by Karen Rivers
“It’s not really robbing,” said Mum. “It’s more a transfer of funds.”
“Yeah,” said Dad. “Want an egg?”
“What?” I said. “What?”
“Want an egg?” he repeated.
“No!” I said quietly. “I do not want an egg. Are you fucking crazy?” They both looked up at me. I almost never swear, not in front of them. “You can’t just rob banks. I’m sorry, but you can’t.”
“Well, we did,” said Mum. “We don’t have to ask your permission. It’s for a good cause.”
“I don’t care!” I said. “This is ridiculous. Who do you think you are?”
“Calm down,” said Dad.
“I am calm,” I said, as calmly as I could.
“You don’t sound calm,” said Mum.
“Are you from a different planet?” I yelled. “Are you insane?”
“No,” said Mum. “And no.”
“This is crazy!” I was really freaking out. I mean, who wouldn’t? It was beyond ridiculous. Not just the robbing, but the nonreaction. Like everyone is idly robbing banks in their spare time? I don’t think so.
“You could go to jail,” I said. “Did you ever think what would happen to me?”
“We won’t get caught,” said Dad. “It isn’t possible. Besides, we’ve stopped.”
“Oh,” I said. “I guess that makes it A-okay, then.”
“Not really,” said Mum. She was starting to look worried, to give her credit. Although she was probably mostly worrying about the burning egg. “It’s just that we have to do it. For Yale.”
“For Yale,” I repeated.
“For Yale,” Dad said.
“For Yale,” said Mum.
“Yeah,” I answered. “So you said.”
So she explained that Yale was ... well, pretty disabled. Really disabled. Severely disabled. So disabled that she needs twenty-four hour care, tubes, oxygen. Beyond disabled. Just, really, barely alive.
As she was talking, I could feel the room starting to swim. The table shifting. Nothing holding still. I guess I fainted. And then, when I came to, I stayed lying still for a while. Eyes closed. I could hear them talking still, speculating about whether they should wake me up or call 9-1-1. I opened my eyes and sat up. I felt so incredibly, overwhelmingly sad, I can’t even explain it. It’s stupid, I guess. I somehow had decided that “not well” meant she was like Sully. Well enough, but not present. I hadn’t imagined that “not well” meant “completely dependent on tubes and tanks.” I hadn’t pictured “severely disabled.” It was like I couldn’t process the information. Every time I tried to think about it directly, a pain started in my chest that felt like a pencil being thrust through my heart.
“The money keeps the hospital where she lives open,” said Mum. “We had to do it.” Then she turned the last page of the paper, folded it up and chucked it in the recycling.
“Horrible,” I muttered. And I made myself get up, even though my head felt like a balloon floating somewhere up near the ceiling. “Horrible.”
I felt so mad. But I can’t even pinpoint why. It had something to do with my dad taking a big bite of the fried egg sandwich, yolk dripping down his chin. My mum’s well-that’s-that-then look that wrapped it all up and dismissed it. The tiny kitchen that stunk like air freshener and bad milk. It was too much.
I stumbled out the front door, threw up in a pot of half-dead tulips and just started to run. I had to run, see, because it stopped me from thinking about anything else.
I ended up here, on the bus to the ski hill. With all these kids from school who I don’t want to see. I don’t want to be here.
But I don’t want to be anywhere, so here (or not here) is as good a place as any. I mean, I’m disappeared. As far as they know, I’m not here. As far as my parents know, I’m not there.
So I’m not anywhere. I’m nowhere. Just like my sister, I guess. But in a different way.
I can’t believe they can’t see me. I have to sit on the floor at the end of the aisle. I feel so visible, but no one looks. I have a strange feeling like I could reappear and yet still be invisible. Like I’ve become so much in the background that people would forget to see me, somehow. But that isn’t true, not for real. I am always too visible. Everyone is always too ready with a tampon joke. I am The Bleeder. Let’s not forget that. Not for a second. Never.
The mood on the bus is too tight, mirroring something I’m feeling inside but can’t quite identify. You can practically see it, the laughter all strung out like strings of coloured lights about to snap, broken glass about to fly everywhere. It makes me nervous, or maybe I’m just sick with nervousness already. “Nervousness” isn’t even the right word for it. I don’t know what the right word is. Everyone is too loud, fake happy; too look-at-us-aren’t-we-good-friends. Too many cameras snapping pictures. It feels constricting, like the air is cotton candy. It smells like overheated bodies, toothpaste, laundry soap, musty ski jackets.
I wonder what anyone is getting out of this. It is like they are performing for an audience, only no one is watching. They are too busy being the kid-having-the-most-fun-of-all.
I guess I’m wrong when I say no one is watching. I’m watching. Watching Tony watching Michael watching Israel watching watching ... Sort of like watching TV, only it’s all real. They are all so creepily attractive, like wax figurines. The key players in the show. Top billing.
Honestly, it is almost sick the way the other kids, the less popular kids, take their pictures. Like The Girls are stars and they are paparazzi. Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie. It’s gross is what it is. And yet I can’t stop looking at them either.
For fun, I let my hand come back into view. I want someone to notice. To be scared. At least if someone is scared of me, I’ll know I am still here.
No one sees.
I’d forgotten for a while how much I hate bus rides, how buses make me feel faint, dizzy, light-headed. Sick. But it doesn’t take long for the feeling to come to me, for me to remember. I feel panicky. What if I faint and no one sees me? Or worse, what if I faint and come back into view, suddenly appearing where no one was before? What would they do?
I dig my nails into my palm. Will myself to not panic, to stay conscious. I count my breathing, my pulse, the seats, shoes, bags, blonde heads, brunettes. I count to distract myself and to keep myself present. It’s hard to stay gone for the whole interminable ride. Two hours. My bladder is screaming pain; I have to pee so bad. I’m so hot-cold, I can’t even tell which I am anymore. It’s too long. I’m panicking, breathing too fast; I can’t stay disappeared much longer.
When we finally arrive, I’m relieved. The bus grinding to a lurching halt. People spilling off. That’s when I realize what a mess I’ve gotten myself into. I can’t stay gone, but I can’t reappear here, either. I’m not supposed to be on this trip.
Where will I sleep? I can’t stay invisible while I sleep, I don’t think. It would be too scary. What if I couldn’t come back?
My whole body is shaking like I have hypothermia. The kids are taking forever to get off the bus. Oh, hurry, hurry. I can’t do this. Not much more.
What had I been thinking?
I don’t know.
I just had to do it.
Right before I left, I did this really strange thing. I grabbed a glass of milk that Mum had on the table and I threw it at her. Not the glass, just the milk. It spiralled through the air like some white, opaque bird. Splatted all over her face.
And then I ran.
I wanted to see Michael. Knowing that she had a brother, Sully, who wasn’t well either. Like she could relate to me now, not that I’d ever tell her. She just felt suddenly safe to me. Like a place I needed to get to. Somewhere I needed to be.
So I got two hours to stare at her on the bus. Being pretty. Probably not thinking about her brother at all. Probably not thinking how lucky she was to be so normal. Not even normal, but perfect.
Israel Santiago attached to her side like a slug.
It took half the bus trip for my pulse to slow down to something close to normal. For me to feel like I wasn’t going to die. I wonder if anyone has ever died from fury. Or confusion.
I don’t understand, I don’t understand, I don’t understand. My parents. Their secret lives. Yale. “You get what you get.” How can they live with it? I don’t know what I want them to do, but more. More than their stupid skateboards and Greenpeace tattoos. All those lies and that fake caring: she was inconvenient and they didn’t want to deal.
What if there had been something wrong with me? Something more than there is, I mean. Something more than what they don’t know.
Finally the bus is empty. I just need a bathroom. A place to reappear. Soon. I follow The Girls. Then, at the last minute, decide the boys are a better bet. Less observant. Easier to hide from. And I’m curious, I admit it. Curious to see what they talk about when they think they’re alone. Curious what Tony’s like when he’s with his buddies. Curious, curious.
Curiosity killed the cat, I guess. I should have kept that in mind.
The boys’ room is like a different world: just a bunch of furniture, but they fill it up extra. Somehow extra noisy, extra smelly, extra everything. Sharing this room are Israel, Tony, Matti and Jackson Phillips. I reappear — finally, finally, like surfacing after an impossibly deep dive — in their closet, guessing (rightly) that they won’t be hanging anything up. Their conversation is actually pretty mundane, talking about skiing, which run is the best, skimming the surface. It takes me a while to register that Israel is talking about Michael, after all. The way he’s talking, well, I had thought he was talking about some kind of sport. Something he could win.
“I’m gonna score,” he says. “Big time. This is it, boys and girls. This is the big show.”
“You go, big guy,” says Matti.
“Lucky bastard,” says Jackson. “She’s so hot.”
At first Tony ignores them, and then he says sharply, “What?”
“I’m going for it,” says Israel. “Wish me luck, brother.”
“Does Michael know?” says Tony. “Is she in on your plan? Because I don’t think she’s that into you. You heard her on the bus. She didn’t even want your hands on her.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Israel. “She knows she wants me.”
He goes to the mirror and makes a gesture to himself, hip thrusting, obnoxious.
“You’re an asshole,” says Tony.
“What’s it to you?” says Israel. “You’re the one who never even called her.”
Tony looks like he’s about to smash Israel in the face. I’ve never seen him look like that.
They take longer to get ready to go somewhere than girls do. They take forever in the bathroom. The stench of it nearly makes me gag.
While he waits, Matti lies on a bed and idly plays with himself through his pants like no one will notice. Israel pops a zit with huge concentration. I can see it all through the door, which is ajar. It is both boring and disgusting. And these people make fun of me for getting my period? I don’t get how that works. Tony is lying on his bed; I can see his jaw grinding. He’s not talking but I can tell he’s stewing. He’s really mad. I want to know what he’s thinking. Is it that he’s jealous or is he really afraid for Michael?
Somehow, I’m afraid. For her. Israel is just so feral.
I’m getting jumpy with nerves. I need a cigarette. It’s weird because clove cigarettes don’t have the nicotine that other cigarettes do. They aren’t supposed to be addictive. But I am addicted to their smell. To the feeling of drawing in the hot, spicy burn of them. But I can’t do that when I am disappeared. Can’t do anything. And I can’t reappear here at the mountain. How could I explain my arrival?
I spend a lot of time waiting for the boys to get it together and to get out. I know they will, I just wish they’d hurry up. I need the room to myself for a while.
To be visible.
To smoke.
To eat.
To pee.
They are finally gone, a tumble out the door, fake wrestling (mostly Matti just jumping on everyone’s back), real tension (Israel and Tony snarling at each other like puppies who have been playing, and then suddenly realize that they wanted to draw blood). All that stuff that boys do when they think someone’s looking and apparently even when someone isn’t. I am so relieved to reappear that I actually cry. There’s just too much going on, I can’t help it. I cry and cry. And pee. Right away.
When all that’s done, I dig around in their stuff. I need to eat something desperately. Tony’s bag is mostly just full of clothes that all smell like fabric softener and him. I bury my nose in them and inhale. Israel’s bag is similar but the smell isn’t good. It isn’t ... I can’t explain it. His stuff smells like something dark, like the water near a fuel dock: like gasoline, salt and pollution.
I finally find some power bars in Matti’s stuff. A bag of Doritos. I am so hungry, my hands are shaking too hard to open the Doritos. I drink a bunch of water. Try to calm down, to get my mind back to normal so I can figure out a way to get out of this.
I can’t.
I’m panicking.
I feel like I need to hurry, to get to Michael, to do something. But what? Tell her that Israel is ... well, what would I say? Why would she listen, anyway? I’m sure she knows he’s going to try something. She’s a big girl. She can figure it out.
I just can’t shake the feeling that there’s something really off about the whole thing.
My head is wrapped in gauze. I feel like I’m going to faint.
What am I going to do?
I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.
I lie on Tony’s bed. I wrap his sheets around me. This seems safe somehow. This seems like a cocoon. Then, just as quickly, too hot. Too confined.
Suddenly, I have to get outside. Into the fresh air. The cold will snap me out of this, bring me back to myself. I don’t care who sees me. Does anyone care enough about me to know if I’m supposed to be on the trip or not? I doubt it. It’s more important, visible or not, that I get to Michael. That I find her. Then I’ll figure it out.
I follow the sounds of the voices, The Girls’ voices, unmistakable. As I get close, I lose my nerve and make myself disappear again, even though it’s hard. Even though I can hardly do it. It’s such an effort. I feel like I want to lie down in the snow, rest my hot cheek on the cold crystals of ice.
The Girls are tumbling over one another. Shrieking and laughing. Their drunkenness is like a cloud hanging over them that they can’t see. Madison throws up neatly into a bank of snow, laughing the whole time. She even makes throwing up look not gross. How is that possible?
Michael’s not with them.
They vanish in the direction of the toboggan run. Shouting and laughing. Running. Like they aren’t so drunk they can barely stand.
I shudder. Keep moving. Trudging along in the direction they had come from. Then I find the hot tub.
I find Michael.
She’s slumped in the water, alone. I’m torn. Should I reappear?
No, I should leave her alone. She doesn’t need me.
Still, I feel like I want to keep an eye on Michael, make sure she doesn’t slip under the water and drown or something. Down below the patio where she is in the hot tub, in the distance I can see Tony chucking snowballs at Matti and Jackson. I go closer, to see him better. He looks relaxed and this makes me feel happy. He looks young. He doesn’t always. Sometimes he looks like the oldest person I’ve ever se
en. I guess I’m distracted by them because I don’t notice Israel until he jumps into the hot tub, practically landing on Michael’s head.
Then he starts to ...
I have to ...
What do I do now?
Then she starts to fight him, and he’s pulling her out of the water. For a minute, I’m paralyzed. I can’t move. I’m too far away to get to her quickly, how did I move so far away? Drawn to Tony like a magnet.
She’s saying something. She’s saying “no.” Can no one else hear this?
Then I hear a scream. It’s so loud. Like something tearing the very fabric of the air, splitting it apart. It’s so powerful it stops me from moving, and then I realize that it’s me. Is it me?
I’ve reappeared. I don’t even know what I’m doing, but my foot makes solid contact with Israel’s back. Michael doesn’t seem to see me at all. She’s clawing at him and I’m hurting him, or at least it’s hurting my fists to strike him. My nails break on his skin.
There are people coming toward us but all I can think about is keeping Israel off Michael, which is harder than you might think. He’s so strong, he keeps flinging me aside, but he can’t really be meaning to go back to what he was doing. She’s lying there, shivering, shivering, blue around the lips like she’s dying. Time feels all wrong. Things are moving too slowly. His fist lands solidly on my jaw, which hurts more than I’d ever imagined a punch would hurt. I keep seeing stars, not just a few stars drifting but like I’m being hit in the face with a shower of light so bright I can’t see anything.
Tony is suddenly there. There is a blast of voices so loud I can’t make them out, the noise is so much that I fall back through space, a terrible distance and I think I disappear accidentally. When I figure out how to reappear, I see Tony. He’s punching Israel again and again, blood everywhere, Matti on him screaming, “Don’t kill him, don’t kill him,” and Michael lying there, eyes closed but I can see them moving. I can see she’s pretending. I go over to her. I lift her up. She isn’t heavy. She’s like a bird, weightless, empty boned. I don’t know, she feels like air.