Nowhere Near You

by Leah Thomas

  “Wait—Ollie, your nose is bleeding!” called Wharton.

  I started, tried to stop the blood, but when I raised my right hand, all the electricity coiled there unspun faster than anything and shot away from me, snapped past the generator, whipping against the wall of the mausoleum.

  The force of it flung me back into the grass, jaw slamming shut when my head hit, biting my tongue like the bad old days.

  Seconds or maybe minutes later (did I have a seizure?), Wharton’s eyes shone bright while he shook my shoulders. “Ollie, I saw something. Distorted air! And you scored the mausoleum! Look!” He leapt to his feet, ran his hand over the stone. “You charred the damn wall.”

  “An accident,” I said, sitting up, trembling all over.

  “Don’t ruin the moment. It’ll just take practice.” He sounded downright giddy. “Wait until people see this.”

  I held my nose to my sleeve, tongue throbbing. “Why would anyone ever see this?”

  Wharton didn’t answer. He held the electric device in his hand close to the charred wall. It let loose a high-pitched wailing sound that made him jerk back. When he held it close to me, it did the same thing. His smile stayed on, but his eyes stopped twinkling.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Next time we meet, we’re going to the Megamart.”

  This week, Mr. Elton gave me an A on an open-topic categorical essay I wrote about different kinds of humidifiers (although I used too many parentheses and asides, he says. Whatever, man.) He told me he’d think that someone who could make humidifiers interesting could be a great writer someday.

  Ms. Goledge, on the other hand, assigned another electrical lab experiment. It involved electroshocking dead frogs to simulate life. Total Frankenstein rip-off, but kind of awesome. And because of practicing with Dr. Wharton, I just smiled and lined right up with Whitney. We made that dead frog dance, Moritz.

  I don’t know what’s going to happen next, Mo, but I’ll keep dancing, too.

  chapter thirty

  THE GOGGLES (REPRISE)

  Oliver. I am glad to know I am your solace. Your towel in times of need. You are mine as well. And yet we have had to walk alone these past few months. We have learned to rely less upon each other and more upon ourselves. Equals, not crutches. This is no terrible thing.

  But, Ollie, do be careful of this Wharton and his gleaming eyes. I’ve seen his kind before.

  And your “foreign kid” grows weary of morbid jokes. Our lives are no laughing matter, even if that is how we manage.

  Let us see if you will enjoy my gallows humor.

  Klaus and I posted my video message on a Sunday night. I anticipated taking a few more days away from school. My medicine in full effect. Drowsiness became me.

  I did not expect to be roused in the earliest hours of Tuesday by the stomping of boots outside my bedroom door.

  “Moritz, you twat. Let me the fluff in.”

  I stumbled out of bed. Took hold of the doorknob before I fully realized the strangeness of what was happening.

  Fieke stood in my apartment for the first time in months. Certainly for the first time since her brother and I had parted. Not only that. It was 5:00 am.

  “You’ll wake Father.” I hurried her into my room. “How did you get in?”

  “Please, Moritz. Like I can’t pick locks.”

  I paled. “Is it Owen? How is he doing?”

  “No, it isn’t Owen. Don’t talk to me about Owen. That’s not your business anymore, is it.”

  “But—”

  “So he fainted. At least you didn’t break his ribs like you broke Lenz’s.”

  “It wasn’t like that,” I told her.

  “You think I don’t know that? I can feel your fluffing anxiety. Whatever. Accidents happen. Breakups are rough. That’s not what I’m here about.”

  “Then . . . ?”

  She sat at my desk, pushing my letters aside. Opened my computer. “You idiot. Shit, Moritz. Come here. Actually, no. Just sit there. Listen. Let me read you some of this.”

  She muted my laptop and read the comments instead.

  “A user called shionezumi: ‘Dolphinmo, this forum has gotten me through some hard times. Knowing it’s based on something true makes it mean even more to me! I’m sharing this video and her photo everywhere. We will find her.’”

  “A sweet sentiment.”

  “A user called apples-in-the-orc-yard: ‘Moritz, I’m a little older than some of the players. I run a local paper. I’ll be running your mother’s photo on- and off-line. We will find her.’”

  “Very kind.”

  “Yeah, well, there are, like, hundreds more messages like this. People are posting that photo everywhere. Not just on the forum. I wouldn’t say it’s gone viral, because that’s something dumbasses say, and anyhow this is still pretty low-key, but it kind of has. You’ve got fangirls, Moritz.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t worry, fanboys, too. And you know what? There are people who want to know more about the lab. Because if it’s real, it’s fluffing terrible. People love terrible shit.”

  “Don’t they just.” Of course Fieke had a hand in the forum. She’s expanded my world from the instant we met.

  “You blew up this fluffing forum. They’re posting possible leads. They want updates! A couple of them claim to be real Blunderkinder.” Fieke looked at me. “Wish you could see it.”

  Rattling breath.

  “The fluff, Moritz?”

  “I can’t tell whether you’re pleased or furious. Whether I should be happy or terrified.”

  “Both, you idiot. Both to both statements. But you know what this means? Owen’s goofy forum is working. It’s connecting us to freak kids. And we’re going to find your mom. We. Will. Find. Her. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “And then what?”

  She smacked the computer closed again and spun the revolving chair around. “Then what? Then you fluffers can start feeling better!” Could Fieke also be emolocating? “You can stop fluffing worrying everyone! Get your shit together!”

  “I don’t know what to say to him. I do not trust myself.”

  “I said this wasn’t about Owen! Jesus!” Fieke stood. “Look, it’s easy. Can you say with any certainty that you’re in love with my little brother?”

  “I care for him.”

  “That’s not what I asked.” She waited.

  “It is an unfair question.”

  “Fine, Herr Emotionally Stunted. Let’s try a different one: Can you say with any certainty that you’re in love with electro-boy?”

  She must have felt the answer.

  “There you go. Now I’m going the fluff to school. Some of us are going to graduate this year, damn it.”

  When we reached the door, I took hold of her arm.

  “You came to see me in the hospital. Why?”

  “‘Why?’” She held the door. “Fluff. Moritz! You were my friend first. That doesn’t have to stop because you suck at relation-shits. Get over yourself.” She stomped toward the stairwell. “We will fluffing find her!”

  In the wake of the video, the ranks of the experimental forum you and Owen created have swollen to more than two thousand, Ollie.

  I spent much of the day listening to messages from our supporters. Wondering what might happen next. Whether shady government operatives would show up at my door. Whether we truly would find her. Whether anyone cared. Perhaps they still thought this an elaborate fiction.

  The two who claimed to be actual Blunderkinder gave convincing accounts: there was a boy in England who disgorged his esophagus; I remember him personally. A girl in Taipei with a prehensile tongue. Neither reported any ill effects.

  Some users wanted to know where I live. One user claims to attend school with me. Refused to give details. Left this as proof: “Beastie Boys.” Someone from Music Interpretation?

  Occasional users called me freak. Liar. Cried “faaaaakkkke!” But few and far between. For the most part, strangers help
ed me. Perhaps Molly is right about people. Perhaps you are.

  Before I signed out, I heard a ping. From username thorfinn. Jon, the boy in Iceland.

  “Moritz! We will find her!”

  Thank you, Jon. Are you well?

  “Fine! Are others really becoming ill?”

  I do not type what I am thinking.

  “Anyhow, we’ll find your mother!”

  To think. I haven’t said my mother may not help even if we do find her. Even if we find her, how can anyone persuade her to do a thing?

  For a time I simply sat at my desk. Holding on to hope.

  Molly was not on campus when I returned the following week. Klaus waited at the gates and insisted on walking me to my classes, scowling at passersby on my behalf, because he knows I cannot scowl.

  “Max has just been strutting around as usual. I don’t think he’ll try anything.”

  “I can look after myself.”

  “If I left it to you, you’d send him to the emergency room again, Farber. And then mope about it.”

  Inevitably, I would run into the wolf at some point. It was in the second auditorium, in transit to Belletristik class. He twisted the hair of another boy around his finger. He saw me, tensed. I considered trying to smother my emotions.

  No. Enough.

  I made no effort to hide my loathing as Klaus and I passed. The smile dropped off Max’s face. He lowered his eyes. Stood as far from me as possible and excused himself from the younger boy’s company.

  I am ashamed of what I did to Max in the foyer. But if he is ashamed of what he did to me, I would not be sorry. Not in the least. But he isn’t. He’ll find others to poison.

  We passed out of the building into a sunny spring afternoon. I could smell warmth on the air. I could hear, my ears as keen as ever.

  “Beg pardon, Klaus. I may have taken your advice to ‘feel things’ a bit too literally.”

  “I don’t think so, Farber. You aimed that misery at him, not me. No more excuses about control. He’s downright fled the building.”

  “You’re . . . impressed?”

  “It’s more impressive than your paint jobs. That’s for sure.”

  I stopped walking near the fountain. I could hear someone approaching us. Hesitant, small footsteps. I turned around.

  “Moritz.” The mousy girl from Dr. Hoppen’s class. She held out her hand. “Username sallyringwalden. We will find her.”

  Our slogan. I shook her hand. She nodded, lowered her gaze, and shuffled away.

  “Why? Just why?” Klaus barked. “You’re not even handsome!”

  I visited Molly that afternoon. Brought her homework. She pulled off her earmuffs and smiled, but she still looked tired. She’s kept herself busy, it seemed. Embroidering.

  “Don’t worry. Needles in fabric and not in myself today.”

  “I spoke to your teacher about your midterm. He says he never sees audience reactions that great for amateur performances. You passed.”

  “Despite fleeing from the stage.”

  “Yes. That was considered dramatic of you. Full marks.”

  “You are terrible, Moritz.”

  “I spoke to Frau Welter also. She said that they’ll have you back in your own time. Liberal arts schools. They will stand your foolish drama.”

  “More than under the weather you’re not well at all there’s so much wrong with you.”

  She’d fed her second mouth sticky toffee to muffle it. I found it easier to sit beside her this time.

  “How are your ears?”

  “Better. Thank you.”

  “Oh, what’s the matter? Don’t make me guess, Prince.”

  I opened my mouth, and she shook her head. “Be direct.”

  “I’m not Klaus.” But I complied. “Molly, how am I better than the ones who hurt us?”

  She smiled.

  “Don’t laugh.”

  “You say, visiting me, the girl who tried to drown you, on her sickbed. How could you not be better?” She shook her head. “Honestly, I think Max could stand to be hurt. I can guess what he tried, Moritz.”

  “I could floor him with a single click. I know I could.” I clicked. “I won’t. But can I let him hurt others?”

  Molly set down her stitching. She put her hand on mine. “That boy who dropped out last year—he reported Max. People laughed. They didn’t believe him. Max is so charming.”

  “He was all charm today. Until he saw me.”

  “My charm’s worn thin, too.” She sat up straight. “Let’s wear his out for good.”

  “How?”

  Two wide smiles. “How else? Through the dramatic arts.”

  Her scheme was ludicrous. I did not say so. I projected support, watched her phone legions of classmates. Plan the “event” for the end of the week. Max was more notorious than I knew.

  “Did you call Klaus?”

  “No, Moritz. He would ask to see me. What an outdated romantic. Real life isn’t a stage. Shakespeare was deluded.”

  “Then your plan is deluded.”

  “I didn’t say I don’t like delusions.”

  “Sometimes we only have delusions and sometimes that’s better than remembering.”

  I cannot help but think of her parasols and lace. She would never drown me.

  Try to imagine her scheme, Oliver. Imagine from Max’s unsuspecting perspective.

  Imagine you strut onto campus. Cloaked in cockiness. Imagine you enter the grounds. They are unusually empty for this hour. A few students pass here and there, but no one you know. They do not look at you. Imagine you arrive at breakfast and not a soul is there.

  Imagine you are Max and you walk through vacant hallways to your first lesson. And then you enter your first-hour drama class in the auditorium.

  There sit more than a hundred students. All of them face away from you. When you laugh and try to reclaim the atmosphere as your own, they all snap their faces toward you. But you cannot see those faces. Each and every one of them wears black goggles. Each and every one of the goggles is opaque. Not a soul smiles at you.

  Imagine, for the duration of the day, whenever your peers see you, they pull goggles down from their foreheads. They close their mouths and stand still. Follow you with soulless stares. They do not break character. This is Myriad Academy, where such things are mundane. Even the students without goggles don’t speak to you. They know you are being targeted. They know something must be wrong with you. You are guilty of something.

  Imagine that finally you make a bid for escape. You cannot laugh anymore. Your cockiness has fled you. Imagine that you make for the gate.

  But I’m standing there. I’m wearing my goggles. And when you approach me, you are wide-eyed and furious and frightened. Ready to hit me. To bowl me over. When you are directly before me, you realize that the others are all behind you. Watching.

  I lift my goggles.

  And the nothingness there just screams at you:

  “We all see you.”

  I did not pull my goggles back on after Max left my range of hearing. Conversely, the other students, who surrounded me, clapping me on the back or embracing me briefly, did not remove theirs.

  I was the only one unhidden. I swear to you, Ollie, I held my head high. Of course, as I made my way across campus, springtime mud and grass clinging to my oxfords, one or two students craned to look at me. Not unkindly. Perhaps because Klaus stood beside me. Or perhaps because something emanated from me in clouds of warmth, emolocating what seeing all those goggles on eyes and around necks and strapped to foreheads meant to me. I cannot see reflections. But I could feel myself reflected in flat lenses. I could feel my relief on the faces of others. And if perhaps I made them smile, well, they made me do the same. Does it matter where it began?

  Ollie, why has that been so hard for me to see?

  In the mess hall, I played perfect metronome and tuner for Chloe-Bowie and her bandmates, and they allowed me to freestyle at the key change in “Ashes to Ashes.” I don’t kno
w what I said about good and bad things. I’ve never been one to freestyle. I might do it again. I might try to get better.

  After lunch, Chloe threw her glittery arms around my shoulders and walked with me to Belletristik class. When Dr. Hoppen asked for volunteers for the warm-up, I put up my hand. There were at least five other hands raised. I was just another student who was not chosen.

  But Dr. Hoppen nodded at me.

  Perhaps next time.

  chapter thirty-one

  THE LUNCH BAG

  I got chills from reading that, Moritz.

  That’s the cleverest, creepiest idea. I’m glad you and Molly aren’t supervillains. Imagine the world at your begoggled mercy! I’m basically already there, aren’t I?

  I’m bordering on supervillainy, too. Every day, Moritz, I go to school pretending not to be a ticking bomb. Especially after what happened in the graveyard, it feels like anything could happen.

  It almost feels great, doesn’t it? Owning the dark parts.

  Track season is finally under way!

  This Tuesday Bridget and Brian were scheduled to run events at the first district meet at the Christchurch field. Ms. Arana packed up her car with blankets and a cooler of juice boxes and carted us over there in the late afternoon to watch.

  “Hey, Danielle!” I waved at the girl at the ticket booth.

  “Ollie! I’m going to vote for you.” She handed us our tickets.

  “Vote for me? What for?”

  She sighed. “Student council.”

  I plucked my shirt like it was a suit jacket. “That sounds very prestigious.”

  Patrick, a boy leaning on the fence, wrapped an arm around my neck and pounded me on the shoulder. “Bro, you gotta get better and join the team next season.”

  “I’ll just tell the tumors to make way in the name of lacrosse.”

  We went to the concessions stand for popcorn. Whitney was serving cocoa on one end of the stand and she smiled. I said hi to more kids and fist-bumped Bondage Gabe on our way to the stands.

  Ms. Arana was all kinds of bemused. “Honey, you could teach Brian a thing about being popular.”