. pauses thoughtfully, holding up a hand. “Chill, bro. That’s all you had to say to begin with. And thanks, I appreciate you doing your job and cleaning up after your own shit.”

  “Just ignore him,” Spencer tells me as soon as BILL R. disappears out the door. He leans against the counter. “So, what are you gonna do for an hour? Or do you want to go and come back?”

  “I’ll wait.”

  Spencer opens his mouth to say something, but right at that moment, BILL R.’s head reappears in the doorway leading into the store’s garage. “Just a friendly reminder that the tires will not move themselves.” BILL R. smiles at me. “Nice to meet you, Dani.”

  He vanishes again and, after a momentary pause to ensure that he doesn’t return, Spencer says, “Well, I can log you in on the computer if you want to check e-mail or whatever. Play solitaire. I don’t really know what you want to do.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I say, and follow him behind the counter.

  “Sit,” he tells me.

  I slip into the leather computer chair and wait as he leans over me, his long tattooed arms coming down on either side of me. He smells like wood and cigarettes and burned tires. A couple of taps on the keyboard later, he’s no longer leaning over me.

  “Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Thanks,” I say. He heads into the door BILL R. appeared from. The computer is so slow, it might be older than I am. While waiting for chess to open up, I wonder what I’m supposed to do if the phone rings or if a customer walks in. Probably I’ll just act like I work here or totally ignore them. I’m especially good at option 2.

  I suck at chess. I’m concentrating so hard on not having the computer annihilate me that I barely notice when someone by the name of HardCoreKandi starts IMing Spencer.

  I ignore the IMs at first, but, when I grow tired of losing to the computer, I decide I can afford to volunteer a little brainpower to telling the annoying IMer where to go shove it.

  HardCoreKandi: HEY!!!! So guess who just got IM?

  HardCoreKandi: ME!!!! LOL. Txt is so much easier.

  HardCoreKandi: Spence, are you ignoring me?

  HardCoreKandi: I don’t take too kindly to that. LOL.

  SpencersAss: Actually, yes, I was ignoring you.

  I’m busy being amused by Spencer’s IM name when, all of a sudden, it hits me.

  SpencersAss: Oh my God, it’s you! Candy!

  HardCoreKandi: I spell it Kandi, but yeah, it’s me. LOL.

  SpencersAss: I like your screen name.

  HardCoreKandi: Really? Thanks. I like yours too. And not just as a screen name. LOL.

  An involuntary shudder escapes me. But, of course, there’s no way I’m going back to a chess game I was losing now.

  SpencersAss: Yeah, it’s really classy. HardCoreKandi. Sounds like the title of something in a Triple X store. Or maybe the stage persona of an exotic dancer.

  HardCoreKandi: LOL, really? The title of something you’ve seen? LOL.

  This girl has so many problems.

  HardCoreKandi: I feel like we never really talk at school anymore. Not like old times :(

  SpencersAss: You know what it is, HardCoreKandi?

  HardCoreKandi: What? And you don’t have to keep calling me HardCoreKandi. HCK works. LOL.

  SpencersAss: Sorry, HCK. Listen, don’t take this the wrong way, okay? But every time I try to have a conversation with you, I just get distracted. Your roots are hideous. Blond roots on black hair just looks wrong.

  Five minutes pass before she replies. I’ve leaned back in my seat, making myself more comfortable by stretching out my legs beneath the desk. I’ve even gone back to playing chess.

  HardCoreKandi: Spence, you crack me up. LOL. What are you doing right now?

  SpencersAss: IMing you.

  HardCoreKandi: Well obvi. But what else are you doing? I feel like hanging out.

  SpencersAss: What’s stopping you?

&nb
sp; A minute so she can process.

  HardCoreKandi: With you silly. LOL.

  SpencersAss: So HKC, what do you have against Danielle Bailey? I personally think she’s hot.

  HardCoreKandi: Are you kidding?? And it’s H-C-K.

  SpencersAss: She doesn’t have regrowth.

  HardCoreKandi: She’s a bitch.

  SpencersAss: If I have to hump a dog, I’d rather she were female, thank you.

  HardCoreKandi: ??

  HardCoreKandi: Don’t ever talk to me about humping Danielle.

  SpencersAss: HKC, this conversation is going nowhere. Let’s just agree to disagree … Can we talk about the time you wet your pants in third grade?

  HardCoreKandi: WTF?

  SpencersAss: Oh, you remember.

  HardCoreKandi: Actually, NO I DON’T. Stop being such a jerk, Spence.

  SpencersAss: See, Dani would have said “stop being such an ass Spencer’sAss.” That’s another reason I like her—her comic timing.

  HardCoreKandi: Stop being an a-hole or I’ll leave.

  SpencersAss: Does this offer stand lunchtime Monday too?

  HardCoreKandi: I don’t get it.

  HardCoreKandi: :(

  SpencersAss: Never mind, HKC. What can I say to get you overkilling those LOLs again?

  HardCoreKandi: I told you. Stop being a jerk. Or you could come over with Dunkin Donuts :-)

  SpencersAss: Okay, something that doesn’t require effort or seeing your hair. (Be honest, did you ever think that perm was a good idea?)

  SpencersAss: The first night, maybe?

  HardCoreKandi has signed out of this conversation.

  I spend the next ten minutes finishing up my chess game. Predictably, I lose.

  “You still here?” Spencer walks toward me, wiping his hands on a yellow cloth and then throwing it down on the counter. “Ready?”

  “Yep.” I stand and follow him out of the store and back around it. “There’s a slight chance your relationship with Candace has been irreparably damaged.”

  He frowns, his forehead creasing. “A slight chance? What did you do?”

  I give him a quick rundown as we approach his motorcycle. A well-oiled, shiny black machine. Also, the favor I’ve requested.