Consider

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Consider Page 11

by Kristy Acevedo


  My curls have already started to revolt against the straightening, flipping at the ends in haphazard directions. The bobby pin has slipped out of place, so I clip it back behind my ear. As soon as I open the door, a gaggle of squawking females flock to the sink mirror to fix themselves. I have to squeeze near the wall to get out of the room. Like battling for the space to exist.

  I scan the sea of unfamiliar faces for Rita. For a moment I can’t spot her anywhere. Then I see her sitting on Nathan’s lap, making out as if they’re sharing oxygen to stay alive.

  Whoa, that was fast.

  I’m not sure what to do—never been the third wheel before. I had Dominick. Oh, wait, does that mean Rita was stuck as the third wheel? I never thought about how awkward and lonely that must be for her.

  I take a moment to gather my thoughts. Maybe I should say something like “Get a room,” and maybe they’ll stop. I try not to stare at them, but seeing them kiss like that reminds me of Dominick. I miss that feeling—being so wrapped up in someone else you forget the world exists. Problems melt away. Self-consciousness no longer holds you back from being seen as you really are. That’s the measure of any great relationship: comfort.

  And then it ends. And you’re left with nothing but a flood of insecurity. I made the biggest mistake of my life. I was too afraid to let him see me.

  Rita’s heads to the dance floor. I join in and dance and talk for the next hour. Nathan is still flirting with Rita like crazy, whispering and nudging her ear; she’s flirting right back by touching his arms and leaning over slightly to show off cleavage. I hide my face behind my soda.

  Dan the Drunk Dude barges back over and interrupts. “Hey, you guys down for a drive to the Quincy vertex?”

  “I’m down,” Nathan says.

  “Sure, I’ll go if Alex goes.” Rita snaps a piece of gum into her mouth and hands one to each of us. When she gets to me, she gives me puppy dog eyes.

  “Fine,” I say, sounding more cool and confident than I feel on the inside. Fake it ‘til you make it. Immediately, another thought undermines me. What are you thinking? They might be trying to rape you.

  Rita must see the look of indecision on my face because she whispers to me, “It’ll be fun.”

  “Alexandra, you know that’s such a sexy name.” Dan tosses his arm around my neck, a restriction that irks me to the core. My reflexes almost automatically punch him in the face.

  He’s drunker than before, if that’s possible. I ignore his question. “If we go, who’s driving?”

  “I will,” Nathan offers. “I didn’t drink. Football starts tomorrow. Keeping it clean, unlike my friend here.”

  The two guys lead us away from the party. They approach an old Ford Explorer, and Nathan opens the front door. “Ladies first.”

  Rita sits up front with Nathan, leaving me in the back with Dan. Great.

  “Are you applying to college?” Rita asks.

  Nathan starts the truck. “Yeah. Hoping to get a football scholarship. Got a lot riding on this season.”

  “What do you think you’ll major in?”

  “Haven’t decided yet. Chemistry, maybe.” He drives away from the party and into the dark night.

  “Is that a pickup line?” Rita flirts.

  He chuckles. “No, I’m really interested in working in a lab someday. What about you?”

  “I don’t know yet. Maybe business.”

  Listening to them reminds me of Dominick. I thought I let him go for his own good. For my own good. But now that we’re apart, I can’t see who it’s helping anymore.

  I was mean to him. Like unforgivably mean. I am a terrible person. He doesn’t deserve to have someone horrible like me in his life.

  Dan the Drunk Dude puts his hand on my knee, and I take it off.

  “Don’t be a tease.” He tries again.

  “I’m not being a tease. I . . . I have a boyfriend.”

  “Then you are a tease. Come over here.” He tries to pull my legs to his side of the backseat.

  “Not a chance in hell,” I say, kicking at him.

  He shoves my legs away as if I had been the one putting them near him. “Bitch. Great night this is, Nathan. We picked some real winners.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Nathan replies.

  “Hey, Alex is amazing,” Rita adds. “She’s gonna be a lawyer. Maybe she’ll rescue your ass from jail someday.”

  “A lawyer, huh?” Dan the Drunk Dude says. “Like with sexy heels?”

  He is everything that is wrong with the male species.

  The rest of the ride on the highway is just as awkward. I thought parties were supposed to be fun. How come all I want to do is escape to my room and rot there?

  And then finally, looming through the darkness, a beacon of uncertainty and infinity: the vertex. Even from here I can tell that the hologram is exactly the same as every televised version across the globe. Same gray outfit. Same androgynous face. Weird. It’s like a clone war, except they’re not clones exactly and there is no war. Not yet, anyway.

  Witnessing one vertex affected my sense of the world, at least for a few weeks until nothing else happened. Seeing the vertex again after so much media coverage cements the impact of the event in our lives. Something has shifted in the universe. The media is not making it up. There really are five hundred of them spread across the globe, waiting for us. We just don’t know what to do about it yet, and since we can’t process the significance, we pretend it’s nothing. “Business as usual.”

  Like ending my relationship with Dominick. I need to just go numb and hope in time it won’t burn so much and have drastic, lasting consequences. It’s late enough that the major crowds near the vertex have diminished. Within a half hour, we are in the front and have access to the vertex to ask the hologram anything we wish. Several guards stand by, including one with a tablet in case we decide to take the leap and he needs to record our departure. Thank God Benji has the morning shift.

  Dan the Drunk Dude approaches the hologram and pokes it. His finger goes right through even though it appears to be a fully realized human being.

  “Cool,” he says. “Hey, sweetie,” he calls to me. “Come here. I promise I’ll be a gentleman. I just want to show you something.”

  Great, he wants to show me that he can poke a hologram. I’ll play. I kind of want to touch it myself.

  “What?” I ask as I get closer.

  That’s when he lifts me off my feet and onto his shoulder. Staggering forward, he carries me closer and closer toward the vertex.

  “Time to go into another world. Bet you won’t be a tease there.”

  My whole body reacts at once. I flail my arms and kick my legs and scream and pound on his back with every ounce of energy and anger and fear inside me. My heart hammers like it does during a panic attack, only this time the threat is real.

  “Put her down!” Rita screams.

  The guards surround us at gunpoint and command Dan to release me. As soon as my feet make contact with the ground, I run and shield myself behind Nathan and Rita. The adrenaline inside me surges at every nerve ending like lightning trapped in a jar. I cannot believe he did that. I cannot believe I fell for it.

  The officers handcuff him while lecturing about underage drinking. They are being way too easy on him. Charge him with attempted . . . something. Something more than underage intoxication. Attempted vertex kidnapping. If Dad and Benji were here, they would’ve beat the snot out of him.

  Dan the Drunk Dude announces to everyone, “People, it was a joke. Relax. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

  “Sir, do not address them. Step this way. Please be careful.” The officer holds him by the elbow to guide him.

  Dan snorts. “Be careful? Ooh, the vertex will get you. You’re all insane. It’s nothing but a glorified lava lamp. Harmless.”

  He sticks
his foot into the vertex to demonstrate. The swirling mass envelops it, and Dan’s face contorts in confusion. He loses his balance. With his hands in cuffs, he can’t stop himself from falling forward. The closest five officers grab hold of his body. A massive tug-of-war begins between Dan, the officers, and the vertex—muscle versus technology. The hologram doesn’t flinch.

  Then in a blink, the vertex wins. Dan’s T-shirt rips, and a few of the officers stumble back. Dan’s body is sucked into the vertex, pulling two officers with him.

  Gone.

  Swallowed.

  Poof.

  Just like that.

  “OH MY GOD!” Rita covers her face.

  Nathan takes a moment to comprehend what just happened and then yells, “He’s my teammate!”

  The hologram lowers its head graciously for the transaction.

  Part of my brain wants to laugh. It’s ridiculous. Who loses their football buddy to a black . . . er . . . blue hole? Karma’s a bitch. Jerk. But there’s a bigger part of me that recognizes the shock and horror of the moment, no matter who he is.

  Was.

  Is.

  And a deeper part of me realizes something else and I can’t escape it: That could have been me.

  He could’ve easily slipped while still holding me. And this truth I cannot accept.

  I’m never going near those damn things again.

  Chapter 9

  Day 37: September—3,543 hours to decide

  Question: What do you do for entertainment?

  Answer: Entertaining is one of our many forms of contribution. We have alternatives for celebrating and bonding that have evolved from similar sporting events and other pastimes on Earth. The Skylucent, a theater in the heavens, is one of our most popular attractions.

  Dan the Drunk Dude’s departure ends up on the news. It’s the first accidental vertex incident that we know of, and people must talk about the ramifications from every angle and perspective. His family’s devastation plays on a looped media feed. How many times will we turn other people’s private grief into a morbid spectacle?

  The most common question the media asks the family is whether or not they will have a funeral for him. It’s such a rude question, but at the same time, will they? It’s a loss. He is lost to them, at least for now anyway. Will they mourn his loss like a death? Will a priest say that Dan the Drunk Dude has gone to a better place? I mean, did he? Nobody knows. I guess nobody ever knows, so what’s the difference? We don’t have the religious traditions in place for this type of loss. Traditions need to evolve when we discover new scientific ways to live and ways to die.

  One prying reporter asks Dan’s mother if the family will join him. Oh, the look of horror and guilt on her face. I can’t believe he asked that question to a grieving parent. Yet, they could choose to join him.

  Even worse, Dan the Drunk Dude’s accidental exodus inspires some racist groups. They’ve begun an online “Purge the World” and “Throw ‘em In” campaign. I’ve decided that the world has become insane, if it wasn’t already insane, so I’m staying in my room where it’s safe. I tried to live a little and almost died a lot, well, almost got sucked into a vertex. Lunacy.

  Under a warm cocoon of cotton blanket and extra doses of Ativan, I visualize. Bright blue island sky. White rope hammock tied to palm trees. A book waiting for me. Pages flipping in the breeze.

  Rita keeps texting me. Her parents never found out she was at the vertex, so she wasn’t maimed. The police notified my parents since I was the “underage victim” in the case. But there is no case without a defendant.

  Mom gives me space like I knew she would. Dad avoids me, which means he’s slipping into his own oblivion. For the first time in a long time, I don’t have the energy to focus on him. It’s liberating and scary. It means I am slipping myself. And I don’t care. Slipping means finding comfort in a dark place where nothing can touch you.

  I ignore everyone, toss back more pills, and sleep the time away.

  My phone beeps, waking me up from my medicated bliss. The harsh light from the screen blinds me. Squinting, I see Dominick’s name and text flash before me.

  Are you okay? Why were you with him?

  His words knock me off my Ativan rocker. I just want to cry. I want to text him that I need him, that I miss him, that I love him, that I’m an insecure, insane, stupid idiot who doesn’t deserve him.

  Through a cloud of hazy tears, I manage to text back:

  I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.

  I don’t answer his other question. I don’t have an answer.

  I miss school for the next few days. Okay, maybe a week. The edges of time become fuzzy when you’re highly medicated, forming a weightless dream world that protects you from the sharpness. A place of absolute freedom.

  Then Benji crashes my Ativan party.

  He kicks open my locked door, yanks the blanket off me, pulls me by my ankles. My tailbone whacks the floor and sends shock waves through my sleeping body.

  “Get up. Pity party’s over.”

  I wail and chuck pillows at him. “Get outta my room!”

  “No. Mom called a counselor. You have an appointment in an hour.”

  “What? No, not that quack again.” My bed beckons me. I climb back under the lavender comforter. Bed is soft. Life is hard.

  Benji grabs me and hoists my body over his shoulder. Hot panic sears through my veins.

  “No, no! Put me down! Dan, stop!”

  Benji doesn’t flinch or let me go even when I start clawing at him. My thumbnail bends backward. The sharp pain serves as a momentary distraction while Benji carries me into the bathroom. Before I realize what’s happening, he tosses me into the bathtub fully clothed and turns on the showerhead.

  “Argh!” Cold water runs over my head, soaking my long T-shirt and pajama shorts.

  “Get dressed. One hour. No excuses. I’m driving.”

  He leaves the bathroom. Through the stream of water, I see Mom in the doorway, watching the whole ordeal. She closes the door without speaking. Dad’s nowhere in sight.

  "Where's Dad?" I ask Benji in his truck.

  “Dad doesn’t need your crap,” he says. “The last thing he needs is for you to stress him out with bullshit.”

  Bullshit? I already want out. If I don’t go to the counselor, what can they do to me? Ground me? Send me to my room? Good. I should just make a run for it. How hard could it be to jump out of a moving vehicle?

  Skin smearing on the cement like melted butter across burnt toast.

  Benji continues. “Dad’s like he is because of war. He has a real reason. He was in actual battles where people died. Blown up. Body parts burned and scattered. Friends lost. You have no reason to be like this. None. You just overanalyze everything. You think seeing Dad screwed up made you screwed up? Give me a break. I grew up here, too, and you don’t see me copping out or breaking down. I mean, my life’s way more stressful than yours, and I’m still standing. Yes, that kid fell into the vertex. You didn’t. You’re fine. Get some perspective and grow up already.”

  I try to hold back tears, but they don’t listen. Benji thinks this is all news to me, but I’ve lived with these same thoughts about myself. What he doesn’t understand, though, is that more than anything, I’d love to function like him, to be able to roll with life’s punches. I know my thoughts get irrational. But when they are happening, they are as real as my body reacting to a flame. Making me feel guilty for having these feelings just makes me feel invisible and angry and lost.

  Benji parks near a small church that was converted into office space. This isn’t my old counselor’s office.

  “Did my counselor move?”

  He shoves a note at me that has A. Riley and an address on it. “Your other counselor isn’t in practice anymore.”

  “Good,” I mumble. Probably screwed up some
case and got his license revoked. What if he screwed up on me? Brainwashed me into thinking that I’m a basket case? Hypnotized me and implanted some chip inside me that misfires at certain sounds?

  Even though my brain wants to flee, my body refuses to exert that much energy. I crawl out of the truck and drag my sore, atrophying muscles inside.

  Benji sits in the waiting room while I search for an office door with RILEY on the plaque. Her heavy wooden door looks like it belongs in an English Victorian novel. It’s cracked open, but I knock anyway.

  “Ms. Riley?”

  “Hi,” she mumbles through food in her mouth. She holds up one finger while she swallows, pointing her other hand to the peanut butter crackers on her desk and gesturing for me to have one. I can’t remember the last time I ate.

  “Sorry about that. Pregnant. When you need to eat, you need to eat. You must be Alexandra Lucas.” She holds out her hand to shake mine. “Call me Arianna.”

  “Yep.” I hate it already. First name basis. Establish familiarity and trust. I know the drill.

  “Have a seat, Alexandra.”

  I sit while “Arianna” retrieves the appropriate paperwork. Her pregnant stomach hits the file cabinet drawer when she opens it. She has to pull the file sideways in order to free it. The tab at the top rips off. She doesn’t notice, or at least she fakes it well. Her competence is underwhelming.

  “Your mother called and thought we should meet to see if I can help get you through your senior year.” She reads through the small file. “It says here you want to go to college for prelaw?”

  I really don’t like small talk with counselors. This is a paid conversation through health insurance. Get down to business. “I thought we were here to discuss the tragedy.”

  “Tragedy. Is that how you see it?”

  I exhale. “Don’t do that. I’ve been in counseling before. I know the whole turning-what-I say-into-questions-so-I’ll-analyze-myself bit.”

  Ms. Riley doesn’t flinch. They must teach that in counseling school. Never look shocked, even if a patient discusses wanting to hack off people’s limbs and putting them into milkshakes.

 

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