The Fish snaps the book closed. “I will not be disrespected in my classroom, Mr. Finney. Out.” Then she gasps, puts her hand over her stomach and takes several deep breaths.
Please go into labor. Go. Go now.
But The Fish’s moment of drama passes as soon as the door shuts on Brian. “Turn to page 774 in your anthology,” she says. “Randy, you may read aloud while I return last week’s essays.” She waddles up and down the rows, stopping at each desk to shuffle through the papers cradled in her arms. Poor Randy clears his throat and begins reading in a slow, stuttered dirge while the rest of us fantasize about being anywhere else.
“ ‘An Experiment in M-m-misery,’ by Stephen C-crane.”
Sounds like a story about our class.
“ ‘It w-w-was late at night, and a fine rain was s-swirling softly down, uh, causing the p-p-pavements to glisten with hue of s-s-steel and blue and y-y-yellow in the rays of the in-in-in—’ ”
“Innumerable.” The Fish’s voice snaps like a whip from the next row over, where she is dispensing marked-up essays among the M’s.
“ ‘Innumerable lights. A y-youth was t-t-trudging slowly, without enth-th-uzzziaasm, with his hands buried d-d-deep in his t-t-trousers pockets—’ ”
“That’s enough, Randy.” The Fish places my essay facedown on my desk. Randy looks relieved it’s over. “Eve, you may continue where Randy left off.”
Ugh. My turn. I trace the lines of text with my finger. “ ‘Toward the downtown places where beds can be hired for coppers. He was clothed in an aged and tattered suit…’ ”
I continue to read, but my mind wanders to the essay on my desk. Will I have to rewrite this one, same as last time? I can hear Dad lecturing already.
“ ‘He looked about him searching for an outcast of highest degree that they two might share miseries.’ ”
“Thank you, Eve. Michael, now you.”
I tap Kyle’s leg to get him to stop jiggling my chair. He grunts. I turn the essay over. Scrawled in perfect red handwriting is a note:
While you finally seem to be getting a handle on grammar, you continue to insist on forcing literature into strict paradigms. Think beyond the confines of the story. Rewrite. Grade: D.
Why can’t short stories be like fractions or geometric puzzles? Clear, concise, absolute. Then it would have easily been an A. I slide the essay under my notebook and listen to Michael read. Soon his voice turns to blah-blah in my ears and my attention slips back to the box fractal. I try to fix the ruined spot, but the mistake line curves in a way that isn’t mathematically correct. It bothers me, like a painting hanging crooked on a wall. I trace and retrace the curve, deepening it until it’s closer to accurate. It resembles half of a heart. The pen slowly slices through the paper.
Out of nowhere, Danny gasps and bolts upright in his seat. Scares the crap out of me. The pen falls from my hand and rolls to the ground. He grips the desk, elbows locked, and raises his chin enough that his hair falls back from his face. He looks around the room, moving only his eyes.
“Nice of you to join us, Mr. Ogden,” The Fish remarks, before turning to her next victim. She points a fat finger. “Amanda, please read.”
Everyone returns to listening to the short story. Except me. I watch Danny from the corner of my eye. He relaxes a little, but still holds on to the desk, his knuckles white. I lean over and pick my pen up from the floor. When I sit up, his eyes meet mine and I freeze.
They’re blue, saucer-like.
“You,” he whispers.
Me? What did I do? I press myself into the arm of my chair, as far away from him as possible, and keep my eyes down on the notebook. Sarah’s perfume chokes out all the oxygen in the room. My chair jiggles in a constant Kyle quake. And all the while, Danny won’t stop staring at me.
I hear the sound of ripping paper, then a note lands near my left shoe. The idiot is going to get us both in trouble. I try to ignore it, the inch of badly folded white with the mystery message inside. What does it say? What does he want? When I can’t stand not knowing any longer, I make sure The Fish’s back is turned and reach down to pretend-scratch my leg. My fingers snatch the note and I sit up, hiding my hands behind Sarah’s massive hair.
It’s a simple question written in wobbly black capitals: WHERE ARE WE?
I scribble a single-word response: Hell. When The Fish turns away again, I toss the paper back over. Danny catches it one-handed. Pretty good reflexes for a stoner who spends most of his time asleep.
He crumples the note in his fist and opens his mouth to say something to me, but The Fish speaks first.
“Danny, you may pick up where Carson left off.”
He looks around at everyone watching him.
Then he bolts from the room.
The door bangs shut. Through pursed lips, The Fish says, “Sarah, you read instead.”
What. The.
The door bangs behind me and I run full force into blinding sunshine. My lungs feel like they’re gonna explode, but I push forward, running through the parking lot and past the gates until I’m free.
And lost.
I turn in a slow circle, catching my breath, eyes watering from the sun. Where’s the mall? The parade? The people?
My fingers fumble at the crumpled note still clutched in my hand.
WHERE ARE WE?
Hell.
I have to find Germ.
Dodging cars, I race across four lanes of traffic into a sprawling neighborhood. This isn’t the Phoenix I know. The sun is too bright. The air too dry. Not a Spectrum cam to be seen. My legs feel like they’re made of concrete. One foot catches the other and I go down. Knees slam the road. Pain rockets through me as I roll to my back and spit hair out of my mouth.
Hair? I stretch the long strands up toward the sky—eight inches of hair that weren’t there this morning are now rooted to my head. Blood oozes where my hands scraped the road. Bits of red smudge the cuffs of a black leather jacket I’ve never seen before. My head falls back to the asphalt, jarring my teeth.
Get up, Ogden. Find Germ. Find Dad. Find someone.
My legs kick against the pain as I stumble through the streets, heading what should be south. If I keep going this way, I’ll get to my neighborhood. If I can make it. My breathing goes ragged and I fall into a limp, the high-tops clomping. My lungs burn like I’m hauling, but I’m getting nowhere fast. The road turns and ends in a cul-de-sac.
Lost again. And no choice but to go back the way I came.
“All right, Danny,” I mutter. “Keep it together, man.”
I drag my ass back through the neighborhood, mumbling the things I recognize from the first pass. Garbage can. Blue house. Block wall. Gravel yard. Cactus. Barking dog. The sound of traffic rumbles ahead. Getting close. I stumble forward until finally I reach the main road.
Back where I started.
This time I wait for a break in traffic, then limp across the street and back onto campus, defeated. Nothing is right here. Everything is out of place. Maybe I’ll find answers back at the school. Those people seemed to know me at least.
“Where’s the office?” I ask a scrawny kid with glasses. My swollen lip bumbles the words.
He looks at me like he’s afraid I’ll pound him. Points to a building and darts off.
I push open the office door. The woman behind the desk gasps. “Oh my.” She stands. “This way.” We walk through a hallway lined with framed certificates and trophy cases. The smell of alcohol stings the air. I reach out and touch the wall to keep my balance.
“Clara?” the office lady says.
The nurse looks up from her snack. “What happened to you?” She snaps the lid over her food and gets to work. Sits me up on the exam table. Puts an ice pack on my head. Dabs goop on my lip and scrubs my hands with stinky orange soap.
“Did you get beat up again?”
Can’t speak with the thermometer under my tongue, so I shake my head.
“Fall?”
&nbs
p; I nod.
“Does it hurt anywhere? Ribs? Head?”
I point to my knee. She pushes up the jeans leg, which is so tight she can barely get it over my swollen knee. She feels the sides and back, moves the kneecap, bends and straightens the leg. Takes the thermometer from my mouth and reads it. Wipes it with alcohol and puts it in a glass container.
“I was running,” I say. “I tripped.”
She raises an eyebrow. Doesn’t believe me.
I hold up a hand to show her the road rash. “Landed in the street.”
“You were off campus?”
“Parking lot.”
“Ah.”
Definitely doesn’t believe me.
She takes away the ice and examines the back of my head. “That’s a big bump.” She touches it and I wince. “Dizzy?”
“A little.”
She flashes a penlight across my eyes.
“Follow my finger.” She moves her hand back and forth in front of my face. “Squeeze my hands as hard as you can.”
I squeeze and it’s her turn to wince. She hands me the ice pack and I put it back on my head. I stare at my knees, compare their sizes. Bend my right leg, just to make sure the pain is still real.
It is.
“This is Clara Meeks, nurse at Palo Brea High School,” she says into the phone. “Danny fell and got pretty banged up. I’m recommending he see a doctor. What time will you be here to pick him up?”
My heart’s thumping. Who is she talking to?
“Thank you.” She hangs up the phone. “Your ride will be out front. You’re welcome to wait here. He said it will take a little while.”
Must be Dad. Good. This is good.
The paper on the table crinkles as Nurse Clara helps me lie back. She sets an ice pack over my knee and adjusts the one under my head. A frozen pillow.
As the pain goes numb, the room feels like it’s tilting and taking me with it. The pockmarks on the ceiling form patterns. Gnarly faces looking down. Dad will be here soon. We’ll go home and everything will be okay. I listen to the sounds around me, the muted voices, the rhythm of a copy machine, the sound of my breathing. The spinning stills. My face relaxes, then my shoulders. My body sinks into the table like it weighs a—
“Oh no you don’t.” Nurse Clara’s voice jerks me awake. “No falling asleep. Not with a bump like that on your noggin.”
I blink against the lights. A headache blooms behind my eyes.
Office Lady knocks twice on the open door. “Danny’s ride is waiting in the east lot.”
“Thanks.” Nurse Clara helps me sit up. “Want me to walk out with you?”
“No. I got it.” I topple off the table and shuffle to the door. “Which way is east?”
She frowns, points. “See a doctor, Danny. And no more falling down, okay?”
I shake off the woozy feeling as I walk in the direction Nurse Clara pointed. My eyes search the lot, but I don’t see Dad’s car.
The reverse lights of a work truck parked at the curb blink on. The truck rolls backward and the equipment on the racks clatters. Then the truck stops. In front of me.
“You want me to carry you or something?” The voice is gruff. Angry.
I peer through the passenger window. Never seen the guy before. He’s greasy. The cab stinks. “Ain’t in the mood for your bull crap, Danny. Get your ass in the truck.”
The clock on the dash reads 10:32 when Mom pulls into the driveway. I crane my neck to see if Warren’s on his roof. He isn’t. She turns off the engine and the car chimes to remind her to take her key out of the ignition. She yawns. “Where are you staying tonight?”
The light is on in Dad’s front room next door. Awake and reading, no doubt. He’ll ask how I did on my English essay. Mom, on the other hand, is too tired to care. “I’ll stay here.”
She pulls the key and the chiming stops. “Honey?”
My hand grips the passenger-door handle. Here comes the awkward. Ever since she turned forty and started seeing this New Agey life coach, things have been weird. She gave up accounting for real estate. Changed her hair and how she dresses. Began reading books like How to Relate to Your Teen and 101 Fun Mother-Daughter Dates. Fashion magazines started showing up, too, left open to the style-guide pages. She drops hints about my hair and nails and clothes, like I should try harder to look like all the other fifteen-year-old girls out there. So what will it be this time? The fact that I wore jeans tonight instead of a dress?
She surprises me, though, with a simple “Thank you for going tonight. I know it’s not your thing.”
The truth is, I actually enjoyed the ballet. The precision of the dancers’ movements timed to the music. The shapes and colors and rhythms changing and morphing. It was a perfect blend of art and physics. I can’t tell her this, though. If I do, what would be next? A makeover? Charm school? So I answer, “You’re welcome,” and leave it at that.
We gather our things and walk toward the house. As I pass the garage, a figure steps from the shadows. “Eevee?”
I stumble back. “What are you doing here?”
Mom calls from near the front door, “Everything okay?” Then she sees Danny and her eyes just about pop out of her head. I can read on her face what she’s thinking: My daughter is talking to a boy! She smiles. “Hello. Is this a friend of yours, Eve?”
“Mom, this is Danny,” I say, keeping my distance from both of them. “He’s from school.”
She shuffles her bags. “Nice to meet you, Danny. I’m Judy.”
He pushes his hair out of his eyes and shakes her hand. “Nice to meet you, too, Mrs. Solomon.”
“It’s Bennett, actually. Ms. Bennett.” Mom smiles at me, then at Danny, then at me again. Now that she’s had a closer look, she doesn’t seem quite so sure about him. Still, she says in her chirpiest voice, “I’ll leave you two to talk.”
“No, it’s okay. I’m coming inside.”
She mouths, Don’t be rude before making a big show of bustling off to the house. The door closes with a click and I’m alone with him.
“How do you know where I live?”
“I didn’t. I followed you home from school earlier.”
That’s all I need to hear.
“Wait. Eevee.”
“I don’t know what this is about, but I don’t want any part of it. Go away.”
“Go where? I can’t find anyone. You’re the only link I have.”
“Link to what? You don’t even know me.”
“But I thought after the museum and then seeing you today, you—”
“Go home, Danny.” I open the front door.
“I can’t.”
Cold twists in my stomach and my legs feel like they’re made of osmium. “Why not?”
“He took me to some house, but it wasn’t mine. And I tried to find my house, but…” His voice trails off, and he mumbles, “Everything is wrong.”
“Who took you? What happened?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I’m not me. This. This isn’t…” He motions at Mom’s house, the street. “Where are we?”
“Phoenix? United States? Earth?”
He shakes his head. His eyes look desperate.
“Okay.” I hold up my hands to try to calm him down. “Let’s take this slow. You’re Danny Ogden, right?”
“Right, but I’m—”
“Just yes or no.”
“Yeah. In here.” He touches his temple.
“You live in Phoenix.”
“Right, but—”
“You’re still in Phoenix.”
“No,” he says. “No. I was at the mall. And there was a huge explosion. I hit my head and next thing I knew I was in that class.” He balls his fists over his eyes and shakes his head. “Oh God. What about Germ?”
I step toward him. “Danny, did you take something?”
“No. I was—” He holds his right hand out, palm up. “I was there.” He flips it over. “And then I was here.” He looks up. “This can’t be Phoenix.
What about Spectrum?”
I shake my head.
“Cameras? Compliance? Where is all of that?” He wipes a hand over his face. “You have to believe me. I have no idea how I ended up in that classroom.”
“You walked in late, just like you do every day.” The events replay in my mind. “Then you fell asleep, like you do every day. And then you ran out, which I have to admit was something new.”
“Right!” He points at me with both hands. “I ran into the neighborhood, but I got lost. So I went back to the school. To the nurse. She called someone and this guy showed up, and he drove me to a house and dropped me off. He told me not to let this happen again.”
“Let what happen?”
“Make him leave work? I don’t know. He was pissed. Really pissed.” He moves the hair out of his face and I see the swollen purple skin under his eye.
“Then he opened the truck door like nothing happened and drove off.”
“What did you do?”
“I found a key in my pocket that fit the lock.” He takes a step toward me. “Eevee, I’ve never seen that house before. Whoever those people are, they aren’t my parents.”
“Why did you go in?”
“I thought maybe there’d be some answers in there. And I was starving.” He tucks his hands in his pockets. “There were pictures on the fridge. One was of me.” He swallows hard. “I think it’s a foster home.”
I don’t know what to say. He really seems to be in trouble, but what can I do to help? All I come up with is, “That’s really strange.”
“It doesn’t make sense. I live with my parents. Always have.”
“You said you tried to find your house?”
He nods. “I wandered around, but everything is so different. I got lost and didn’t know what to do. I went back to the school and hung around until I saw you leaving. After I knew where you lived, I made it my home base. I tried to find my house, but I couldn’t. By the time I got back here, you were gone.”
Now That You're Here (Duplexity, Part I) Page 2