Y in the Shadows

by Karen Rivers

  What if I fall asleep here? Then what? I force my eyes open and make myself breathe hard. This kind of sleepiness is great and terrifying. It’s like an immovable force, rolling over me. Catching me. Grabbing me.

  Eyes open. Open, open, open. I bite the skin on the inside of my cheek. Stay awake.

  Stay awake.

  The sound stops.

  Quick, quick, quick as anything, before I can think about how to do it or why I’m doing it, I do it. I make myself disappear. In an instant, a heartbeat. Fade, fade, fade. He can’t see me watching him, I think. Too awkward. Stalkerish. Embarrassing. Go, go, go.

  Almost gone.

  If I were to be honest, I sort of planned this without planning it. I guess I thought, What if I could? What if I could watch without being seen? Then what?

  It sounds all wrong. It feels all wrong. But also it feels like I can’t stop myself from doing it. I’d wanted to do it. And I did it. I know this. Just like I know that, if he saw me, I would die. Just like those silly, overly dramatic girls that I’m not. I would die. I’m too gross. He would be embarrassed to see me.

  How else could he feel, being watched by the girl-with-her-period, the-girl-with-the-weird-eyes? I’m sure that’s all he knows me as. He wouldn’t know me for any other reason.

  I almost have to concentrate on staying faded. It’s like I’m thinking it without being able to stop myself, getting darker, then lighter and then lighter still.

  And I’m completely gone, shimmering. It feels like hard work, like my skull is too tight. My hair follicles too hot. Too cold. Both.

  I can do it. I can do this. I can control this. I’m so surprised, I feel like I don’t know if I should laugh or cry. I mean, think about it. I can spy.

  It’s gross. It’s distasteful. But I know I’m going to do it. Like I have no choice, even though I know I do. I know I’m going to use it.

  Without warning, the bum staggers to his feet and runs toward me. He’s staring right at me. He claps. Laughing. Well, not laughing so much as grimacing and making a choking sound. Toppling.

  “Are you all right?” It’s Tony, approaching. I’m so close I can touch him but he can’t see me.

  I’m right here.

  I’m not completely gone. I think I’m dark enough to see, if you really look. Sort of like a shadow. This time the burning-and-cold feeling was faster, so much faster than before. More intense. This time I’m aware of other things: my pulse, my breathing, the spinning in my head, the feeling that my fingernails are being tugged.

  I’m aware that I feel papery and thin. Like if a breeze came up, it might actually blow me away.

  I feel flammable. I drop my cigarette; leave it burning on the concrete, scared to step on it in case I ignite.

  I feel like I can’t possibly stay on the ground, like I’ll float away.

  I clear my throat, but no sound comes out. Interesting. I’m mute. So I don’t just vanish, I’m silenced, as well. I say, “Tony.” And he doesn’t react.

  I don’t want him to see me, but I do.

  I wonder, if I touched him, if he’d feel it. I want to. It’s wrong, all wrong. It can’t be the point of this. But ...

  The bum suddenly kicks at him, makes a sound like a belch, flips him the bird.

  “Whatever, man,” says Tony. He has sweat pouring off his face, like in a commercial for a sports drink. “I lost count,” he says. “I lost my place for you.”

  He dribbles the ball a bit. Whap, whap, whap. Takes off his sweatshirt, throws it hard in my direction. Runs back and forth across where centre court would be if there were any painted lines to see, his feet noisy on the blacktop. I cross to the other side, away from the tramp. There is a row of dumpsters, garbage spilling out. The ground feels so, so sharp under my feet. Sharper than before. That’s strange, too. I’m both heavier and lighter. Inexplicable.

  I pick the cleanest surface, so I can lean against the dumpster in the shadow of the most incredible maple tree I’ve ever seen. Bursting with its own green vividness. Leaves the size of flags. But when I do, the dumpster heats up against my skin and, just as quickly, starts to fade.

  Creepy, creepy.

  For a minute, I’m scared. My heart is beating like something trying to flap its wings in mud. An insect. I can make things disappear.

  I touch the tree, but it stays solid.

  Stays present.

  I pick up a pebble, roll it between my fingers, but it’s also still there. Hovering. I throw it hard, and it skitters under Tony’s feet, but he doesn’t notice.

  Scary. I hold my knees and rock for a minute. I’m so torn. It’s kind of cool, to be able to vanish. But making other things vanish? It’s too much. What is it?

  What am I?

  What is happening to me?

  The power is too much. Yet I wouldn’t give it up now. It comes to me all at once: if someone could fix this, the truth is that I wouldn’t want them to do it. Not yet. I’m not ... done.

  But still, there is something so sinister. So creepy about this. So... beyond beyond. Beyond bizarre. Maybe it’s that I just don’t understand it and I feel like I need to. I’m just completely overwhelmed by it, suddenly and powerfully, like when you’re caught off-guard by a piece of music or something that just wrenches you open. I put my head down and cry. Why not? No one can see me or hear me.

  I hardly ever cry.

  It feels fake. Like I’m making it up. So I stop. A cat slinks by, leaps into the first dumpster. I can hear it in there, shifting rubbish.

  I try to concentrate on Tony. He’s still dribbling. Counting out loud. Fast. He gets to a hundred and whirls, quick as lightning, shoots the ball in.

  He’s so good.

  I lie back and look up at the sky through the ceiling of leaves. I’ve never noticed this tree before. Not that I’ve ever been lying down behind the bowling alley either, so I guess it’s not surprising. It’s just amazing. It’s glowing. The leaves are so bright and the wind is shifting them slowly. Yet they make so much noise. So colourful. It seems like when I can’t see myself, I can see everything around me brighter. Hear things louder.

  Maybe all of this, the trees, Tony, the bum, the alley, maybe they are all clues to some test that I’m taking without knowing I’m taking a test. Do I sound paranoid? I feel paranoid. Like this can’t be something that’s just happening to me. Someone must have done this to me. Someone must be observing. Probably I am supposed to be doing something now, but I don’t know what it is. I’m letting someone down who may not even exist, that’s what I feel like. Like I forgot to learn my lines and someone, somewhere, is really disappointed in my bad performance.

  I frown. I feel so queasy, like carsick but more intense. And cold. Feverish. Hot. Tony bounces the ball hard against the backboard exactly ten times, hard. Ten more. I’m starting to notice a pattern. Ten of this. Ten of that. How long is he going to keep going? The bum has slumped over in a heap in no particular spot. He’s either dead or asleep. I hope he’s not dead. I don’t think he is. Waves of alcohol come off him in rhythm with what can only be breathing.

  I can’t shake the feeling that I’m in a place where I shouldn’t be, like any second now something terrible will happen that will somehow be my fault. Like I’m in a scary novel right before the killer strikes or the rabid dog appears from behind the building. A siren wails nearby, nearly causes me to have a stroke. It’s like I’m so sensitive to sound that it actually lifts me up to my feet. The lights flashing by seem to ignite the entire sky.

  The sun is setting.

  I want to go home. I’m so tired. But I don’t want to leave and the idea of walking home barefoot all that way suddenly seems too far. It is far. I wonder what time it is. The setting sun spills great splotches of colour across the cloudy sky. Which is when I get it in my head to hide in Tony’s car. He only lives two blocks away from me. I can hitch a ride.

  Can I?

  My heart thuds hard, so hard. It’s a balloon pulled so tight it’s going to give. I’
m scared, but I’m also excited.

  What am I doing?

  I can’t remember the last time I felt like this. Maybe when I was little and it was my first time on the uneven bars and I looked down and it looked like I was so high up, I got vertigo that spun me around but also thrilled me.

  It’s like that.

  Just about exactly like that.

  Tony’s throwing his sweatshirt back on. He’s twirling the ball on his finger. He’s getting ready. I have to do it. I brace myself, hold my breath, do all that I can think of to stay gone, like I have any idea what that is. I follow him a couple of steps behind. He’s breathing loudly, hard and harsh. Soaked to the skin. His eyes are glittery, like he’s been crying.

  I want to touch his arm, just to see, but I’m not that brave.

  A crow flies low, cawing, nearly flying through me (could it? I wonder) in its hurry to get to the dumpster. So loud.

  Tony opens the door to his car. A hunk of rust falls to the ground. I hear it hit. The sounds remind me of when I have a migraine, just so tinny and sharp like they all have a razor-line shimmer around them. How can I get in? I can’t sit on him. He’d see me for sure. I can see myself in the reflection of his side mirror, standing undecided. I can’t see my face, but my body is definitely semi-visible. Tony isn’t looking. He seems far away. Mad. He opens the back door to throw his stuff in and before I can think about it, I hurl myself in. He slams the door. I lie there just as I fell, heart beating so hard it’s impossible to believe it won’t burst. I’m panicking, I can’t breathe, I’m dizzy, I feel sick. Guilty. Strange. Wrong. I hold myself completely still; not that he’d notice if I didn’t, but I feel paralyzed.

  This is so much scarier than it would be if it was, say, a movie. In a movie, I wouldn’t be afraid.

  But what am I afraid of?

  I’m mostly afraid I’m going to be sick. Or I’m going to fall asleep or faint. Or that if I stop concentrating so hard, I’ll suddenly reappear.

  Tony turns the radio on. He’s talking to himself, mumbling under his breath. I can’t make out what he’s saying. After a commercial, a song blasts out. He starts to sing. It’s an old, old song that I recognize from my parents’ collection. It’s the kind of music they like to play when they’re working, like Led Zeppelin or Def Leppard or some other ancient rock hair band. He’s really singing.

  He can’t sing.

  I mean, it’s the kind of singing you’d hate for anyone to witness. Embarrassing singing. I can’t help it, I feel embarrassed for him. He hits a high note. Well, misses a high note.

  I laugh. I don’t mean to, it just comes out. He doesn’t hear me. No, no, of course, he doesn’t. I shift a little. Get more comfortable. He’s still singing. I start to feel a little safer.

  From where I’m lying, on the floor of the back seat, I can only see part of his profile. I see him sloop his hands through his sweaty hair and fling the sweat off in the general direction of his lap. Then suddenly he shouts, “Fuck.”

  I gasp. Did he see me?

  “Fuck,” he says again. “Fuck you, Joe.” Then he starts to cry. I mean, he’s crying really, really hard. He’s crying so hard that he turns into the wrong street and just stops the car. I’ve never heard anyone cry like that before. Never. I’ve never been so close to that kind of pain.

  To tell you the truth, it makes me sort of fall in love with him but feel afraid of him and feel for him all at once. At least, I feel a falling sensation in my chest. A spinning and falling. He suddenly slams the door open and gets out. We aren’t at his house. Where are we? He slams the door hard and I sit up enough to see him starting to run. He runs like he’s being chased.

  It’s probably a good thing, because I look down and I can see myself. His basketball is digging into my lower back.

  I’m back.

  Oh God, that was close.

  What if he had seen me? Then what?

  I’m so hungry. I’m shaking. I feel like I haven’t eaten forever. I feel like I have a fever. I feel like if I fade any harder than that, I might go away for good.

  I somehow manage to open the door and get out. Race home, walking as fast as I can, mostly on lawns so my feet don’t get more cut up than they already are. Slam into the house, tripping over the hall table. Crashing. Like I’m suddenly too big for myself. I’m excited and scared all at once, can’t quite fit here in this place. Home.

  “Saved you some macaroni!” Dad yells from downstairs.

  “Thanks,” I call back. My voice comes out like a croak. I take the plate of cold orange muck into my room with me. Play with it with my fork. But I’m too tired to eat. Collapse onto my bed.

  I have the weirdest feeling. I feel ... almost, well, powerful.

  I fall asleep so hard, it feels like falling off a bridge and smashing into something harder than water and splintering. Dreamless.

  Empty.

  Strong.

  After all, I did it again. It’s real. I can do it again. And I know I will. I have to. I can’t stop now. Even though, maybe, I should.

  ****

  Tony

  Chapter 5

  Is thinks we should sign up for some stupid student council grad ski trip. He’s totally pressuring me. I want to go, but I don’t. This day isn’t good. My back is sore: this morning the kid who sits behind me in the boat crabbed his oar and it jumped from his hand, smashing me hard in the spine. The bruise feels deep, like my back is made of metal that’s being forced to bend the wrong way. My jaw is grinding from the pain, and from everything. Israel is getting on my nerves. He’s jumping around me, clowning. I want him to stop. I just want him to shut up for a minute so I can think. Ski trip? No ski trip? Why does it feel like it matters so much?

  “Come on,” he says. “Dude. It’ll be fun. It’ll rock the house. It’ll be the best. Oh, man. Spring skiing is the best.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I might have something. I have to check. There might be a regatta that weekend and I can’t miss anymore of those. I just can’t.”

  “You can miss rowing,” he squints. “I’m missing hockey. It’s our last year of school! We’re supposed to do this shit! If not now, when? Come on.”

  “Is,” I say. “I don’t feel like it. Give me a break, you asshole.”

  “You’re the asshole,” he says. “A boring asshole, too.” He mock punches me in the jaw, and I duck out of the way. The pain in my back sings.

  “Don’t,” I say. “My back is hurting.” I lift my shirt and show him the bruise, which I know must be there.

  “Wuss,” he says, slapping it.

  “Fuck you,” I say. Shoving him into the wall. He laughs. But when he hit me, it really hurt.

  Truth is, I don’t really want to ski. I mean, skiing itself is okay, it’s cool. Spring skiing kind of sucks, though, because the good snow is gone. It’s more like skating, all that ice chattering under your skis. Nothing to grip. Too slippery, too fast, too out of control.

  Well, mostly I don’t want to go away for a weekend, leave my mum overnight.

  What if something happens?

  Like what?

  I’m a kid. I should want to go on a ski trip.

  “Give me a break, man,” he says. “You’ve got to come. No choice.”

  I hesitate, and then scrawl my name under his on the sign-up sheet. I can’t help but notice Michael’s name on the sheet, too. I feel something like dread crawling on the skin on the back of my neck. Dumb. She’s pretty and she likes me. So what?

  “Hey, your girlfriend’s gonna be there,” says Is, as we make our way down the hall toward the Biology lab.

  “Ha, ha,” I say. “She’s not my girlfriend.” I jostle him a bit.

  “Not yet,” he says, pushing me back. He knows. I know. It’s like some kind of fucked-up tide is bringing me and Michael together. Why fight it? I could do worse.

  Skiing. Yeah, that’s okay. I like to ski.

  Mum will be fine. She’s not my job. Right? I mean, I’m supposed to be hav
ing fun, aren’t I?

  I drop down into my desk, shoving my pack under my seat. Israel, beside me, is singing under his breath a rap song that I don’t recognize. Tapping his desk with a pen. Papers are getting passed around. Tests are being returned.

  I flunked.

  Goddamn. I studied, too. It makes me mad that I failed. I think about that stupid science kit I’m always fooling around with. I can grow a crystal on my windowsill, why can’t I do real science? Like adding stupid chemical equations?

  I catch a glimpse of Yale’s test as I pass it back to her. She got a hundred percent. What the fuck? I wonder what that’s like, to get a hundred percent in anything. Who knew she was smart? Other than Is, you don’t get to be both smart and cool, which I guess explains why she isn’t popular. She’s pretty, so it’s not that. She’s like someone you always notice out of the corner of your eye but never really think about too much. She’s ... different. I guess that’s it. Different and, of course, totally shunned right now because of what happened at the last gymnastics thing. I don’t know. I mean, I wasn’t there.

  I turn to give it to her. She’s drawing something on the pale skin of her forearm, the ballpoint pen digging red into her flesh. She catches me looking, covers it up.

  Like I care.

  I glare at her.

  She has the coolest, weirdest, freakiest eyes. Man. They make the hair on my arms stand up when she looks right at me. Spooky. Interesting. She really is hot in a weird waif-girl way. Huge eyes. I feel sorry for her, to tell you the truth. I want to say something like, “Man, sorry that happened to you,” but it would come out wrong. She’d be mad probably.

  Hostile.

  She cracks her gum and it startles me. I turn back around. She’s the kind of girl you don’t really talk to very much. Except to say, “Here’s your paper.” Or, “Do you have a pen I can borrow?” It’s like she’s too much for this school. Too smart for sure. Too different. In a different world, she’d probably be admired.

  Not here.

  Still, she has that vibe, like she wouldn’t give a shit about any of this if she were me. Just runs her fingers through her wispy hair and looks around the room like she has no idea how she came to be there and can’t wait to leave. Her black freckles look almost blue they are so dark. They look like a map of the sky at night, in reverse. Dark on light.