Nowhere Near You

by Leah Thomas

  But a removable heart? Science fiction, Moritz.

  “Hey, now. That’s not wishy-washy. Just a bit dolphin-wavy. I was all excited to meet you and now you wanna off yourself? You haven’t even heard my jokes yet!”

  “I don’t care.” In the flattest voice ever. “And this isn’t suicide.”

  “Bridget, I will remind you, as ever, that doing this will kill you. You need your heart as much as anyone.”

  “I’ll die, Doctor.” She lifted her heart up again. “But it’s beside the point.”

  You know how I told you about Liz’s social worker parents? When Mom got sick, Liz brought over books on mental illness. Most people who really mean to do themselves in don’t call anyone. They shoot themselves in bathtubs to avoid leaving brains on the carpet.

  But Bridget, she knew Auburn-Stache was coming. With or without emotions, she would have known that we’d want to stop her from doing this. Did she want to be stopped?

  “Fine.” I threw my hands up. “I’ve always wanted to see a blender in action. That was on the list somewhere near humidifiers.”

  Her eyelids fluttered. Auburn-Stache kept his lips zipped. I sauntered closer to Bridget, watching her set the heart in the blender. She was careful about it. She didn’t let it plop.

  No emotions, my butt.

  “One thing.” I held up a finger, leaned back against the cabinets. “Aren’t blenders supposed to have lids?” I looked around the room. “You’re gonna leave a mess for your family.”

  “I’m a foster kid.”

  Bridget reached for the electric buttons.

  “Bridget!” cried Auburn-Stache.

  I was on it like stink on cheese.

  I pulled the blender’s plug (my hands tingled!). Good thing quick pressures won’t break my fingers.

  Bridget didn’t emote when the blender didn’t churn into life—she just whipped around on me, quick as Barry Allen.

  Auburn-Stache leapt forward and held her arms. Eerie composure aside, I’m pretty sure she wanted to claw out my eyeballs. (Would that make us twins, Mo?) She threw a knee back, and her foot landed somewhere between Auburn-Stache’s legs.

  I capitalized on his distracting yelp by upending the blender.

  Bridget’s beating heart rolled across the counter—

  Auburn-Stache crumpled, and I grabbed that thing and shoved it into the pocket of my coat and sprinted out of the kitchen and down the hallway as fast as I could, grateful to escape into open air even with some girl’s heartbeat vying against my own, somewhere near my navel.

  My feet slammed against Bridget’s driveway as I skidded past Auburn-Stache’s car, and then they slammed against the leafless street. While I ran, the heart was incredibly warm and heavier than I thought it would be. It wasn’t alive the way organs are.

  This heart felt alive like small animals are alive.

  Thing is, I’m about as good at running as I am at patience, Moritz.

  My feet feel too big and my eyes wander, and my arms flop around like soggy spaghetti noodles. When you’ve spent most of your existence playing opossum in a cabin or stumbling through underbrush after girls you’re lovesick over, sprinting on pavement feels about as natural as walking backward on your hands.

  It’s even worse when you’re being chased, and since then I’ve learned that Bridget kicks major ass at cross-country competitions in her Fayton high school. I ran like a crippled wind, but she was as likely to catch me as I was likely to eat cement.

  And I did eat it. Right in the middle of an intersection. I could blame the four crosshatching power lines overhead, or my stupid feet. But the truth? I totally face-planted when that damn bodysuit got too personal with my ass crack.

  Bridget approached at a semileisurely jog. She’d had time to pull on a hoodie and tennis shoes. (How do you say “humiliating” auf Deutsch?)

  I scrambled to my feet and made a fresh break for it, ran for maybe seven seconds, awkward-bobbing and failing to cut across fenced-in lawns, before she knocked me onto the sidewalk next to a decrepit pay phone. I didn’t cuss like a cool kid would when she wrapped her arms around my waist, tackled me to the ground, and sat down on my back.

  I said, “Oof!”

  My beanie got dislodged, and right away chartreuse veins of electricity (like netting, Moritz) inched down the length of the pay phone, headed right for me. “Um, I might be squishing your heart against the pavement.”

  She didn’t seem bothered. “You stole it.”

  Not sneezes, but hiccups this time. No, Moritz, I did not come this far to have a pay phone–induced seizure, because Arthur was wrong, I was fine and here to help the other Blunderkids—

  To spite me, an SUV approached, and the driver slowed down to ogle us. I guess we were worthy of rubbernecking, but sandpapery car-smog scraped my face as they idled by.

  “Can you get off me? Hic. Maybe?”

  “Why did you steal my heart?”

  “Or at least consider the idea of—hic—maybe getting off me? No pressure.”

  “Why?”

  “You aren’t exactly weightless as a cloud.”

  “No. Why did you steal it?”

  “People say I’m impulsive!”

  “Why?” She dug her elbow into my spine.

  “Jegus! It didn’t seem like—hic—you were taking care of it. I came all this way to get to know you! I can’t do that if you’re dead!”

  “To . . . get to know me.”

  “Yes! Preferably without being sat on!”

  I tried to roll over, but she remained firmly planted, feet flat on the pavement.

  “If you’ll let me up and promise not to toss it at the nearest lawn mower, I’ll give your heart back, and we can talk about the whole blender fiasco and maybe your whole life story?”

  “My life story.”

  “Yeah! I’m collecting the stories of kids like us.”

  “Collect the heart instead.”

  What? I mean—what?

  “Is that really the sort of thing you should lay on someone you’ve just met?”

  “Keep it.”

  “I wouldn’t even know what to feed it.” My head pounded. “You know about my—hic—electro-sensitive thing, right?”

  “I know.”

  Another car drove past, fast enough to kick up leaves (except there weren’t any). I definitely needed to pull my hat back on; my tongue was turning into a heavy slug. Bad sign.

  “Well, obviously, you don’t care, but this turd of a pay phone is creeping on me.”

  Finally, she got up. I squeaked to my feet, pulled Mom’s hat back down quick-sharp. Bridget was already yards away. I hurried to catch up, pulled her heart, fuzzy with lint, from my pocket. “Here! You seem like you’re in less of a blendering mood now.”

  “I’m not in any mood.”

  “Sure, sure. More Tin Man crap.”

  She paused at the Stop sign to let a minivan pass.

  “That’s a reference to a character in an L. Frank Baum book called The Wonderful Wizard—”

  “‘If I only had a heart,’” Bridget sang suddenly. “I’ve seen the movie.”

  “There’s a movie?” I was about to sneakily drop her heart into her hood, but a gigantic yellow monster spewing diesel electricity roared past like a dream.

  “HOLY—A SCHOOL BUS?” I tugged on her sleeve. “That was a school bus, right?”

  She shook off my grasp and crossed the street. “Yes.”

  “Can we hitch a ride?”

  Bridget paused. “What do you mean?”

  “Riding a school bus ranks among my life goals.” I stood in the center of the street and waved my arms in the air. It was dang heavy, her heart, and I was scared of dropping it, but I wanted her to react.

  She did! Well, kind of: “You’ll drop that if you’re not careful.”

  “So you do care!” I hurried out of the road.

  “Only stating a fact.”

  “Look, please take it?”

  “If you give
it back to me, I’ll stomp on it.”

  My eyes found her feet. She was wearing running shoes, the kind with long spikes that could pin tents down.

  I tucked the damn heart back into my pocket.

  I adjusted my hat again. Walking down the Fayton suburb street felt like moonwalking, waiting to make awkward first contact with leaf-hiding aliens. Here were kids on bicycles headed home from school, men and women pulling cars into driveways, stepping out of smog clouds in suits, teenagers my age loitering under Stop signs and downright glaring at us—

  Actually, that kid was definitely glaring.

  Shortish with freckles like Liz, but his hair was orange. (If orange had a sound, Moritz, it would sound like 88 degrees Fahrenheit—don’t mention Celsius!) His eyes were this pale blue, ideal for icy-death glaring.

  I stopped and stared right back at him.

  “What’s your deal?” I called from across the street.

  The boy jerked in surprise and then glared harder. Bridget turned to see what I was hollering about and the weirdest thing happened—

  Moritz, I think the heart in my pocket missed a beat.

  Bridget grabbed me by the hand and wrenched me forward.

  “Do you know that kid?” I craned my neck. I thought his eyeballs might pop out and hit us like bullets, but he didn’t follow. Bridget’s heart started beating normally again.

  “That’s Brian.”

  “What’s his beef?”

  “You shouted at a stranger in broad daylight.”

  “Sorry, I struggle with social niceties. I was only shouting because he looked ALL-CAPS ANGRY. Shit, your hand is cold. Is that because your circulation is messed up?”

  “My circulation is fine. As long as my heart’s within an eighty-seven-mile radius.”

  “How did you find that out? Did you just leave your heart in the kitchen and then jog away from it until you felt like, oh, okay, I might just keel over if I go any farther? Guess it’s lucky I didn’t run eighty-seven miles ahead of you just now. How long would it take a person to run that far? I mean, you’d have to have good shoes. Or could you do it in flip-flops?”

  “You ask too many questions.”

  “That’s what Mom says—said. Said.”

  “Your dead mother.” In that lifeless tone.

  Bridget let me go. Good, because my feet had turned to tree roots.

  I guess we’d reached her house. Lifeless, Bridget walked up the steps.

  I stood outside with my head bowed, the heart in my chest beating out the one in my pocket by more than eighty-seven miles.

  I’ll always have to say “said” now, Moritz.

  Auburn-Stache waited in the living room, face all twisted up. I sat down across from him. It wasn’t a comfy sofa, but it beat car seats.

  “You said you wanted an adventure,” Auburn-Stache gasped.

  Said.

  “All right, Ollie?”

  I cleared my throat. “Are you all right, ’Stache?”

  “Parts of me are.” He winced.

  “There go your equestrian dreams. But hey, we’ve got a new addition to the family.” I pulled the heart out of my pocket and set it on the coffee table.

  Weird: once I let it go, I missed its warmth. I couldn’t get over how gory it wasn’t. Moritz, the aorta fed from the top chamber back into itself. Complete anatomical bullpucky.

  “Oh, thank goodness.”

  “What, did you think I was gonna drop it or something?” No need to tell him I nearly did. “She won’t take it back. So what the hell am I supposed to do with it?”

  “You sound frustrated.”

  “I am frustrated.”

  Auburn-Stache sighed. “Remember what I told you. Bridget’s not Arthur.”

  I crossed my legs and uncrossed them again and leaned forward. “Should I just . . . I don’t know. Shove it in her mailbox or something?”

  “She’ll know it’s there. Her wireless heart. She can always feel where it is.”

  “What? How?”

  “The same way you always know where your hands are, I suppose.” Auburn-Stache rubbed his temples. “Ollie, why did you act so rash?”

  “Was I supposed to just watch her make a meat smoothie?”

  “She wouldn’t have.” He shook his head. “Her drive for self-preservation is very strong.”

  “This isn’t the first time you’ve caught her getting carefree with a blender,” I hazarded.

  “It’s not always a blender. But it’s routine. Bridget has never been . . . a stable child.”

  Obviously he didn’t think this was such a big deal. But, Moritz, if someone I cared about started crying wolf—

  From down the hallway there came a horrendous grinding racket, a sustained bout of electric shrieking. I jumped to my feet.

  “Calm down.”

  “Why?” I almost hissed. “We’re trapped in a house with a—a sociopath!”

  “What a thing to say about someone you don’t know. And how unlike you.”

  I felt him trying to catch my eye. I turned away and stared at all the family pictures on the wall. Something seemed weird about the photos, but I couldn’t pinpoint what.

  “What did she do?”

  “She kicked you in the delicates.”

  “Did she say something hurtful to you?”

  Your dead mother.

  Right then, Bridget appeared in the doorway with two shakes in hand. She set them on the coffee table on either side of her heart.

  “How kind, Bridget.” I bet ’Stache was wishing she’d brought him an ice pack instead. “Do I espy bananas?”

  “Bananas. Chocolate. And peanut butter.”

  “Um. Thanks.” Like any major asshole, I hid my shame behind a few giant gulps of shake through a purple bendy straw. (Ice cream is serious business, even on cold days.)

  ’Stache asked Bridget about her heart. She pointed at her spiked shoes again.

  “We’ll be at the Rustic Bear Campground,” he told her, “if you change your mind.”

  “You should leave. The Tidmores will be home soon.”

  “You aren’t smiling in any of the pictures,” I murmured.

  That was it. It looked like the blond-haired Tidmores had raised many foster children. (There were at least five graduation pictures hanging up, and in other frames, younger versions of those graduates wore clothing even this woodland hermit noticed were outdated.) Though the wall was crowded with bright faces, room had definitely been made for Bridget. There were photos of her at beaches and parks with her foster parents. Pictures of the three of them posing beside green fields and brown trails, Bridget wearing some kind of athletic uniform. Bridget with medals on her neck. All of them sitting in front of a fireplace at Christmastime. Those foster parents smiled so hard. They overcompensated, became sharks around her.

  “What happens when your parents get home, then?”

  “Foster parents.” Her eyes were fixed on my shoulder or on nothing. “We make dinner. We eat it. Sometimes with dessert. They ask about school. We watch television. We go to bed.”

  I squinted at the TV, which whined a quiet green in Off mode on the opposite side of the room. “Do you watch, like, really violent television? The kind where people scream and laugh simultaneously?” I shuddered. “Is that why you want us to leave?”

  “I don’t want anything.” Her eyes flickered to Auburn-Stache.

  I leaned off the couch cushion to see her better. Bridget: another barren Ohio tree. But whatever she’d secreted away weren’t leaves.

  Were her feelings really trapped inside the pulsing lump of meat on the table?

  “Why doesn’t my doctor like being seen by your parents?”

  “Our doctor. Foster parents. They would ask questions. They don’t know about my condition. It would disturb them.”

  “Well, that sucks.” I stood up and began pacing across the room again. “I mean, really? Doesn’t that make you sad? Having to hide all the time?”

  (Moritz, that’s what
you and Molly are doing, too, but Arthur’s not.)

  “When my heart is out, I can’t feel sadness.”

  “Well, you should get angry about not feeling sad!”

  “When my heart is out, I can’t feel anger.”

  “Ollie—our host has asked us to leave.”

  “I could stand right next to you and hold your dismembered heart out like a bouquet of flowers for your supposedly nice foster parents. Right?”

  “They are nice. Not supposedly.”

  “If I called you a f-freak and told them to submit you for twisted medical research—”

  “Enough, Ollie!” He sounded angry.

  “You’d be cool with it?”

  “I wouldn’t care.”

  “But . . . how would that make your foster parents feel?”

  She shrugged; Auburn-Stache grabbed my arm. I shook him off.

  “No. I came here to talk to her, and all I’ve heard so far is she’s heartless, literally and figuratively! I don’t get it. I want to get it. I came here to hear your story.”

  “That’s not my problem.”

  I folded my arms and popped a squat right in the middle of the floor. “Tell me a story or I won’t budge.”

  “You bloody well will budge!” Sergeant Secrets warned.

  “Give me the beef, Bridget!”

  “Why does he talk like that?”

  Seriously-Annoyed-’Stache: “I’m sorry. That’s just how he is. He struggles with social—”

  “Niceties,” she finished.

  The heart kept pumping away between two empty milk-shake rings.

  I picked it up and shoved it into my pocket. “There. It can have a sleepover.”

  Bridget walked around the couch and sat down across from me on the carpet, stared me dead in the eyes. “You asked me about the eighty-seven-mile tether.”

  I swallowed. “Yeah . . . ?”

  “When I was five, scientists tied me to a table. They took my heart across the hall and shocked it with low-watt electricity. They increased the frequency until I screamed. A woman next to me made a note, called the scientists, and told them to take it farther away.”

  My right hand found my heartbeat, my left hand found Bridget’s. Moritz, you know better than I do what it feels like when this kind of electricity goes wrong. Does it feel worse than bee-stings? Is that the pointless question the scientists were answering?