Nowhere Near You

by Leah Thomas

  But on top of the concussion, that cold oxygen bag on my face left me woozy, and no one would listen to me—

  I opened my eyes in a buzzing room. I couldn’t feel my jaw or my head or any pain at all. Anesthetic, Moritz. That nurse stood near my head, one plump hand closed around the plastic hospital bed frame. “. . . out of our depth. Where’s his personal doctor?”

  “In the waiting room, Mrs. Arana.”

  “It’s Ms.” She bristled. “And let him in, then, Wharton! This is a patient, not a project!”

  “But it’s ludicrous. No one’s so electro-sensitive that they’re magnetic.” At the foot of my bed, this youngish doctor. His white coat reflected the grainy electricity of the fluorescent lights; glasses didn’t hide bright blue eyes glinting above his face mask. “There’s been no real explanation for the massive power outage—”

  “Stranger things have happened, Wharton. I haven’t seen Brian look that upset since his father left. He may be going through a rough phase, but I trust my son.” My defender, this stout woman in scrubs arguing down a man twice her height.

  The tall doctor noticed I was awake-ish, blinking a lot. He swooped in close, armed with one of my earliest enemies: a penlight. I sneezed because the hat wasn’t exactly secured—

  The penlight went out. The fluorescent bulbs overhead flickered.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled.

  “What the—?” Wharton leaned in and pulled a small square bit of electrical machinery from his pocket—I’m not sure what it was, but even before he pushed it close to my forehead I could see it emitted no color.

  “It’s already dead,” I told him. “My bad.”

  “How do you know?”

  I shrugged.

  Wharton stared at the object as if he were observing an alien artifact. When he looked at me the same way, I felt like squirming.

  “I’m not a big hit at parties.” I tried to grin.

  Next thing I knew he was holding my eyelids open with one hand and trying to remove my hat with the other.

  “Enough, Wharton!” Ms. Arana all but elbowed him away.

  “But this is . . . I mean, this is a scientific miracle! A kid projecting electromagnetic pulses? Shouldn’t people know about this?”

  “Know what about it?”

  I tried to get up. The nurse—Ms. Arana—restrained me with a single hand. “Hold your horses, honey. Wharton, I want you to sign his release form without a fuss.”

  “I don’t answer to you.” Wharton’s eyes on me, needley.

  “Son, I was working at this hospital before you had your braces off. I play bingo with your mother at the K of C. I’m grateful you treated this young man—”

  “People call me Ollie.”

  “Fine. I’m grateful you treated Ollie because I thought I could trust you not to make a mountain out of this molehill.”

  “It’s already Mount Kilimanjaro, Ms. Arana. I mean, think about the dangers of having a unfettered projector of EMPs walking around—”

  Thank god the bump on my head and the pain meds made this terrifying conversation seem like the funniest thing ever, Moritz. “I’m not a mountain. I’m a real boy!”

  You’d think I had antlers, the way he stared.

  “Please,” Ms. Arana sighed. “A regular comedian. A kid, Wharton. A sick kid.”

  “Hey, now.” My grin wasn’t fitting right. “I’m not sick. I’m a storyteller.”

  “Sure, honey.”

  Wharton clenched his fists. Latex gloves squeaked.

  “Wharton.”

  “All right!” Wharton’s face was hard to read behind his gleaming glasses, but his shoulders fell. “Fine. I’ll sign the release.”

  He scrawled on his clipboard, handed it to her. Before he left the room, he paused to give me another needling stare. I shivered. Is that what it felt like to be a Blunderkid in the lab, Mo?

  “Why?” I asked, once the door closed.

  Ms. Arana pulled my shoes and jeans out of a plastic bag. “Why what, honey? Take off that gown.”

  I pulled the cotton dress (let’s be honest: those are dresses) off my head and plucked a little at the uncomfortable neckline of the bodysuit before I realized she was waiting for an answer. I looked at my rubber-coated hands.

  “Why would you cover for me?” She started putting my shoes on for me, but I sat up straight and tied them myself. “For all you know, I crashed that bus on purpose.”

  “You didn’t. You’re a good kid.” She handed me a long-sleeved, cat-hair-coated shirt. “That’s from my locker. It’s less embarrassing than what you’ve got on, but you’ll be swimming in it. You could do with some hearty meals.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You’ve got hollows, honey.”

  “No, how do you know I’m good? Can you really tell just by looking at someone?” What if someone could see the goodness inside people, in colors, how I see electricity? Moritz, where would we register on a spectrum?

  “You don’t know anything about anyone by looking at them. I heard what you said, over and over again. To Tricia. The girl with the broken arm. You said sorry.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Everyone’s fine, honey. Bruises on most of them. One or two with stitches after the glass shards were pulled out. The bus was mostly empty and it wasn’t going fast.”

  “Oh.” I stared at my hands.

  Ms. Arana sighed and eased herself onto a bedside stool.

  “Do you know what triage is, Ollie?”

  “I’ve read about it. Paramedics at the scene of an accident gauge patients’ need for treatment and treat the most injured ones first. But I never understood it, right, because maybe someone is covered in blood and it’s not their blood but they look really gory and someone else has like an exploding hernia in the lining of their abdominal wall that can’t be detected, so someone doing triage might go for the bloodier person, which won’t actually help—”

  She put a finger on my lips. “Slow down, honey. At that accident, it was plain as day Tricia was the worst off—a compound fracture. But the next biggest injury? For my money, yours by a mile.”

  “I had a nosebleed and a bump.”

  “Your eyes, honey. Some of your injuries were on the inside. ‘Something terrible has happened to this boy.’ And no one’s doing anything about it.”

  “You can see that,” I said. “You can see that she’s dead.”

  It should have been weird, having a complete stranger hug me. But her arms were large and she smelled like apples and she was warm like Mom used to be.

  My head pounded red hot under the wool, but I froze in the waiting room entrance.

  Tricia’s parents were there. I could tell. One of her dads had her freckles. And the doctor speaking to them kept pointing at her forearm.

  Behind them: Auburn-Stache stood to meet us; Bridget didn’t budge an inch.

  Ms. Arana urged me forward with a soft shove. “It’s all right, hon.”

  “Thank god.” Auburn-Stache grabbed my shoulders. “Ollie. I’ve been pulling my hair out.”

  “So long as it wasn’t your mustache hair . . .”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m golden! No biggie.” My eyes flicked across the room. Bridget, sitting like a statue, sat next to a man coddling a screaming baby, stared back. “Is Bridget okay? Did she get her heart back from that hooligan?”

  “Ollie, we’ve got more pressing concerns.”

  “Obviously you didn’t see this hooligan.” He couldn’t even answer that?

  “We’re leaving.”

  No matter how I looked at it, Bridget in that crowded waiting room, holding a college-ruled notebook in scabbed hands, holding it but not seeing it, seemed like a pressing concern.

  I raised my eyebrows. “What, straight from the hospital?”

  “A word before you go, about Ollie’s health. My name is Jess Arana. ”

  “I’ve looked after this boy since his birth, thank you.”

  “Ha
ve you now,” she said slowly, letting her twang snap. “So you’ve been keeping an eye on his state of mind, too? Has he seen anyone? A grief counselor?”

  “You have my number. We’re leaving.”

  “Hold on. I don’t know your situation, but I just did you one helluva favor. On good faith, and on the basis that you seemed to care about this boy. But if you’re not going to address whatever sick- or sadness that’s got him feeling so reckless—”

  Auburn-Stache spun me around and pushed me ahead of him. Moritz, have you ever seen him act rude? It downright scared me, like those crazy, dark rings around his eyes.

  “What is it? Another secretly devastating phone call?”

  “I know you’re tired, but don’t raise your voice.”

  Yeah, I was tired. Injuring a bunch of strangers is just really tiring, Moritz. No biggie. And so is getting walloped in the face. You know what else is tiring? Asking valid questions and getting different variations of “shut up” in response.

  “So when I get to wherever we’re going, you’re just going to, what? Blindfold me? Maybe give me earplugs?”

  “I’ll . . . no. I’ll explain everything before we arrive.” The thought seemed to pain him; the thought of being honest pained him.

  “Then just explain it here!”

  His head twitched on his neck. “Fine. Yes, fine. Step outside.”

  I followed him out of the waiting room on shaking legs, into a hallway bathed in electric nauseating rainbows.

  “Well?”

  I stopped to let doctors push a gurney past; machines trailed it, glowing cerulean, keeping an old man alive.

  Auburn-Stache turned to me with his weird, wild eyes. “It’s Arthur.”

  “What about Arthur?” He started down the linoleum, and I dragged my feet after him; bringing Arthur up was the worst bait. “The man of Metropolis was fine yesterday!”

  “Arthur did well in school, despite his condition. Beau used to hang his architectural schematics on her fridge. He designed school buildings that would make school worth going to.” He sounded almost feverish. “Arthur didn’t have to be different, Ollie. Understand? His disability didn’t disable him.”

  Sometimes I think Auburn-Stache taught me how to ramble.

  “Long after he left the lab and moved to Chicago with Beau, I told her that his regeneration could hold the key to saving lives, essentially, and she laughed and told me he had to get through his own life first. Because he’s a person, passing as just a person, and isn’t that what made him a success story, Ollie?” Sometimes I think Auburn-Stache taught me how to feel small. “Arthur could choose normalcy. Bridget could do the same—she should choose to be whole. Not all of you have that option, Ollie. Some of you kids will never pass.”

  That stung, Moritz. “But maybe I—maybe Bridget doesn’t want to choose normalcy. And Arthur’s plenty abnormal and still plenty awesome!”

  “But Arthur has benefited from being adaptable. Arthur belongs to his city, yes? And he belonged to his school, too. Bridget never tries to change. To her eternal detriment.”

  We were in the foyer, now. Phones rang in every direction and I was just tired of hearing them, tired of hearing everything, so I stopped again. “You’re talking about us—about kids like me, kids who are different—like we’re experiments! Like I’m . . . I’m Mount Kilimanjaro! If you’re telling me that the best way to live is to lie, I’m not biting, Auburn-Stache.”

  “Every human being hides himself, herself.”

  Hiding. That’s what Auburn-Stache was doing. Twisting away from telling me the truth. Not this time, Moritz.

  “Tell me what’s wrong with Arthur.”

  He paused. “Nothing.”

  I was done being his anesthetic.

  “If it’s nothing, let’s stay. Because I’m telling you that I’m not going to ditch Bridget because you’re bored of this science project. She saved my life. I don’t care if she’s passing or not. I don’t care if she’s nice. I don’t care if you laugh at my ‘delusions.’ She matters!”

  Auburn-Stache’s eyes went hard and his mouth went hard and he did something impossible, then. He reached for my arm with one hand and swooped his other one up from his pocket.

  Something prodded my upper arm, but then came this tiny clicking noise and a snap!

  I looked down at his hands and saw a needle.

  A fluffing syringe. Moritz.

  He’d joked about tranquilizers.

  “God, I’m a fool,” he said, hands trembling. “I forgot about your bodysuit.”

  “You—you were really going to drug me?” It didn’t even sound real in my ears.

  “Ollie—I—” He looked so small and shriveled then. I backed away. “Just—I don’t know how else to—”

  “You could tell me what’s going on! Tell me what’s got you so scared! Tell me why I should pick one kid over another! Tell the fucking truth!”

  He almost whispered: “I’m afraid you’ll run the other way.”

  “On my mark, get set—”

  “Enough! Ollie!” He sounded almost unhinged. He made himself into a vise and grabbed my arm, dragging me toward automatic doors. A nurse darted forward—

  “I’m his doctor!”

  She hesitated.

  And I flipped, Moritz. “Let me go! Let go, or I’ll pull off this stupid hat and the stupid tubing underneath, and this science project might just go boom!”

  Auburn-Stache stopped and stared at me like he’d never seen me before. Nurses and staff whispered at the table behind us. A security guard ambled closer.

  I put my fingers under my hat. “What’ll happen? Do you think I’ll have a seizure, or the hospital will? I’m pretty upset right now. Maybe I could knock out all the respirators in one go.” That old man trailing cerulean. “Hey?”

  “I refuse to even acknowledge this behavior.”

  “I’ll pull it off. Right here, right now.”

  “You wouldn’t. She raised you better.”

  “I would. I’ve hurt people before. You know that, Auburn-Stache.” I felt my face twisting. “She was right. I hurt people.”

  Ask yourself, fellow hermit: How many good people blow up hospitals?

  “Not on purpose.”

  “Not like you, I guess.” My hands shook on the wool cap. “You hurt so many kids on purpose.”

  “Ollie.” His voice broke. “Ollie.”

  “Just go without me, then. Leave. It’ll be like old times.”

  I wanted him to choose me. I wanted to think I meant more than all those other kids he made. All the other Blunderkids in the world.

  Auburn-Stache’s face emptied.

  He let me go and slipped the syringe back into his pocket.

  “Very well. I’ll leave some of your things on the sidewalk. Arrange for someone to, ah . . . You’ll have to manage for a few days on your own. I’ll leave you cash. Take care, Ollie.”

  I’d like to say that his feet looked heavy, but no. He twitch-walked away through the yellow-spitting automatic doors, and I just watched him go.

  The day before Thanksgiving. Two months ago.

  I haven’t heard from him since.

  Maybe you’ll abandon me too, Moritz.

  Because yeah, I did have a hand in the forum.

  Please listen.

  I’ve spent the past few weeks of my life lying on a dirty couch, feeling powerless, feeling like I’ll never meet anyone ever again. When Owen wrote me (he must have found me in your letters, maybe when he left you the orchid), he typed in German but used some kind of Internet translator.

  The way you write about Owen isn’t how he seems to me. He told me something really personal and sad:

  Sometimes you call him Ollie. And you don’t even realize it.

  Thing is, he still wants to help, Moritz.

  So I told him about my Blundercause.

  If you’re curious: your username is already set up. It’s Dolphinmo. You can join the forum at blunderkinder.de. I’ll never see
the place. Owen keeps me updated. He prints pages of the role-play out for me to read.

  We haven’t actually found any real Blunderkids. So far as we know.

  There are seventy-three active players on the forum. There are characters who do everything from shape-shift to time-travel. Owen created a fictional fish-girl named Citrus, and last I heard she’s going through “training” sessions that players set up for the lab kids. It’s not very original, putting teens through weird science-fictional trials, but it is a reliable way to find an audience.

  Please give them a chance.

  All the characters undergo gladiator trials to escape the walls of the laboratory. The online lab isn’t like where you were raised. It’s more like the crazy fantastical place I imagined as a kid, this underground virtual reality arena full of agents in suits and high-flying action. All steamy romance and leaping through fire. The role-players don’t write about kids being locked in silent chambers. They write about a land of adventure where people don’t die in beds.

  Moritz, most of the characters have escaped the lab. They aren’t stuck in Tharandt Forest. One of them has flown into the stars because he is invulnerable. Two of them have traveled back to Victorian London to catch Jack the Ripper. One started dairy farming in Hokkaido.

  None of them are stuck.

  Don’t tell me fiction is fruitless, Moritz. Sometimes it’s the only escape we get.

  chapter eighteen

  THE SNOWBALL

  Oliver,

  I can forgive so many of your fictions. I can forgive reckless hat removal.

  Now you’ve turned my tormented past into storytelling? Without my knowledge or consent? We have needles enough without pricking each other.

  I know this was never done with malicious intent. You struggle with social niceties.

  And again my fingers drift to this keyboard. I am still writing you.

  Even this lie won’t end us.

  I nearly wish it would. Ollie, if I could stop writing to you, then you could never lie to me again. But daydreaming of a day that I won’t write you?

  I may as well daydream normalcy. And no. I won’t do that.

  You can rot. You are rotting right here on the page.

  But I can only rot with you.