by Lindy Zart
“Huh. Why are the robots killing people over eighteen?”
“Because in this futuristic world run by robots, people lose their worth once they reach adulthood. They’re considered old and obsolete.”
“Sounds like a happy place.”
I want to kiss the smile from her lips. As if sensing that, Alexis is silent and still as she watches me. I drop my eyes, breaking the invisible pull of her. She exhales slowly.
“Things are…going okay for you?” I ask quietly.
“Yeah.” She nods, setting down the book. “Not bad, actually. Better than expected.”
“Good.” My brows furrow as I examine the way she shifts her eyes, looking everywhere but at me. I press my fingers to the tabletop, watching as the tips go white. “And the school?”
Alexis shrugs.
I relax my hands. Knowing she doesn’t want to talk about it, I drop it. We both have limits as to what we’ll discuss. I don’t make her talk about what she doesn’t want, and she does the same for me. Before Alexis came here and shoved her way into my world, I was a nonentity. Just barely functioning. Just barely alive. All it took was one interaction with her, and I was altered. I wanted to live again. I don’t want there to come a time when we no longer talk, because one of us couldn’t leave secrets alone. I don’t pry. I let her have her secrets, and she allows me mine.
“Nick.”
I look at her.
She hesitates, capturing her lower lip between her teeth. I study the motion, enthralled by it. “Are you here because you want to be, or because you have to be?”
I go cold, everything in me halting. Breaths must pass through my nostrils; my lungs must work, but I am unaware. I stare at Alexis, not really seeing her. Seeing a ghost instead. My hand clenches, and I bow my head, studying the tense veins that run along the back of it. I can’t answer that. I won’t.
“I…I’m sorry,” she stammers, getting to her feet. “I just, um, I thought maybe…maybe sometime you could, you know, go somewhere with me. Like, spend the day with me or something. If it was okay with…whoever.” Dismay clings to her words. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”
I stand as well, wanting to be close to her. I always want that. I take the hand she keeps running through her hair, and I squeeze the cold fingers. Alexis goes quiet, looking at me in a way that makes my heartbeat stutter. “I would like that. If you let me know when, I can set it up with Dr. Larson.”
Joy splits her face with a grin and Alexis tightens her fingers around mine. “We’re going to do terribly dull things together, Nick, but you’ll love it.”
I laugh softly, releasing her hand. “I believe you.”
“About the dull part, or the loving it part?”
“Either. Both.”
“Are you free Saturday?”
I’m free every day. Alexis’ dad came once during her two months here. No one’s come to see me since I was first admitted last year. I just nod, pressing down a nauseating combination of panic and hope. I haven’t stepped off the center’s grounds, I think, ever. This place is a prison of my own making, and for good reason. Forcing myself to focus on what is before me instead of inside me, I study Alexis’ pink lips, her naturally arched eyebrows, the way she’s looking at me right now, and I breathe.
I think I could do just about anything, with her beside me.
“I’ll pick you up at eight.” She pauses. “Do you have anything besides pajama pants to wear?”
I laugh again. “What’s wrong with my pajama pants?”
“Nothing. They’re nice, and look super comfy. I just thought we could go for a walk, or maybe hiking. It’s supposed to be in the sixties. If you want to wear fleece pants, then go for it.”
“I’ll figure something out,” I say, smiling. I hope my smile appears more encouraging than it is. The thought of being out in public isn’t a pleasant one. Worry about that later.
“If you…” Alexis takes a deep breath and locks eyes with me. She looks nervous. “If you ever want to call me—you know, if you’re bored or have free time or whatever—you can. It’s a landline. My dad won’t let me have a cell phone; he thinks they’re more trouble than anything.”
Making a face, she tugs something from the pocket of her jeans and slaps her palm to my chest. “I’m usually home every night after six. Call me, but, um, only if you want.”
I reach up, and she drops her hand when I take the paper she placed there, but not before the imprint of her hand is branded to the skin above where my heart beats. I look at the slanted name and numbers, committing them to memory.
“I will,” I promise.
Relief loosens her shoulders, and she laughs shakily. “Cool.”
“Nick, you’re due in the cafeteria in five minutes for supper chores,” Jackie calls from the desk near the doorway. Other than the doctors, we only know the first names of the staff. Safer that way for them when we’re discharged. Most of us are harmless. Most.
I look at Alexis, apology lining my face. “I have to—”
“Right.” She backs away. “I’m not supposed to linger anyway. Dr. Larson’s orders.” She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I’ll walk you to the door.”
Alexis shakes her head before I finish. “No. You’ll be late. I’ll see you Saturday. And maybe I’ll talk to you before then.”
When she smiles shyly, my body tautens and I even find myself leaning toward her. Needing to feel her lips on mine. I used to dream of blood, but now I dream of Alexis’ lips. She stares back with wide eyes. Her lips part, beckoning me forth whether she is mindful of it or not.
She’s everything I want, and she is not mine. Forcing myself to take a step from her, I raise a shaky hand to my head and dig my fingers into the back of my neck to keep from reaching for her.
The light in her dims, and she blinks like she’s coming out of a trance.
“Have a good night, Alexis,” I say quietly.
Swallowing, she jerks her head in a semblance of a nod and practically flees from the library.
THE CAFETERIA IS FULL OF kids and staff, and conversation and laughter are at a loud volume. There are only around thirty kids present, but it seems like there are triple that. Voices echoing, building on the resonance of one another. It makes my head swim. I serve food, refill tubs when they get low, keeping my eyes down to avoid conversation. I don’t like to talk to people all that much; I don’t like a lot of noise. I like to be alone, in the quiet.
Most of the kids here seem normal. You wouldn’t know they had any problems, especially seeing them as they are right now. But I know the boy with skin the color of coffee beans sitting in the left corner of the room was sexually abused by his uncle, and cuts himself. The girl I am presently serving mashed potatoes screams in the night, every night. I catch her unfocused gaze before hurriedly looking away.
“What about the butter?”
I look up, taking in the pale-faced boy with a stained yellow shirt and dark blond hair sticking up all over his head. I don’t recall seeing him before now. He must be a new one. “What?”
“The butter.” He looks around, his eyebrows pinched. “The butter should be here, by the mashed potatoes. You need butter with mashed potatoes. Where’s the butter?”
I wordlessly point to the dish containing individual packets of butter.
“No.” He slams a fist on the table, attracting the attention of nearby kids and Manny, the worker in charge of the kitchen and everything that happens within it. “That isn’t the right kind.”
I slowly straighten, speaking in a low voice. “That’s the only kind we have.”
Panic flares his nostrils, and darkens his eyes. With his wild hair and constantly moving eyes, he looks like some feral beast. “No,” he mumbles, his voice getting louder, until he’s shouting. “No. No. No, no, no! This isn’t right. This isn’t right!”
“What’s going on?” Manny asks, looking between the two of us. With a shaved head, and massive muscles, the
re isn’t much discordance when Manny is around. Dark eyes set in a dark face fixate on me.
“It’s the wrong kind of butter,” the boy shrieks, throwing his plate of food. It hits the wall, mashed potatoes and meatloaf creating an abstract picture on the cream canvas.
His tormented eyes fall on me and he shoves me. I stumble until I hit the wall behind me, looking at the boy who’s lost inside his own mind. And I grieve for him. I look around the room at the silent spectators. I grieve for all of them.
Manny talks into his radio with one hand, the other firmly around the boy’s wrist. He efficiently explains the situation, and before I can count to thirty, two giant orderlies appear. The boy will be taken to a cool down room. He will stay there overnight. His family will be notified. He will be discussed, dissected. We all know the drill, most of us having been there before. I’ve been there.
Everything appears normal, until something like this happens. Then reality sets in. It always does, eventually.
Looking at me, Manny says, “Get the mess cleaned up, Nick.”
I nod and move to the closet inside the kitchen area.
“It’s the wrong kind of butter. She’ll be mad. Mother will be mad. It’s the wrong kind of butter,” the boy screams, wild-eyed, as he’s taken from the room.
No one laughs; no one speaks for a good minute. I wipe the wall with a wet rag, and then work on the floor. As I listen to the quiet, it’s as if we all say a silent prayer for the troubled mind of the nameless boy. Slowly, cautiously, there are murmurs, until kids are talking again. It’s subdued, though, not like it was at the beginning of the meal. We all recognize the present chaos of his mind; we’ve all been trapped in a place we can’t escape. It’s dark, and scary. It’s a place where screams have no sound.
The rest of the meal goes by without incident. Once the cafeteria is cleared out, with the supervision of Manny, two other kids and I work on getting the leftover food put away and dishes in the washer. Alexis used to help with this, but now there is a boy in her place. Definitely nowhere near as cute as her.
When the tables are wiped down and the floor is swept and mopped, I say good night and go back to my room. Not only smelling of food, but also wearing a good deal of it, I take a quick shower in the communal shower rooms. I get dressed, smiling as I pull on a pair of dark blue fleece pants and a gray tee shirt. I can picture Alexis shaking her head with a little grin teasing her lips.
Back in my room, I don’t pick up the new book I took from the library, like I normally would. It’s a young adult novel set in a dystopian era—my favorite kind to read, along with science-fiction. Instead I pace from the bed to the dresser and back, again and again. When I first came to Live, I had a roommate. He was eventually sent home and I was never assigned another. I suppose I’ve been here long enough that I’ve earned my own room, small and bare as it is.
I’ve seen a lot of kids come and go during my time here.
My mind is stuck on Alexis Hennessy, making any attempt to do anything worthwhile futile. Since she came to the center, she’s taken over my thoughts. But this isn’t a love-struck reminiscence. The spark in Alexis’ eyes, although nice to see, wasn’t completely happy. Some of it was ominous.
She’s hiding something, something big. During our conversations in the past, at times I sensed bitterness in her. A certain look, a certain comment would mar her essence. I know it has something to do with Enid High School, and whatever happened there.
I pull out the white slip of paper from the pocket of my red and black plaid pants lying on the floor, staring at the neat handwriting. I trace the letters of her name with my index finger. More than the occasional unrest of her mind, I feel her heart, her goodness. The thought of her losing that makes my hands tremble. I don’t understand the course my thoughts have veered down, but I know they have merit.
I take a deep breath, hold it until my lungs burn, and release it. “What’s going on with you, Alexis?”
Four
Melanie
WHEN THE FOLDED PIECE OF paper drops to my desk just as the bell rings, I look up in time to see the weird girl, Lexie, disappear in the crowd of dispersing students. Her pace is hurried, like she can’t wait to get away from me. The feeling is mutual. It’s bad enough that I have to deal with her creepy stares all the time, but Mr. Walters thought to further torment me by putting her in my writing group.
No one wanted to pair up with her, and I completely understand why.
“You coming?” Jocelyn wonders as she twirls a lock of black hair around her finger and watches Jeff saunter from the room.
I shoot to my feet, purposely elbowing my friend as I do, and slide the paper inside my folder. “Yes. And you can quit checking out Jeff Oliver. He’s not available.”
She turns her gaze to me, and there’s fire inside the brown and gold irises. “Says who? He looks available to me.”
“You only decided you wanted him because you saw that I’m interested in him,” I say in a voice that bristles with anger.
Smiling, Jocelyn glides toward the door. “See you at lunch.”
Teeth clenched, I hasten to my locker and ditch my books before heading to gym class. The hallways are full of hurrying kids, with a few who aren’t moving at all. They stand or sit, looking dazed and unwashed. Druggies, I’m sure. They probably don’t even know where they are. I catch a glimpse of shiny black hair as Jocelyn turns the corner. Sometimes I don’t know why I put up with her. She’s a snooty, slutty bitch who thinks she can just take whatever she wants.
A boy with two chins and overly large glasses stutters a greeting as we walk by one another.
“Don’t talk to me,” I say coolly, not even bothering to look at him.
“But I—”
“No.”
“You’re in my—”
“Don’t care,” I trill.
Something slams into me from behind and I go sprawling face first onto the hard floor, barely catching myself before my chin hits it. I lie still, gasping for air as my heart pounds at an alarming rate. I shift my eyes to the dirty floor caked with who knows what, my face inches from it.
“Whoops. Sorry. I didn’t see you there.”
I turn over and lock eyes with Lexie.
“You clumsy oaf,” I seethe, climbing to my feet.
“It was an accident,” she says in an innocent voice, but her face calls her a liar.
Shorter than me, and more bones than anything else, she wouldn’t stand a chance in a fight. Not that I would ever stoop that low. Only losers physically fight. And where does she get off looking like she’s entitled to do and say as she pleases around me? She should quiver where she stands.
I glower at her, my eyes narrowing when she won’t meet my gaze. Her throat moves as she swallows, and she finally looks at me. Her eyes don’t match her smug expression. It’s disconcerting, and irritating. I jab a finger at her face. “You’ve been giving me shit since the start of this week.”
“Have I?” Again, her eyes quickly bounce from mine.
A muscle jumps as I flex my jaw. Is she schizophrenic or what? “You better watch it.”
“Definitely. I should do that.” She turns on her heel and actually whistles as she strides down the hall.
“Psycho,” I mutter.
I brush off my pink paisley print dress, glowering when I see the dirt smudge near the hem. Knowing I’m going to be late for gym class, but not caring enough to do anything about it, I stomp to my locker and work at the combination. I grab the folder with enough force to tear it, and withdraw the paper Lexie dropped on my desk. With fury screaming up and down my veins, I unfold the paper. I jerk back, stunned. It’s a crudely drawn picture of me.
My eyes are tiny and squinty, my nose is disproportionately long, and my teeth are pointy and crooked. As I study the picture, feeling like I’m in some reality I don’t understand, my face goes hot, and my throat turns dry. It’s stupid. A stupid drawing made by a stupid girl. And yet, it bothers me. People don’t ma
ke fun of me, and they especially don’t make fun of my looks. Where did this Lexie girl come from, and why does she think she can treat me like she’s above me?
Well, she’s wrong. She can’t.
I crumple up the paper and let it fall from my hand.
“Miss Mathews, are we lost?”
I spin around.
Principal Stenner watches me from the door to the main office. Short with naturally red skin, a small, upturned nose, and unending rolls, he reminds me of a pig with glasses.
“No. I just had to get something from my locker.”
His bespectacled eyes move to the floor. “Would it happen to be the piece of paper you dropped?”
Mortified at the thought of anyone knowing such a thing was meant to portray me, I scoop up the paper and throw it in my locker, slamming the door on it. “I have to go to class.”
“That would be a good idea, yes.”
Without replying, I walk to gym class. I’ll get marked for being tardy, unless I can come up with an excuse, like girl problems. That usually works. I shake off the tainted remnants of the ugly drawing, and the weird girl. Calming down, I realize neither are worth being upset over. She’s nobody. I won’t let her think otherwise by showing that her behavior troubles me.
I won’t allow her to be somebody.
Five
Alexis
NAUSEA CHURNS MY STOMACH WHENEVER I think of my actions at school this last week.
It all sounded flawless as I schemed and planned in my room at the facility, long into the nights. Hunger for revenge spurred me on, and I was downright giddy with it. I was going to do all the things to my bullies that they did to me. I have a checklist. I’ve been working my way down it this past week, but everything I’ve done lowers my standards of myself, action by action. It was perfect—until my emotions were added.
Melanie had to have seen the picture by now, and yet, whenever I saw her, she acted as if everything was fine. When I saw the cruel drawing of me, I wanted to weep. It makes me doubt myself. Why was I so weak? Why did I fall so effortlessly? What makes her stronger than I was? I tell myself it’s because I have a heart, and she has a hole where one should be. And when I sort of on purpose tripped her in the hallway, even though she did the same thing to me last fall, I wanted to hurl. Big time.