Now That You're Here (Duplexity, Part I)

by Amy K. Nichols

  “Cool.” He rolls the toothpick across his lips with his tongue. “Zinc and I were just going out. Wanna come?”

  Zinc protests again. Germ shuts him up. “Would you chill, man? Be cool.” Zinc turns away, annoyed. There’s a name stitched onto the pocket of his work shirt: Neil.

  The Zinc-Neil guy is twitchier than I am. And there’s something in Germ’s eyes. Something I can’t put my finger on. Whatever. I shake off the bad vibes and go with it. “Yeah, man. I’m in.”

  “All right then.” Germ spits the toothpick into the grass and climbs into the beater. Zinc takes shotgun. The back door sticks, but I get it open on the third try. The engine roars like a sick beast and we’re off to who knows where.

  Sunset blazes across the downtown skyline as Germ sails the highway overpass. A jet takes off from Sky Harbor, an orange phoenix rising from the city.

  “Where we headed?” I yell to the front seat. The windows are down and the wind is fierce. As we round a curve, I slide across the vinyl seats from the center to the passenger side. A truck cuts us off and Germ lays on the horn. He’s right on the guy’s tail. Zinc and the other driver exchange hand signals.

  “Where we headed, Zinc?” Germ asks.

  “Party, man.”

  Germ laughs.

  It’s like there’s a joke, and I’m not getting it. But it’s okay. He may not be my Germ, but he’s still Jeremy Bulman. And he knows me. I decide to test the waters, figure out where this Germ overlaps with my friend.

  “You going out for swim team this year?” I ask.

  They both turn around and look at me. The car lists and Germ turns back just in time to correct. “What?”

  “You on the swim team, man?” Zinc asks me. He makes swimming motions with his hands, plugs his nose like he’s going under.

  I shake my head. Idiot.

  Germ takes the off-ramp at 7th Street. Lifts his foot from the gas and the engine moans like it’s tired of being whipped. He smacks Zinc across the chest with the back of his hand and points at a gas station. “Gonna stock up.”

  He pulls the car into an empty spot by the ice machines and leaves the engine running. “Hey, swimmy. Watch the wheels.” His door slams before I can respond.

  Zinc turns to me. “That means you wait here. Sit in the driver’s seat so no one jacks our ride.” And then he’s gone, too. A lot of fun this is.

  I climb over the bench seat to the front and sit behind the wheel. The seat’s warm and it grosses me out. I watch Germ’s baseball hat through the store’s windows until he moves out of sight.

  What am I doing? I should have stayed at Eevee’s. This is stupid.

  My head falls back against the headrest and the car rumbles beneath me. My eyes spaz behind closed lids. I try to relax, to just breathe, but the pulsing starts up and my chest goes tight. A slow static fills my head. Voices swim in and out.

  Do I give up? Or fight to push through, to push harder than the other Danny? Without Eevee, what reason do I have to stay here?

  The car door slams and I gasp. My eyes dart open. Someone’s legs are going over the seat to the back.

  “Go! Go! Kill it, man!”

  I throw the stick into reverse and peel from the lot. Zinc and Germ both scream in my ears. I don’t check for oncoming. Just pull out onto 7th Street going south, choking on spit and shock. Coughing, half-blinded to the road with my brain spinning.

  They high-five over the bench seat. Germ whoops. Zinc howls and drums his hands on the ceiling.

  As soon as I can breathe, I yell, “What the hell?!”

  Germ pushes the back of my head. “Just giving you shit, man. It’s cool. Go south here until you hit Baseline. Watch your speed.”

  “Tell me where we’re going.”

  “I told you. A party.”

  “Where?”

  “What are you, my mother? Shit, man. Lighten up.”

  I hear the fresh pop of a can opening. Not good. I drop my speed to three under and scan the road for cops. “Put that away.”

  “Just be a good driver, Granny, and we’ll be fine.”

  We only get a couple of miles south when the lights flash behind me.

  Germ turns to look at the squad car and yells, “Gun it!”

  My arms shake and everything moves in slow-mo. This can’t be happening.

  “Go! Go!”

  I take my foot off the gas. Turn on my signal.

  “What are you doing, man?” Zinc’s hot breath is in my face. Germ pounds on my seat back and smacks me in the head. Zinc pounds his foot over mine on the gas pedal and the car jolts forward.

  The sirens wail and the cop’s so close I can see him calling for backup. I push Zinc’s face away with one hand and steer with the other. Work to wiggle my foot out from under his. The car swerves. Stinks like beer. I plant both feet on the brake. The engine races and the tires smoke.

  For a split second, I think of throwing myself out of the car, but there’s no way. I can’t take my foot from the brake. If I do, the car zooms forward and takes me with it. Zinc and I push each other, struggling for control of the gearshift. I shove it into neutral just as something heavy clocks me in the head. Blinking out of consciousness, I see the cop in the rearview approaching with his gun drawn.

  I tell them the truth. I tell them everything.

  About Danny showing up in class that day and how he came from another universe. About Warren and me trying to figure out how to help him. About Danny’s nightmares that pull him away somewhere else and how we built an EMP device to try to help him get home but it failed.

  They don’t believe me, of course. Dad accuses me of lying, of being on drugs, of not being grateful for all they’ve done, giving me opportunities that others only dream of. Mom diagnoses me with depression, low self-esteem, poor impulse control, a personality disorder evidenced by self-deception. She picks up the phone to make an appointment with her shrink, but before she can dial, I do something I haven’t done in years.

  I raise my voice.

  “I’m not a machine. You can’t just feed in information and output good grades.” I turn to Mom. “And you can’t just start caring fifteen years too late and expect it to be enough.”

  It feels good to yell.

  They look at me like I’ve lost my mind, then they lay into each other. Ten years of ugliness explodes right there in Mom’s kitchen.

  Instead of listening to them shout in each other’s faces, I slip down the hall to my room. They just keep debating whose fault it is I’m ruining my life, accusing each other of giving me too much freedom and not enough, of letting me watch too much television and too little, of letting me eat the wrong things and read the wrong things and think the wrong things.

  That’s my parents, blaming Twinkies. Are the other Eevee’s parents as ridiculous as mine?

  I stare out my window, hoping he’ll be out front but knowing he won’t. Where did he go? The foster home? Will he be eating out of the garbage again? I curl up on my bed and cry.

  When I can’t cry anymore, and when I can’t stand the yelling, I crawl into my closet and wrap the sleeves of a sweatshirt around my head to drown everything out. Suddenly I’m six years old again, ankles crossed and arms around my knees in the safety of the darkness. I hum until all I can hear is my own voice. What would the other Eve do in this situation? She wouldn’t cry or hide. She would never have gotten caught in the first place.

  A sound that isn’t shouting or humming carries through the sweatshirt. Ringing. I let the sweatshirt fall away from my ears. The yelling has stopped, and only the phone disturbs the quiet. I slide the closet door open partway. And in the half-light, I see it.

  Did you find it? he’d asked at the end of our perfect day.

  I touch the pencil lines on the inside of the closet door. Danny drew us sitting knee to knee under the Canal Park overpass, surrounded by street art. Every detail is amazing, from our initials on the walls—EV + DOA—to our entwined hands.

  It’s been right ther
e all along.

  The front door slams. I crawl out of the closet and watch out the window as Dad’s car pulls away. Either he’s had enough, or something is wrong.

  There’s a knock at my door. “Eevee?”

  Mom’s face is pale. “That was Danny on the phone.”

  My stomach drops. “Where is he? What’s wrong?”

  “He’s in jail. Your father’s gone to bail him out.”

  “I just don’t understand why you thought you had to lie.”

  Mom and I take turns pacing the living room, waiting for news from Dad. My eyes are so dry from crying I want to claw them out of my head. I don’t have the energy to tell Mom again that I’m not lying, so I just say what she wants to hear. “I’m sorry.”

  “Honey, I was fifteen once. I know how strange it is, having all of these changes going on in your brain and body.”

  “Mom, I—”

  She holds up her hand. “And I might be old, but I’m still human. I know what it’s like to have a boy take interest in you.”

  “Mom, really, it’s—”

  “It’s exciting. It makes you feel alive. But sometimes those feelings can cloud your judgment. Make you do foolish things.”

  I laugh. “Like you ever did anything foolish.”

  “I did. And I’d tell you about it, too, except I don’t want to give you any ideas.”

  I raise my eyebrows. Whatever she’s done, I don’t want to hear it.

  She sits beside me and takes my hands in hers. “Listen, I know we’re not a typical family. And I know I’ve been too busy trying to get my new career off the ground. It’s a lot to handle, especially on top of school and a social life. But whatever’s going on, you can always come talk to me.”

  “I know, but…”

  “But what?”

  I shrug. “It’s like you’re always trying to fix me or change me into something I’m not.”

  She sits up a little straighter, surprised. “Oh.” Her hands fidget in her lap. “I—I suppose I am guilty of that. I don’t mean to be. It’s just…Sometimes I’m afraid you’re going to end up like me, like I was before I realized I didn’t like who I’d become.” She takes my hands and looks me in the eye. “I don’t want that to happen to you.”

  “I don’t either.” My voice is pinched in my throat. “But maybe if you let me figure out how I am now, I won’t have to change it all later.”

  She nods. “Less fixing, more listening. I can do that.” She hugs me and for the first time in a long time, I don’t fight it.

  “Mom?” We both dab at our eyes. “What is Dad going to do with Danny after he’s out?”

  “Take him home, I suppose.”

  I rocket from the couch. “He can’t.”

  “It’s for the best.”

  “Danny’s foster dad will kill him.”

  “He’ll be CPS’s worry now. They have systems in place—”

  I don’t wait for her to finish. I leave by the front door and she doesn’t stop me.

  Outside, I sit in the grass, in the spot where we’d sat that perfect night, and try to figure out how he could’ve landed himself in jail. He’s smarter than that, even if he doesn’t follow rules.

  Doubts wiggle their way into my thoughts. What if he isn’t who he said he is? What do I know about him, really? And the Danny I do know—the one I’ve known since sixth grade—well, the cops probably know him by name. I sit for a long time, feeding the doubts with all kinds of awful ideas.

  Later, after the stars have shifted in the sky, headlights glare down the street. I recognize the sound of Dad’s car before he turns into the driveway and kills the engine. I watch from the shadows as he walks toward Mom’s.

  No Danny.

  I don’t stick around for the fireworks. Instead, I sneak around the back of Dad’s house and get Danny’s bike. I have to find him.

  I scrawl my name across the form and hand the officer the clipboard. He drops it onto the counter and opens a plastic bag.

  “One wallet.” He doesn’t look at me. “One pen.”

  There it is, the sum of my existence in this world on display for all to see. And neither actually belongs to me. I stuff the wallet and pen into my back pocket and say thanks, but the officer’s already moved on to his next incarcerated loser.

  Sid stands by the exit with his arms crossed, his face like a brewing storm. I didn’t want to call him, but who else is there? Brent? Yeah, right. I’d end up in the morgue.

  When I get close enough to talk to him, Sid turns and walks out, clanging his car keys against his thigh with each step. I follow him, expecting the door to slam behind me, but it has one of those slowing arms on it and I have to actually push it shut, then hurry to catch up. Sid’s already in his Volvo. I get in and sling the seat belt across my lap, inhale to speak, but he clears his throat and starts the engine. Gives two loud revs.

  Right. Okay. Silence is good. I can do silence.

  Sid backs out of the space and the car pushes forward into the night. Clock on the dash reads 8:18. Three hours in a holding cell, watching my back and studying the scraped paint on the bars. A guy in the next cell was tripping something fierce. Rolling on the floor and yowling like a cat. No idea where they stuffed Germ and Zinc-Neil. I touch the knob on my head where Germ clocked me. Pull away my hand expecting to see more blood, but there’s none.

  God, what an idiot. What was I thinking, getting in that car with them?

  The streetlights paint a slow strobe across the hood, the dash, my knees, and repeat. Sid’s hands grip the steering wheel. My own are clammy. I wipe them on my jeans and clear my throat to speak, expecting him to shut me up again. But he doesn’t. Instead, he just smolders.

  So I do what neither of us expects.

  I tell him the truth.

  “I’m not from here. I’m from another universe.” My voice sounds like someone else, someone not me. Sid just stares ahead, turns on the blinker, makes a right.

  “See, there isn’t just one universe. There are lots of them. And somehow I crossed from mine to here. We think it had to do with the EMP, but now we’re not sure.”

  The car accelerates. Sid merges onto the freeway, heading north. The streetlights blink by.

  “There’s an Eevee in my universe, too, but she’s not like your Eevee. She’s…” Adjectives race through my brain, but I stick with what’s safe. “She’s an artist.” When he still doesn’t respond, I add, “A really good one.”

  Sid navigates through traffic, weaving from one lane to the next, always using his blinker. He may drive fast, but he drives responsibly.

  “She and Warren have been trying to help me. There’s this…thing…that keeps happening, almost pulling me back to my universe, but it’s like it loses its grip on me. I don’t know. It’s weird. But anyway, they were…trying…”

  Sid passes the Thunderbird Road exit. Where is he going?

  “…Were trying to help me get back to my world. And I thought it was going to work, and the thing is…”

  He takes the Bell Road exit and I realize where we’re headed. The car sails through the green light and makes such a sharp left turn that my hand instinctively grips the door. Sid accelerates again, the needle hovering at ten over. I swallow and continue.

  “The thing is, I realized I don’t want to leave. I mean, I miss my family, of course. But if I go back, if I leave…”

  Even in the dark of the car I can see the tightness in Sid’s face.

  “I don’t want to leave her. I don’t want to leave Eevee.”

  He swings a left onto 39th and barrels south. Slows into the final turn and eases the car to a stop. The foster home is dark. Sid stretches his fingers, keeping his palms on the wheel. The air is thick with anger. His voice holds no uncertainty.

  “You stay away from her.”

  He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t see me nod. As soon as the car door closes behind me, he’s gone. Two red-eye taillights glaring, threatening.

  Like hell I’m staying
here.

  When I’m sure Sid’s car is gone, I skirt the front yard of the foster house to get at the garage without being seen. I’m sure I saw an old bike there. The light from the television flickers through the window. There are voices, but I can’t tell if it’s Brent and Sooz talking or the people on TV. They’ve got to know what happened. Whatever authority monitors Danny’s life must have called by now.

  Or maybe not. Maybe they don’t track what happens here. Maybe these kids have slipped through the system. Until I reported it, no one seemed to notice they were being bullied by that disgusting excuse for a man, and who knows whether they’ve done anything about it since then.

  The garage door sticks when I try to lift it, and rumbles ominously when it comes unstuck. I’m trying to slide it open as slowly and softly as possible, but pressure builds in my chest and my eyes blur. No. Not now. I crouch down to keep from falling. Try to relax, to keep breathing. It feels like a car is parked on my lungs. A female voice slithers through the static.

  He’s one of them.

  Her perfume colors blue across the haze.

  Can’t be caught here. I struggle to stave off the sounds and images, but it’s no good. Through the haze, I hear Eevee’s voice.

  All the proof you need is right here.

  Shapes move through a blinding light. Whatever’s happening, it’s bad. Real bad. I can’t let this happen. Can’t let it take me. Where is the other Danny? Why isn’t he fighting back?

  There’s something hard and cold in my hand. I slam it down, feel the jolt rocket through my arm.

  Lock him up.

  I slam my fist down again and again until the pulsing eases and my empty fist hits the solid floor beneath me. It’s dark. The smell of her perfume is gone, replaced by dirt and gasoline.

  What is she doing there? Where was I?

  I cough the tightness from my chest. Pull myself up using the bumper of Brent’s truck. My body feels heavy, exhausted. I wait for my eyes to adjust to the dark, then reach along the wall for the light switch.

  Near the shelves against the wall is a pink ten-speed. A girl’s bike. Well, at least it’s wheels. It’ll get me where I need to go, which is anywhere far from here.