“Hey!” said Inko, pointing a finger at the two old ladies. “You!”
Apparently recovered from the partial Tasing, he charged at Grandma Van. She motored off in one direction while Julia, screeching as she went, hopped off the chair, and ran in the opposite direction, past me, to her car. There was a lot of yelling, including by me, as I tried to get Howe’s attention. If the Taser wasn’t working, we might need a new weapon and I’d just had a flash of inspiration: the crazy nail file that Whitney stashed in the front desk.
“Howe! Go inside! To the desk! Get the nail file!” There was all this loud honking coming from behind me and yelling coming from in front of me, and Howe was shaking his head, so I pointed inside and at Whitney and waved my fingernails in the air, until finally Howe gave me a thumbs up and disappeared into the building again, so I figured he got the message. The hearse—the source of all the honking—shuddered to life as Julia revved the engine and slowly backed the car all the way down the block. Grandma Van might have been right about her driving skills.
Across the street, Grandma Van was still demonstrating her own questionable driving skills, steering the chair in wide circles, just fast enough to outpace the ticked-off cremator. He was getting winded and not yelling so much, and Julia had stopped honking, so I could hear that the sirens were getting closer and closer.
Right then, there was a strange poof. I turned to see Howe standing in front of Whitney’s dope red convertible, now with flames leaping from the seats.
“WHAT DID YOU DO THAT FOR?” I yelled.
“You told me to!” he yelled back, confused. He waved his fingers in the air. Oh God. Like flames.
“The nail file!” I yelled. “I MEANT THE NAIL FILE.”
“I thought you were saying to set the car on fire!”
“My car!” shrieked Whitney.
Inko stopped, looked at Whitney and the car, forgetting, unfortunately for him, about Grandma Van, who was not distracted, and continued her portion of the circle, zooming behind Inko and Tasing him a second and then third time.
He went down again, yelling a few choice descriptive words about my grandmother.
The sirens got closer.
Grandma Van leapt out of the chair, ran over to the closest storm drain, and kicked the Taser down it.
I looked down at McMullen and then had one last thought. The one thing that might work. That would actually make McMullen most proud of me.
Either it was unbelievably dumb and would never work in a million years.
Or else it was perfect.
A police car turned the corner and pulled to a stop in front of the lab. Two cops got out, their attention on Whitney and her efforts to contain the fire.
I took a deep breath and gently put McMullen on the ground. I peeled back the pretty soggy gauze and grabbed a sturdy handful of curly gray hair. I lifted him again, set my sights on Inko Fredrickson, and then, as the fire raged, I decided it was time to let McMullen fly.
I channeled the strength of Bobby-Duran so my puny arm could get McMullen all the way across the street, and I guess I’d given him a twist, because he spun as he flew, his curly hair fanning out as he made a beautiful arc through the air. I almost thought I saw him wink at me, but it was probably just my imagination. He sailed and then landed smoothly, rolling along the street for another few yards straight toward Inko.
The cremator had pulled himself up once again, but was even shakier than before, and as McMullen rolled right into his wobbly legs, Inko tipped over one final time, screeching as he went down, which attracted the attention of the cops. They ran over, and as they discovered the head at his feet and quickly handcuffed him, the convertible fire started popping, and I took it all in, thinking about how I’d actually done it, and watch out, Bobby-Duran, because my heart was pumping pure adrenaline now. I threw my arms out and yelled at the top of my lungs, “I AM THE PITFALL!”
And then Julia’s hearse came barreling from the opposite direction, down the street directly toward me, and before I could jump out of the way, that long black car slammed into me and I felt my body leave the ground. I must have landed. But I didn’t feel anything.
I couldn’t see anything either, other than blackness, everywhere.
I heard Howe yell my name.
I heard Grandma Van in the distance yelling, “You Armenian bat! You killed her!”
And then I didn’t hear anything.
My life cycle ended.
I straight-up died.
I MEAN I STRAIGHT-UP DIED.
DEAD died.
And as I had discovered just a couple of days ago, this was complicated.
For one thing, I was still thinking. And what I was thinking was this:
I am dead.
I’m dead.
That makes sense. I got hit by a car and I’m dead.
Dead, dead, dead.
This is dead.
Weird.
I had been so caught up, you know, in everybody else dying or wanting to die or theoretically dead but not actually dying, I never really never really seriously thought about being dead myself before. Somehow, all the space in my brain designated for thinking about deathy stuff was full.
And then suddenly, without warning, I was dead, and frankly, I’m glad I didn’t think about it, because it was kind of anticlimactic. It’s a good thing I didn’t really have expectations.
I mean, no tunnel. No light. No vending machines. No afterlife guide.
“Hey, now,” said a voice.
And even though I couldn’t exactly turn and look, because I didn’t exactly have a body or eyes, I sort of…turned and looked.
It was a frog.
Okay. There WAS an afterlife guide. And behind him was someone else.
Madonna.
No.
A hockey player.
No.
I tried to make my internal eyes focus.
It was…
Oh crud.
It was Hippocrates.
“She doesn’t look like a jerk to me,” the frog said.
“Shhh,” said Hippocrates. “She’s waking up.”
What are you doing here? I thought. Seems like the upside of being dead is that I wouldn’t have to deal with you anymore.
“Well,” he said. “Technically we’re just hanging out in the same place.”
And who’s that frog? I asked. Is that my afterlife guide?
“I figured for sure you’d recognize me,” the frog said, sounding a little disappointed. “Oh, wait. How about now?” He looked down at his frog belly and then, concentrating, shook it a little, until suddenly his intestines fell out.
Oh, I thought. I do remember you. Devon Kovach’s frog.
“Was that his name?” He carefully packed his intestines back in. “I think I might have some haunting to do after we’re done here.”
“Anyhoo,” said Hippocrates. “What’s on your mind?”
Well, I’m dead.
“Yes.”
So.
“So.”
Isn’t one of you going to guide me or something?
“Eh. It’s your call. What are you in the mood for? I could get you fitted for one of these bad boys.” He spun in his toga, letting it flare out at the bottom.
No thanks.
“Or,” the frog offered, “you could join me and we could haunt that kid Devon. We could also grab something to eat—though it gets pretty messy with me, just to warn you.”
“Or maybe you’re done doing things?” Hippocrates said.
That was a good question. Was I done doing things?
Actually, I wasn’t. I wasn’t even close to done. I’d only just started doing things.
I’m not ready to be dead, I thought.
“Oh!” said the frog, surprised enough, apparently, that a little bit of intestine poked out. He didn’t seem to notice. “You sure?”
I heard Em’s voice, echoing in my head. “Boring.”
Except I wasn’t boring. Even if I screwed u
p everything, ever (which I kind of had for a while), I had something burning in me, too. My fire wasn’t barbershop quarteting. It wasn’t being a doctor. It wasn’t being the greatest camper in the history of campers. It was just being Fovea Hippocrates Munson. Or Fovea Hippocrates Eyeballs Igor Phobia Pitfall Munson. That was what was burning. And I was going to rock it.
I’m definitely sure, I thought.
“Well, the pleasure was all mine,” said the frog.
I pointed the submarine of myself toward the surface.
The frog waved. “If you get a chance, ask Devon Kovach how he’s been sleeping!”
I pushed off.
And suddenly everything was so surprising and so bright and loud that before I could stop myself, I yelled, “Don’t cut off my head! I still need it! I need it attached!”
“Do you hear that?” said a familiar voice.
“Duly noted,” said another familiar voice.
My eyes adjusted to the light and I saw my parents leaning over me. They weren’t in jail! And they didn’t even look mad! My head was still swimming, and I was so glad to see them, it took me a second to realize how worried they were. I wiggled my feet and said, “Look! I’m fine. I’m back now. I’ve got a crazy headache. And I’m little bruised up. But good. I was dead, but I’m cool now.”
They shared a glance, and my mom said, “We think you might have a concussion, honey, but you definitely weren’t dead. They didn’t even have to shock you.” She nodded toward the EMTs standing by an ambulance, halfheartedly holding those electric paddles they use to start people’s hearts. The EMTs looked disappointed.
“No, I’m pretty sure I was dead.”
“Well, okay,” said my dad, winking as he took my pulse.
“No, I mean it,” I said.
“Okay,” he said, winking again.
“Concussions are big deals, though, sweetie,” my mom said, putting a hand on my forehead and inspecting my eyes. “Just in case you’ve got one, we’ll need to watch you like a hawk for the next twenty-four hours.”
Suddenly I could think of nothing I’d rather do than spend twenty-four hours hanging out with my parents.
“Can you follow my finger?” My mom held up a finger and moved it around while I followed it with my eyes. “Looks okay.”
“Hmm…” my dad said. “She looks okay or she looks okay?”
“I’d say both!”
They were themselves again, and I smiled, even though it made my headache worse. Thank goodness they understood each other, because even after everything I’d been through the night before, plus saving the day and then dying for a few minutes, I still didn’t understand them. I was glad they were mine, though.
My mom was suddenly distracted by something just past me. “Is that Whitney?”
“Holy cow. What happened to her car?” my dad said.
“It was on fire,” I said.
“And by the way, why are you yelling in the middle of the street that you’re the Pitfall?” asked my dad. I could see them both starting to take in everything that was going on around us. “We were about a block away and heard you yell and then saw you get hit and bounce off the car. What’s going on around here?”
“I finally translated my name. And I get it and it’s okay.”
“What are you talking about, sweetie?”
“Pitfall, how Fovea means ‘pitfall’ in Latin. I don’t want to—”
They burst out laughing.
“Okay,” I said. “Maybe you misunderstood. I’m trying to tell you that it’s all right that you named me Pitfall.”
Now they were doubling over with hysterics. Classic.
I glanced around again, taking the moment to check out the progress on the rest of things. I must not have been dead for very long. Two firemen were carrying Inko Fredrickson on a stretcher and some others were spraying Whitney’s car with white foam while the cops gathered around McMullen. Whitney didn’t seem impressed with the job the firemen were doing, and was pouring one of those little purse-size bottles of water on the fire. Grandma Van was hollering at Julia, while Howe stood a few feet away and waved nervously.
I nodded.
My hysterical parents finally got ahold of themselves, wiping the tears out of their eyes. “No, no…” My father gasped for air.
“It doesn’t mean ‘pitfall,’ it means ‘depression,’” my mother said, but then they both dissolved into laughter again.
Maybe I should have let them go to jail.
“No…” My dad tried again. “I mean, it can be translated as ‘pitfall,’ but the anatomical definition, the one we were using, it’s the depression in your eyes where the rods and cones are, where you see more clearly.”
My mom picked it up, still catching her breath. “We thought of you, our baby, as the best parts of us, the part of us that could see the world more clearly than we ever could, the part that could make the world a better place.”
My dad reached out and grabbed my mom’s shoulder. “She thought we named her Pitfall!” And they both lost it, again.
My parents.
Classic.
And, I realized with another headache-inducing smile, maybe I understood them better than I thought. And maybe they understood me, too. I just hadn’t trusted it before. I took a chance. “Also, I don’t want to be a Future Doctor of America.”
They both stopped laughing abruptly.
“You don’t?” asked my dad.
“Future Nurse of America?” my mom tried.
I shook my head.
“Future Dentist of America?”
“Dad, no.”
“Ooh—Future Physical Therapist of America?”
“Mom! I don’t want to go to medical school. I don’t know what I want to do, but I’m really sure it isn’t that.”
They looked thoughtful for a moment. Then my mom smiled and dragged me into a sitting-up hug. “Well, there’s loads of ways to make the world a better place.”
“Absolutely,” said my dad, joining the now massively embarrassing but also pretty terrific three-part hug. “For now, you’ll just be a Future of America.”
“Where were you guys?” I asked as we broke out of the hug.
“Oh, it’s a long story,” said my mom with a worried sigh. “Short version: We’ve been trying to locate something that went missing. We were chasing down one last lead, a student from a few days ago, but she couldn’t help us. And then we grabbed lunch on the way back.”
“What are you going to do about the missing thing?”
“We…aren’t sure yet,” she said, rubbing her forehead.
“You know, it could be nothing,” my dad said, scratching his neck.
Terrible liars.
I glanced over at the small police horde. My parents didn’t know it yet, but everything was about to get a lot more complicated. Even so: complicated was way, way better than being accused of a cover-up and going to jail.
My mom followed my look. “By the way, what’s Grandma Van doing here? Does she know that woman who hit you?”
“I think Grandma Van’s making a friend,” I said as we watched Julia and my grandma yelling at each other. They looked over at me, and then hugged each other dramatically.
My mom’s jaw dropped.
“It’s complicated,” I said. “Sometimes there’s a truce, sometimes there’s not.”
“Well, let’s say hello!” said my dad as we started to walk over.
“You know,” I said as we walked, “maybe I’m wrong, but Grandma Van might just be on the verge of a real breakthrough.” I let them think it over as we walked to where she and Julia had been hugging. Now the two old ladies were checking out the firemen. “Mom, Dad,” I said, “this is Julia Klinger.”
“It’s WHO?” asked my dad. My mom elbowed him and then they both started complimenting Julia on her scheduling abilities. While they were all chatting, Grandma Van wheeled around to me.
“Good-looking fire, huh?” she whispered.
“Perf
ect,” I said. “How’d Howe do it?”
“He heard you tell him to start a fire. And then he found a lighter and a whole bunch of tampons in the office. Very flammable stuff, tampons. He feels real bad about it.”
“Good to know. And just to double check,” I said, “you’re not going to mention any of the details of this to my mom and dad?”
“No way,” Grandma Van said. “Not if you don’t.”
“And you and Julia Klinger, huh?”
“I think we worked it out. Might try out a partnership, actually. We all did good work here, today. Although”—she leaned in and lowered her voice—“I do believe Victoria is going to be put out about the mysterious disappearance of her Taser.”
I snorted. Grandma Van giggled. The next thing I knew, it was our turn with the hysterics. I realized as I wiped the tears out of my eyes that I’d never heard her laugh before. It was gravelly, but didn’t remind me at all of the cement swans. Huh. The sound of my grandmother’s laugh. You just learn new things all the freaking time. And right around then, Julia Klinger apparently mentioned something about a flying head, because my parents hurried across the street, waving delightedly at Whitney along the way, and joining the bunch of police officers circled around McMullen.
It took me a minute to find Howe. He was sitting on the curb near the fire truck.
“Pyro, Pyro, Pyro,” I said, smiling as I sat next to him.
“Oh man.” He dropped his head into his hands. “And it was such a cool car.”
“Yeah—but the fire worked. Combating chaos with chaos, right? And don’t worry about Whitney. I’m sure she’s got insurance or something. Probably.”
We sat for a minute and then he said, “What a weird day.”
“Yeah.”
“And I can’t stop yawning. Car fires and flying heads and your grandmother doing something probably illegal—”
“Very illegal.”
“Very illegal, and I can’t stop yawning.” He leaned back a little, kicking his feet out long in front of him. “You saved them. Your parents. You totally did it.”
“Almost. There’s one more thing to do.” I glanced at Howe and we both smiled. “But it can wait.”
We sat there for a minute, and then he said, “I’m not saying we should do this again, but do you maybe want to hang out next week?”
The Mortification of Fovea Munson Page 19