A List of Cages

by Robin Roe

  “You have dyslexia. Aren’t you supposed to get—what are they called—accommodations?”

  “No. I don’t think so. I don’t have dyslexia anymore.”

  He gives my paper a suspicious look. “You don’t have Reading Improvement or anything?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe Dr. Whitlock could test you for it.”

  “I don’t think I have it.” I’m just not smart.

  “Well, if you did have it, it’s fixable. There are exercises, homeopathic drops….”

  “Drops?”

  “Yeah, there are remedies for everything. That’s how I got off my ADHD meds.”

  I follow Adam as he flies into the courtyard. Once outside, he’s like a dog let off his leash. I sit on the bench while he kicks a pile of leaves, then swan-dives into them. He peels off his red hoodie and uses it as a pillow. Lying on his back, he lifts my essay over his face and reads it again.

  “It’s good, you know,” he says after a couple of minutes. “You were always a good writer—stop shaking your head. It’s true. Sometimes people get too impatient. Your teacher can’t read your handwriting, and you can’t spell, so she just gave up. But it doesn’t mean you’re not good.”

  I look at him closely, trying to read his face. He looks like he really means it. I think of my trunk full of stories, and my heart speeds up. Maybe someone could read them. Maybe someone could like them.

  “People get so impatient, you know?”

  I nod. I know.

  “When I was younger, my ADHD was sort of out of control. It drove my teachers freakin crazy. I wasn’t trying to aggravate anyone, but it was like a physical impossibility to sit still and do work. In sixth grade I was failing every single class—seriously, every class—so Mom took me to a doctor and I got on meds.

  “It worked, sort of. I mean I could sit in my chair without going insane, and I was quiet, so my teachers were happy. But then I got sick, like hospital sick. I was throwing up all the time. I couldn’t sleep. I was losing weight.”

  I don’t want to picture Adam being sick.

  “Finally my doctor said everything was a side effect of the medication. He told Mom he could switch me to something else, but she was like, hell no. That’s when she got really into nutrition and homeopathy. She’d do anything to make sure I’m well.”

  “Are you well?”

  “Yeah. I feel great.”

  “So you’re passing your classes now?”

  “A’s and B’s.”

  “But don’t you…” He looks up, waiting for me to finish. “Don’t you still have ADHD?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I do. But I get good grades and I can function and I’m happy.”

  “That’s good, Adam. I wouldn’t like it if you were unhappy.”

  He lifts his shoulders off the ground, flashing a sort of smile I can’t decipher, then crawls out of the leaves and returns my essay to me. It’s even more crinkled now, and smudged with soil. “Next time you have to hand something in, just tell me. I can proofread it or whatever.”

  I nod, but I know I won’t. If he’s being nice enough to offer, I should be nice enough to never do it. The wind picks up, but instead of putting his sweatshirt back on, he just fits the hood over his head. As he walks forward, it billows behind him like a cape.

  IT’S THE LAST day of November and so freakin cold I don’t bother taking off my in-class-Siberia-layers when I’m walking to the van after school. I’m about to hop inside when I notice Julian standing totally still at the top of the back steps.

  “Hey! Julian!” I call. He looks up like he’s been snapped out of a trance. I wave him over, and he approaches, slowly. “You miss your bus?”

  He makes the suspicious face he makes sometimes, like he’s trying to come up with a story. “Yes.”

  “Get in. I’ll give you a ride.”

  “It’s okay,” he says. “You don’t have to. It’s not that far.”

  “Where’s your house?”

  “Wicker Street. By the water tower.”

  “That’s like ten miles. Get in.”

  “No really. It’s—”

  “Julian, get your ass in the car.”

  He quickly hops into the front seat, then looks around in awe. “It’s a spaceship.”

  I’m chuckling when Charlie rips open the front passenger door and orders, “In the back.” I consider protesting, but Julian’s already climbing out. As soon as Allison, Jesse, Camila, and Emerald pile in back next to him, I peel out of the parking lot, and we all start talking about the birthday party Emerald’s having at her place tomorrow.

  “Exactly who’s coming?” Camila wants to know.

  “Well, us, of course,” Emerald says, “and Kerry and Mason and that group, and—”

  “Wait, theater kids?” Camila sneers.

  “Careful, Camila.” Charlie laughs. “Adam was almost a theater kid.”

  “Yeah, maybe if I wasn’t so lazy.” I glance in the rearview, catch sight of a very pale Julian, and shit, I didn’t exactly forget about his car phobia, but I guess I thought he didn’t have it anymore.

  “Julian, would you like to come?” Emerald asks.

  He flat out doesn’t answer, and the van goes quiet.

  I check the mirror again to find Allison watching him with a concerned, motherly expression—the same one she gave me when I twisted my ankle.

  Finally, I hear a small voice say, “Yes.”

  The girls whisper something about adorable, which probably embarrasses the hell out of him. Lucky for Julian—but no one else—Jesse plugs his phone into my car, and the speakers start to shake with screaming guitar.

  When we get to Julian’s street, I’m happy to have an excuse to turn the music down. “Which one?” I ask.

  “The fifth house on the right.”

  “This one?” I ask, surprised.

  “Yes.”

  “Wow. It’s really nice.”

  It’s a huge white stone two-story with two long rows of square windows, and tall peaking points at each end like towers. It’s nice, but it seems weird. You just assume that anyone who owns a house like this could afford to buy a kid a cell phone and clothes that fit.

  THE COLD METALLIC taste of winter is in the air, the kind that excites your senses and snaps away the haze. I pedal my bicycle faster, skidding over patches of ice. Sometimes I’m tempted to ride it to school, but I know people would make fun of it since it’s so small, and that would kill me. My dad gave me this bike.

  Wide-awake and freezing, I knock on Adam’s door, holding a small box wrapped in pink paper. He lets me in, and we walk into the living room where Emerald, Camila, and Allison are talking.

  “You brought me a present?” Emerald asks.

  “It’s your birthday,” I say.

  Her smile is gentle as she carefully peels away the tape. Everyone is watching, and I’m embarrassed. I thought mine would be one present among a hundred others. She looks happy and expectant, and it makes me even more anxious, because it’s not a great gift.

  “I love it!” She smiles down at the ceramic butterfly. “How did you know?” I’m not sure what she means. “Thank you, Julian.”

  Someone turns up the music, then the three girls force Adam and me to sit. They disappear down the hall only to reappear wearing different clothes.

  “Take mental notes,” Camila orders. “Tell us which outfit’s the hottest.” After a few spins, they run off to change again.

  “It’s like they’re all on drugs.” Adam laughs.

  Catherine comes in the living room while the girls are gone. She smiles when she sees me and gives me a cookie that tastes like fresh-cut grass.

  The girls return and demand opinions. I can’t remember what they were wearing a few minutes ago, so I have to lie. After four outfit changes, they sit on Adam’s yellow couch and stare at me.

  “Julian,” Emerald says delicately, “we need to talk about your wardrobe.” I glance over at Adam to find him watching with amuse
d sympathy. “Take this…ensemble, for instance.”

  There’s an embarrassing sting at the back of my eyes. I really tried to dress nicely for her party. I even snuck into Russell’s room to borrow one of his button-down shirts.

  “You’re fine,” Adam says to me, while shaking his head at Emerald.

  Camila hops up. “We’re taking you shopping!”

  My stomach tightens. I can’t just go out and buy clothes, but I can’t tell them that. “These fit so—”

  “We’re not taking no for an answer,” she interrupts, and the girls start scanning me up and down.

  “Ladies,” Adam says, “you’re freaking him out.” He turns to me. “I probably have some old clothes if you want them.”

  “Let’s see!” Allison says, and they all fly down the hall toward Adam’s room.

  “Now?” he calls after them.

  “It’s my birthday,” Emerald calls back. “Julian, come here.”

  Adam gives me another sympathetic smile and shrugs. “It’s her birthday.”

  When I get to his room, they’re yanking things out of his closet. His room is different than how I remember it. Instead of two twin beds, there’s one big one, and most of his superhero action figures and posters are gone. But the fish tank, now empty, is still here. When I lived in this house, Catherine read me the story where Elian meets a privileged alien girl, and she shows him her massive bedroom. Along one wall the girl had a floor-to-ceiling red curtain, but when she pulled it back, instead of sky, there was a whale-sized creature—swimming. It wasn’t a window at all, but a giant aquarium. I loved that scene. I wanted a room just like it, so Catherine bought that fish tank for me.

  “Come here,” Camila orders, and the girls take turns holding up shirts in front of me.

  “This looks like it might actually fit,” Emerald says.

  “I don’t understand why so many guys want to wear shirts that look like nightgowns,” Allison adds.

  Camila tugs it off the hanger and pushes it at me. “Try it on.” Then she just stands there as if she expects me to change in front of them.

  I feel a rush of panic. “Um…”

  “We’ve seen nipples.” Camila winks.

  “Not his nipples,” Adam says, stepping inside. He pushes aside a row of hangers, grabs a pair of dark jeans from the back, and hands them to me. “Clear out, ladies. He’s not a stripper.”

  “Emerald!” Camila hops two feet off the ground. “We have to hire a stripper!”

  The girls are laughing as Adam forces them out of the room. As soon as he shuts the door behind him, I quickly change. The shirt and jeans both fit. I can’t remember the last time I wore something that really fit.

  I open the door, startled to find everyone waiting right outside. The three girls burst into applause, then order me to spin around. Adam laughs and shrugs, so I do it.

  When they all clap again, my mouth spasms into a smile.

  “Is there going to be a magician?” I ask. The last birthday party I went to had a magician.

  Adam shakes his head, smiling as if I said something funny. I glance around Emerald’s living room. It doesn’t look like a party. There aren’t balloons or streamers or a piñata or anything.

  Adam and I take a seat on one of the long couches, and soon the house fills up with seniors. I recognize a few from the concert, but most are strangers.

  Some girls walk through the door, carrying four-packs of pink glass bottles. Beside them a group of boys hold up their huge boxes of beer, and everyone cheers and hands them cash.

  “I don’t have any money,” I whisper.

  “It’s cool,” Adam says. “I’ll cover you.” But he looks uncomfortable, like maybe he really doesn’t want to. That expression intensifies when I grab one of the cans. It only takes one swallow for me to realize it’s disgusting. I don’t want any more, but I’d feel bad not finishing since Adam is paying for it.

  Camila’s eyes zero in on me as if she knows what I’m thinking. “Gross?”

  “No, it’s good,” I lie.

  “Have this, much better.” She hands me her pink bottle. There’s lipstick on it, which is kind of gross, but I don’t want to offend her, so I take a small sip.

  She’s right. It is much better, like carbonated Kool-Aid. “It’s good.” She hands me one from her cardboard container. “I’ll pay you back,” I tell Adam, even though I have no idea how I’m going to do that, since I spent my savings on Emerald’s gift.

  “Those actually have more alcohol than the beer,” he says, loud enough to be heard over the music someone just turned on.

  “They do?”

  “Yeah. You should probably just stick with the one beer.” He takes my unopened pink drink and returns it to Camila.

  “Can I just have soda?” There are a few three-liter bottles that some kids are pouring into red plastic cups.

  Camila starts laughing. “Stop babying him, Adam.”

  “He’s fourteen.”

  “I’m almost fifteen.”

  “Your birthday’s in July.” He laughs.

  Camila seems to lose interest in the conversation and wanders away.

  Adam grabs a cupful of soda and hands it to me, then he’s off too, weaving in and out of different groups. I wish I had the ability to talk with people that way. Talking is a talent; he probably doesn’t realize it, but it is.

  I watch as the crowd swells and whirls around me. There is a cluster of dancing girls. In one corner a boy and girl are kissing. In another some kids are passing around a pipe—it’s red, like the toy bubble pipe I had when I was little. I see Adam. He takes a puff from the pipe, passes it, then disappears into another crowd.

  Minutes tick by and I keep sitting on the couch alone and drinking my soda, feeling so awkward I want to leave, but feeling so lonely that I can’t.

  I’m finishing my third cup when suddenly everyone fills the living room, squeezing onto the couches or sitting on the floor. They argue for a minute about whose turn it is, and eventually Camila wins.

  As she looks around the room, it gets tense and quiet. Then she says with a smirk, “Charlie.” Allison is sitting in Charlie’s lap, and she pets his back when his name is called. “All right, let’s see…take off your shirt, then—” The words are barely out of Camila’s mouth before he has his fists at his hem and he tears it off, looking very pleased with himself. “Then take off Adam’s shirt, then—”

  Charlie’s smile becomes a scowl. “Oh, hell no.”

  “Come on, Charlie.” Adam gives him an exaggerated wink. “Get your sexy abs over here.”

  “Hell. No.”

  But everyone starts calling Charlie lame and telling him he has to do it, so in the end, he pulls Adam’s shirt off and endures the screeching and whistling while he presses his palms to Adam’s chest as ordered. Then, looking thoroughly disgusted, he puts his shirt back on and crosses his arms.

  The next dare also involves some level of nudity and embarrassment, and I realize it’s only a matter of time before I’m forced to do something awful or someone is forced to do something awful to me.

  I don’t want to take off my clothes. I can’t do it. But if I refuse, everyone will get annoyed and tell me I’m being lame.

  Adam hops up from the floor and sits on the couch beside me. “Julian is under my protection,” he announces loudly, making me squirm. “He gets to watch us act like idiots, and that’s it.” When no one protests, I start to relax.

  After almost everyone has been forced to do something horrible, someone turns the music up again and they all drift off into corners, into shadows. I’m left sitting alone, thinking about getting more soda, when Camila falls onto the couch beside me. Her neck is swaying like her head is too heavy. She leans in close.

  “You’ve got pretty eyes,” she says.

  “Thank you.”

  “What color are they?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She slumps over, arms loose like noodles, and pours vodka from a giant gl
ass bottle into my cup. “But Adam—”

  “—is bossy.” She pokes out her bottom lip. “And he isn’t your dad. You don’t have to listen to him.”

  Camila taps a long red fingernail against the side of my cup. I take a swallow and cough. “I like the other kind better.”

  “This’ll help.” She grabs the soda and sloshes some into my cup. I take a sip. “Better?”

  I nod. It is better, but still not good. I keep swallowing until it’s gone.

  When a new song begins, everyone cheers like it’s their favorite. It’s fast and loud, and they all begin to jump. Camila grabs my sleeve, jerking me into the crowd of leaping bodies. I feel a soft hum in my limbs and everything is slower, calmer.

  I dance, and pressed so close together, I’m anonymous, just one cell in the body of swirling figures. I’m dizzy. I’m here. I’m alive.

  It’s after 3:00 A.M., and everyone’s gone. Allison and Charlie were supposed to give me a ride, but I guess they took off. I’m looking for Julian, but instead I find Emerald, half-sitting with her eyes closed on that fancy couch in the off-limits formal living room. Her eyes spring open when I trip over the Persian rug.

  She smiles, looking wrung out, shoulders slack for a change, instead of squared like a soldier. “You know what movie you make me think of every time you walk into a room?” she asks.

  “I don’t know.” I fall down beside her. “There’re about a million movies where the lead does this slow-motion-sexy-walk, so it could be—”

  “Bambi.”

  “Bambi?”

  “You know that scene where it’s Bambi’s first winter and he steps out onto the ice?”

  “Not cool, Emerald,” I say when she starts laughing. She leans onto my shoulder and the weight feels good, like her head’s supposed to be there.

  “And with your eyes and eyelashes and cheekbones, it’s even more perfect.”

  “I have Bambi’s cheekbones? What does that even mean?”

  “You know…the sort of angular face. High cheekbones. And you have big brown Bambi eyes.”

  “That’s awesome, Emerald. Just what every guy wants to hear.” She laughs again. “So you’re officially eighteen. Do you feel different?”