by Rose Christo
"He's not bad," Kory murmurs.
Coming from Kory, it's surprisingly generous. It's an understatement, but a generous understatement.
The dance seems to end almost before it's even started. I don't really think it's fair. It's like jerking suddenly awake in the middle of a pleasant dream. Azel should be allowed to dance forever. I don't want to wake up.
Azel climbs off the stage. His sister hands him a towel. I pinch Kory, hard, before he can make a desultory comment.
"I wasn't going to," Kory sulks.
"I'm going to go talk to him," I say.
"Oh, fine. Push me back into the arms of the sociopaths..."
I don't get the chance to rise out of my seat. A hush falls over the auditorium when the next performer takes to the stage. Azel and Layla turn around to watch.
Annwn tucks her violin beneath her chin, her hand wrapped around its slender neck. With her bright blue ribbon and her 1950s hair, I can almost believe she's a traveler from the past, just dropping into our century to say hello. Her blouse is ruffled cotton and her skirt is velvet. Somehow that strikes me as more human than anything else about her. She must be human, because she's a high school student, because the teachers are taking up their pens and notebooks; she must be real, because her bow ghosts slowly across her violin strings, and a wailing elegy fills the room.
I recognize this song. I should. I only watched the animated movie about a billion times when I was twelve years old. It's Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake, the finale. It sounds different without a bombastic orchestra following its every note. It sounds quiet, ruminant; achingly sad. This, I think, is the way it should sound, the tragedienne's last song before she swan-dives to her lonely death. When I was thirteen, and I found out that the Swan Princess kills herself in the real story, that she doesn't marry Prince Siegfried and they don't live Happily Ever After, the first thing I felt was anger. I was angry with the children's movie for sanitizing the truth, for wrapping up the story in a perfect, pretty bow and stripping it of its meaning. Why do we make a habit of lying to our children? It's only delaying the inevitable. It only hurts that much more when they stumble blindly across reality on their own. Can't we see we're crippling them? Don't we even care?
They say a swan sings her first and only song just before she dies. She spends her whole life mute until the moment of her death.
This is a lonely song. This is a lonely planet, in a lonely galaxy, in a lonely universe. A dying universe.
Annwn. I understand you now. I can't tell you as much, because I'm still afraid of you. I've always been afraid of Great Whites.
I understand the loneliness pouring out of your heart and hands, your hands smooth and white like the plumage of a swan. I understand what you're waiting for, why you're waiting for it.
What am I waiting for? I know this universe will die. If it were just the planet that were dying, maybe that would be okay, because with our current technology we could uproot humanity to another celestial body. That's called terraforming. Kory told me about it once. He told me NASA has plans to terraform Europa, one of Jupiter's moons. Europa's already got clean water, and a lot of it. The only thing it's missing is oxygen, but with electrolysis, we could turn the excess water into breathable air. Europa could sustain us for billions and billions of years.
It doesn't matter whether Europa's the next Earth. This universe is still going to die. It could happen at any moment. It's already at 80% its spatial capacity. That number is growing, accelerating, every single day.
What am I waiting for?
Do I even care?
This universe is so beautiful. The Swan Nebula. The Lynx Arc Supercluster.
This universe is so hideous. Mom and Dad aren't in it.
What do I want? What am I going to do?
Is there anything I can do?
You are at the center of the universe.
Maybe I don't want to be. Maybe I'm ready to call it quits.
My head hurts. It hurts so bad.
* * * * *
Winter rolls quietly into town. To nobody's notice, it takes up residence. It doesn't bring with it harsh winds or snows. It's a warm winter. A silent winter. Proof that there's something wrong with us.
It's been half a year since I lost my family. My hair reaches my chin. My hands don't shake anymore. Judas is my brother and Kory is my best friend. My best friend is dead.
I sit at the kitchen table, stirring a spoon in my potato soup. Potato soup for breakfast. Mom isn't here to yell at me.
"Hey, Jude?" I ask absently.
Judas tries not to snicker. He crunches numbers on his calculator--I don't know what for.
"What do you want for Christmas?" I ask.
Judas peers at me through his reading glasses. "Nothing."
"You can't just say 'nothing,' Jude..."
"Why not? That's what I want."
"You should get a girlfriend, at the very least."
"You wanna get me a girlfriend for Christmas?"
"It's not good for you to hang out with your little sister all the time. You need adult company."
"I have adult company. It's called work."
I hold my tongue. The truth is, I don't think Judas has any friends. I understand his aversion to dating; but when church is the only component of your social life...
"You want to get me something, get me a gin and tonic," Judas says.
"You don't drink," I say, puzzled.
"I know. Doesn't mean I haven't thought about it."
Judas leaves for work and I leave for Azel. I pack banana cookies in a shopping bag--because they're his favorite--and wrap myself in a woolen jacket. I take to the balmy streets. I didn't need the jacket after all. I don't know why I even bother sometimes.
It's Layla who answers the door when I arrive at the maisonette. She doesn't look happy to see me.
"Hi, Layla," I try, smiling uncertainly.
"Tell Kory if he wants his DJ Munchausen albums, he can find them at the bottom of the Jepp Street Canal."
"I--what?"
"Come in."
She lets me inside. I step out of my shoes. I can hear Aisha playing with her dad in the next room. I smile, because that's the way it's supposed to be, because little girls should play for as long as they can.
Azel comes down the stairs. He stops at the sight of me. Layla turns on him, as if she has something to say. Knowing Layla, it can't be good.
"Bye," Azel says to her--through his teeth. He grabs my hand. I follow him hastily up the staircase.
"Kory wasn't kidding when he said she hates him," I think out loud.
"Layla doesn't hate Kory," Azel says. "This is the only way her species knows to display affection."
Azel's bedroom is the first at the end of the staircase. As soon we step inside I'm gobsmacked by how tidy it is. The books in the bookcase look as if they were carefully measured for length-to-width ratio. A brief glance at their spines tells me they're all alphabetized. Potted mint stands basking in the rays of a sunny, spotless window. The bed is crisp and stark white and smells definitively of ironing. The desk and the chairs are plain wood. The carpet is coffee-colored.
"You have to come and clean my room sometime," I joke.
"Sure," Azel returns. I get the feeling he's not joking.
The only personal touch comes in the form of a poster behind his homework desk. A sinister-looking woman in an impressive black crown stands staring at us with vacant, malevolent eyes. I point at her. "Who's that?"
Azel sits cross-legged on the carpet. I sit with him. "That's Diana Damrau as the Queen of the Night. Do you know The Magic Flute?"
"No. What's that?"
"A German opera." Unmistakable kindness passes through his eyes. "They set her up as the hero of the story. Midway through you find out she's the villain."
"She sure doesn't look like a hero in that get-up..."
"She has a costume change. She starts off dressed in white to deceive the audience."
"Jerk."
"Not her, you. You just gave away the whole story."
Azel's eyebrow twitches. I bury my face in my hands, trying--failing--to muffle my laughter.
"That's okay," I finally get out, when his face is busy deciding between sour milk and tomato. "They did the same with Kane when he fought the Undertaker in '98."
"Who?"
"Kane? And the Undertaker? Before Undertaker started wearing the cowboy hat. Back when he was still creepy and cool."
"Are these superheroes?"
"Even better--wrestlers."
Azel's mouth slackens. "You watch..."
"I bet Oldschool Undertaker would've gotten along with the Queen of the Night. They look like they buy their clothes from the same retailer."
Azel hesitates. "Show me this Undertaker," he prompts, unfolding his legs, standing.
It takes maybe three seconds to pull up old WWF videos on Azel's computer. Azel's face is blank with concentration. On the computer monitor a stringy-haired man in a black trench coat climbs into the wrestling ring, electric guitars screeching over the din of the audience. A man in a crazy red mask follows suit, and the guitars give way to deathly church organs.
"They're brothers," I whisper, by way of explanation. "Their parents died in a house fire when the boys were very young. That's why Undertaker's so moody and Byronic. And Kane got put in a nut factory. He has no emotions."
"Why are they circling one another like vultures?"
"Probably remembering the good old days."
I don't think Azel likes pro wrestling very much. He flinches when the Undertaker starts punching Kane in the gut. He stiffens when Kane tosses the Undertaker out of the ring, leaps after him, grabs his head, and slams it against the side of the stage. Before I can try to close the video window, spare Azel from the agony, he covers my eyes with his hand.
"Azel!"
"I am protecting you from this travesty."
"I've seen it eleven times already."
"Eleven?"
I close the video. Azel shuts off his computer. A stray curl falls in front of his face. He blows it away.
"I baked banana cookies," I report feebly.
"Thank you," Azel says.
"Sorry for traumatizing you."
"I'll live."
He eats his cookies. He offers to share, but I don't like banana. Curious, I browse the titles in his bookcase. I find Don Quixote and a whole lot of Plath and Poe. One of the shelves is entirely in Arabic. I can't imagine finding reading enjoyable. It probably doesn't help that anytime I try, the words seem to jumble themselves on the page.
"Do you remember Annwn?" I ask. "The girl from my Precalc class?"
"Allender, yes."
"Huh?"
"Annwn Allender. I saw her name on the sign-up sheet for semester performances."
"You were really good, you know."
"Thank you," Azel says, a touch reluctant.
"In one of those OBEs," I go on, "Annwn was there."
Azel puts the shopping bag aside. He gives me a brief but dire look. "Did you try to talk to her about it afterward?"
"No." That's why I know I can't count on her having really been there. Maybe I imagined it. "She knows I have them, though. The OBEs. Said she has them, too." Or maybe she didn't. Maybe I imagined that, too.
"We know there's a scientific precedent for this," Azel says. "You read the books."
I sit with him on the carpet. "I know."
"But they didn't say anything about shared autoscopy, did they?"
"I don't think they did."
"That doesn't mean it's impossible. Inexplicable, maybe. Not impossible."
"I think I like it," I say. "Leaving my body." Or am I really leaving my body? Isn't everything all in our heads? "It doesn't scare me anymore."
"Wendy, you need to be careful," Azel says. "We don't know anything about this. We don't know if this can hurt you in the long run."
"I'm already brain-damaged."
"I know that. You think it can't get worse? Seizures, for example. Especially if they're consecutive."
I swallow. I can't say that I've had any seizures, thank God.
I had a stroke. When I was in the coma. I forgot.
"Have you thought about telling your doctor?" Azel asks.
"I told my shrink. She treated me like a nutjob."
"But your physician?"
"No," I admit. "I haven't told him."
When I think of Dr. Moritz, I think of drowning in a glass casket. I think of clipboards; I think of his impersonal bedside manner. For some reason, the thought of Dr. Moritz poking around inside my brain bothers me about as much as Dr. Grace does.
"It's fine," I decide. "I'm on topiramate. Seizures can't hurt me."
Azel gives me a dubious look, but doesn't fight it.
"Do you guys do anything for Christmas?" I ask. I want to change the subject. "Or do you not celebrate that?"
"We don't," Azel says. "But I hope you'll have a good holiday."
"Thanks." I smile. "I have to figure out a gift for my brother. He's a pain."
"What does he enjoy?"
"Baseball. And Wooper Looper." I shudder. "Sometimes I think he's Kory's brother, not mine..."
"There you go, then. Ask Kory what to get him."
"Come to think of it, I can't get Kory anything, either, can I?"
"You can't give him a Hanukkah present?"
"I don't know. I've never had this many friends at once."
Azel looks at me. Once I realize what I've said, it's too late.
"I'm the same," Azel says, before I can take it back. "I have very few friends here. It's by choice."
Here. He means America. "Why?"
"I'm scared, I suppose," Azel says. He's so forthright. It still amazes me. "It's a guessing game, isn't it? Some people see 'Arab' and 'Muslim' and think 'Terrorist.' There are more than two billion Muslims on the planet. As with any other population, there are going to be good people and bad people. I know that. But every time someone looks at me, I worry that they're judging me by the actions of a person I've never even met. I can't find the logic in that. I just can't. I don't want to. I don't play games."
"Azel..."
"Do you know what Islam means? The word is technically Aslama, but vowels are more flexible in Arabic than they are in English. Aslama is the infinitive form of the verb aslamu. You might've heard it before without knowing it. Aslamu alaikum--'Peace be upon you.' Peace. Islam means peace. How can anybody who wants to hurt another person really be following peace?"
"No. I agree with you... Anybody who hurts someone else for religion isn't really religious." I think of Crusaders carrying their flags into war. Men in white robes setting fire to people's lawns.
"Sorry," Azel says, rubbing his arm. "I shouldn't have said anything."
"Why not?" I ask. I want him to be honest with me. I want to be a place where he can store his feelings.
"Because all I'm doing is excusing my own shortcomings. You didn't come here to get grandstanded."
When I said that he was forthright...
"You know," I say, after a moment's worth of thought, "you and Kory should be friends."
Azel blanches.
"I'm serious," I say, although I can't help laughing. "If you boys have anything in common, it's that you both make me think. A lot. I've done more thinking this year than I've done in my entire life prior."
"He'll turn my hair gray."
"And you'll look very distinguished," I say appreciatively.
Azel's face spasms exactly the way I wanted it to. I burst out laughing. He slaps his hands against his forehead and turns his head away.
"You don't play games," I muse. "But you put up with me. You're a brave soul."
"You are not a game."
Blood rushes to my face, my ears. I can hear my own pulse.
I remember seeing the sun from outer space. I remember the way it peeked out from behind Earth's shadow. It was cleansing, brigh
t, even as Earth tried to hide it from view. Its rays crept and scattered along the edge of the dark planet like an aura of redemption. It was a cosmic sunrise. It was the kindest thing I had ever seen. I had to look away to preserve my senses.
Azel smiles at me. I don't look away this time.
"Winter break soon," I say--just to have something to say.
"Yeah."
"Can I see you again?"
"Why shouldn't you?"
"I won't make you watch wrestling this time."
"I didn't really mind."
* * * * *
Winter break becomes synonymous with Azel. I visit him twice more at his home. I bring him peach cake and almond croissants. I promptly run out of recipes.
"You don't have to keep baking for me," Azel says.
"Yes, I do," I say emphatically. A little gilded swan hangs around my right wrist, wings folded, neck arched. As long as she hangs there, I'm giving him presents.
He takes me into his kitchen and shows me how to bake coconut-lime rice pudding and raspberry chocolate parfait. I have never wanted to hit a boy more.
"Stay for dinner. I'll make shawarma wraps."
I take that back--yes I have.
The third time I visit him, I don't stick around. I head out the door to the Charles Babbage memorial site. He follows me, a satchel full of books hanging from his shoulder.
"Where are we going?" Azel asks, nonplussed. He straggles at my side.
"You'll see," I tell him, and turn to show him a smile.
We reach the rusted Babbage statue. We trek north. Highrise apartments clump together, uniform, desolate. Empty black windows decorate the cement slabs like sleepy, snuffed-out eyes.
"I've never been to this part of town before," Azel remarks, sounding quiet, pensive.
"They built it as fast as they could. Then they forgot about it." We pass a gated fire hydrant. Why it's gated is beyond me. "It feels like everyone's in a rush to get somewhere. By the time they get there, they've forgotten why."
Azel looks at me. I can see him out of the corner of my eye, the sharp lines of his prestezza face, angular, elegant.