When Lightning Strikes

by Jenny Carroll

  4

  Ruth said, "I'm telling you, I don't see another one. There's just the one."

  "Are you sure?"

  I was standing, stark naked, in the middle of my bedroom. It was after dinner, which I guess had been delicious. I wouldn't know, having been unable to taste anything, what with my excitement over having been really and truly struck by lightning. The star-shaped burn proved it. It was the entrance wound Douglas had been talking about.

  The only problem was, I couldn't find an exit wound. I'd made Ruth come over after dinner and help me look. Only she wasn't being much help.

  "I had no idea," she said from my bed, where she was lying, flipping through a copy of Critical Theory Since Plato—you know, just a little light reading—she'd brought over, "you'd actually grown breasts. I mean it. You aren't an A cup anymore. When did that happen?"

  "Ruth," I said, "what about on my back? Do you see one on my back?"

  "No. What are you now, a B?"

  "How should I know? You know I never wear a bra. How about on my butt? Anything on my butt?"

  "No. Is there something between a B and a C? Because I think that's what you are now. And you really should start wearing one, you know. You could start to sag, like those women in National Geographic."

  "You," I said to her, "are no help."

  "Well, what do you expect me to do, Jess?" Ruth turned grumpily back to her book. "I mean, it's a little weird, having your best friend ask you to check her body for entrance and exit wounds, don't you think? I mean, it's a bit gay."

  I went, "I don't want you to feel me up, you moron. I just wanted you to tell me if you saw an exit wound." I pulled on a pair of sweats. "Get over yourself."

  "I can't believe," Ruth said, ignoring me, "that Michael's going to Harvard. I mean, Harvard. He is so smart. How can someone so smart fall for Claire Lippman?"

  I pulled a sweatshirt over my head. "Claire's not so bad," I said. I knew her pretty well, see, from detention. Not that she ever got detention, but they held detention in the auditorium, and Claire always had the lead in whatever play the drama club was putting on, so I'd watched most of her rehearsals when she played Emily in Our Town, Maria in West Side Story, and, of course, Juliet in Romeo and Juliet.

  "She's a really good actress," I said.

  "I highly doubt," Ruth said, "that Michael admires her for her talent."

  Ruth always calls Mike Michael, even though everyone else calls him Mike. She says Mike is a Grit name.

  "Well," I said, "you got to admit, she does look good in a bathing suit."

  Ruth snorted. "That slut. I can't believe she does that. Every summer. I mean, it was one thing back before she hit puberty. But now … what's she trying to do? Cause a traffic accident?"

  "I'm hungry," I said, because I was. "You want something?"

  Ruth said, "I'm not surprised. You hardly touched your lobster."

  "I was too excited to eat then," I said. "I mean, come on. I got electrocuted today."

  "I wish," Ruth said, to the book, "you'd go to a doctor. You could be hemorrhaging internally, you know."

  I said, "I'm going downstairs. You want anything?"

  She yawned. "No. I gotta go. I'll just stop by Michael's room to say congratulations one more time, and good night."

  I thought it would be best to leave the two of them alone, you know, in case there was a romantic interlude, so I went downstairs to forage for food. The chances of Mikey ever even looking twice in Ruth's direction are like nil, but hope springs eternal, even in the heart of a fat girl. Not that Ruth is that fat. She's just twice the size of Claire Lippman. Not that Claire is so skinny—she's pretty hippy, actually. But boys seem to like that, I've noticed. In magazines, they make out if you're not Kate Moss, your life is over, but in real life, boys—like my brothers—wouldn't look twice at Kate Moss. Claire Lippman, though, who's gotta be thirty-four, twenty-four, thirty-eight or so, they drool over. I think a lot of it is how you project yourself, and Claire Lippman projects herself like she's got it on, you know?

  Ruth doesn't. Project herself with any confidence, I mean. Ruth's problem is that she's just, you know, a big girl. All the crash diets in the world aren't going to change that. She just needs to accept that and accept herself and calm down. Then she'll get a boyfriend. Guaranteed.

  But probably not Mike.

  I was thinking about how weird bodies are while I poured myself a bowl of cereal. I wondered if the star-shaped scar was going to stay on my chest. I mean, who needed that? And where was that exit wound, anyway?

  Maybe, I thought, as I poured milk over my Total with raisins, the lightning was still inside of me. That would have been weird, huh? Maybe I was walking around with it buzzing inside of me. And maybe, like Ruth said, I could send it shooting at people. Like Jeff Day. He so deserved it. I thought about shooting bolts of lightning at Jeff Day while I read the back of the milk carton. Man, would that put a crimp in his football career.

  When I got back upstairs, Ruth was gone. Mike's door was closed, but I knew she wasn't in there, because I heard him typing furiously on his computer. Probably sending E-mail to all his dweeby Internet buddies. Hey, guys, I got into Harvard! Just like Bill Gates.

  Only maybe, unlike Bill Gates, Mike would actually graduate. Not that that had mattered, at least in Bill's case.

  The door to Douglas's room was closed, too, and no light spilled out from under it. But that didn't stop me. Douglas was at his window, a pair of binoculars to his head, when I came barging in.

  He turned around and went, "One of these days, you're going to do that and you're going to end up seeing something you really never wanted to see."

  "Already saw it," I said. "Mom used to make us take baths together when we were little, remember?"

  He said, "Go away. I'm busy."

  "What are you looking at, anyway?" I asked, going to sit on his bed in the darkness. Douglas's room smelled like Douglas. Not a bad smell, really. Just a boy smell. Like old sneakers mingled with Old Spice. "Claire Lippman?"

  "Orion," he said, but I knew he was lying. His room has a view straight into Claire Lippman's, two houses away. Claire, exhibitionist that she is, never pulls down her blinds. I doubt she even has blinds.

  But I didn't mind Douglas spying on her, even though it was sexist and a violation of her privacy and all. It meant he was normal. Well, for him, anyway.

  "Not to tear you away from your lady love," I said, "but I found an entrance wound."

  "She's not my lady love," Douglas said. "Merely the object of my lust."

  "Well, whatever," I said. I pulled on the neck of my sweatshirt. "Take a look at this."

  He turned on his reading lamp and swiveled it in my direction. When he saw the scar, he got real quiet.

  "Jesus Christ," he said after a while.

  "Told you," I said.

  He said, "Jesus Christ," again.

  "There's no exit wound," I said. "I had Ruth check me, all over. Nothing. Do you think the lightning is still inside me?"

  "Lightning," he said, "does not just stay inside you. Maybe this is the exit wound, and the bolt came in through the top of your head. Only that isn't possible," he said, to himself, I guess, "because then her hair would be scorched."

  It was possible, though, that he wasn't speaking to himself. He could have been speaking to the voices. He hears voices sometimes. They were the ones who told him to kill himself last Christmas.

  "Well," I said, letting my sweatshirt snap back into place. "That's all. I just wanted to show you."

  "Wait a minute." I had gotten up, but Douglas pulled me back down onto his bed again. "Jess," he said. "Did you really get struck by lightning?"

  "Yes," I said. "I told you I did."

  Douglas looked serious. But then, Douglas was always serious. "You should tell Dad."

  "No way."

  "I mean it, Jess. Go tell Dad, right now. Not Mom, either. Just Dad."

  "Aw, Douglas …"

  "Go." He pulled me u
p and pushed me toward the door. "Either you do it, or I will."

  "Aw, hell," I said.

  But he started to look funny, all pinch-faced and stuff. So I dragged myself downstairs and found my dad where he usually was when he wasn't at one of the restaurants—at the dining room table, going over the books, with the TV in the kitchen turned to the sports channel. He couldn't see the TV from where he sat, but he could hear it. Even though he looked totally absorbed in the numbers in front of him, if you switched the channel, he'd totally freak out.

  "What," he said when I came in. But not in an unfriendly way.

  "Hey, Dad," I said. "Douglas says I have to tell you I got hit by lightning today."

  My dad looked up. He had his reading glasses on. He looked at me over the tops of them.

  "Is Douglas having an episode?" he asked. That's what the shrinks call it when Douglas's voices get the better of him. An episode.

  "No," I said. "It's really true. I did get struck by lightning today."

  He looked at me some more. "Why didn't you mention this at dinner?"

  "Because, you know," I said, "it was a celebration. But Douglas said I have to tell you. Ruth, too. She says I could have a heart attack in my sleep. See, look."

  I stretched out the neck of my sweatshirt again. It was okay, because the scar was way above my boobs, up by my collarbone. My dad's been kind of weird about my boobs, ever since I got some. I think he's afraid they'll get in the way of my swing when I haul off a right hook at somebody.

  He looked at the scar and went, "Were you and Skip playing with firecrackers again?"

  I think I mentioned before that Skip is Ruth's twin brother. He and I used to have a thing about firecrackers.

  "No, Dad," I said. "Jeez. I'm way over firecrackers." Not to mention Skip. "That's from the lightning."

  I told him what had happened. He listened with this very serious look on his face. Then he went, "I wouldn't worry about it."

  That's what he always used to say when I'd wake up in what seemed like the middle of the night—but was probably only about eleven—when I was a very little kid, and I'd come down and tell him my leg, or my arm, or my neck hurt.

  "Growing pains," he'd say, and give me a glass of milk. "I wouldn't worry about it."

  "Okay," I said. I was just as relieved as I'd been back then, when I was little. "I just thought I should tell you. You know, in case I don't wake up tomorrow morning."

  He said, "You don't wake up tomorrow, your mother will kill you. Now go to bed. And if I hear anything about you seeking shelter under metal again during a thunderstorm, I'll wear you out."

  He didn't mean it, of course. My dad doesn't believe in spanking. That's because his older brother, my uncle Rick, used to beat the tar out of him, my mom says. Which is why we never go to visit Uncle Rick. I think that's also why my dad taught me how to punch. My dad thinks you have to learn to defend yourself from all the Uncle Ricks of the world.

  I went back upstairs and practiced my flute for an hour. I always try to play my best when I practice ever since this one morning, back before Ruth got her car and we used to take the bus to school, Claire Lippman saw me with my flute case, and went, "Oh, you're the one," in this meaningful voice. When I asked her what she meant, she said, "Oh, nothing. Just that we always hear someone playing the flute around ten o'clock every night, and we never knew who it was." So I was totally mortified and turned bright red, which she must have seen, since she went, in this nice voice—Claire, in spite of being an exhibitionist, is really pretty nice—"No, no, it's not bad. I like it. It's like a free concert every night."

  Anyway, once I heard that, I started treating my practice hour like a performance. First I warm up with scales, but I do them really fast to get them over with, and kind of jazzy, so that they don't sound boring. Then I work on whatever we're doing in Orchestra, but at double-time, also to get it over with. Then I do some cool medieval pieces I dug up last time I went to the library, some really ancient versions of Green-sleeves and some Celtic stuff. Then, when I'm totally warmed up, I do some Billy Joel, since that's Douglas's favorite, though he'd deny it if you asked him. Then I do some Gershwin, for my dad, who loves Gershwin, and finish up with some Bach, because who doesn't love Bach?

  Sometimes Ruth and I will practice together on the few pieces we've found for flute and cello. But we don't practice from the same house. What we do is, we open our bedroom windows and play from there. Like a little mini-concert for the neighborhood. That's pretty cool. Ruth says if some conductor walked by our houses, he'd be like, "Who are those incredible musicians? I need them in my orchestra immediately!" She's probably right.

  The thing is, I play much better at home than I do at school. Like, if I played as well at school as I do at home, I'd definitely be first chair, instead of third. But I mess up a lot at school on purpose, because, frankly, I don't want to be first chair. First chair is way too much pressure. I get enough grief as it is from people trying to challenge me for third.

  Karen Sue Hanky, for instance. She's fourth chair. She's challenged me ten times already this year. If you don't like your chair, you can challenge the person ahead of you, and move up if you win. Karen Sue started out as ninth chair, and challenged her way up to fourth. But she's been stuck at fourth all year, because one thing I won't do is let her win. I like third chair. I'm always third chair. Third chair, third kid. You get it? I'm comfortable being third.

  But no way am I going to be fourth. So whenever Karen Sue challenges me, I play my best, like I do at home. Our conductor, Mr. Vine, always gives me this lecture afterward, when Karen Sue's gone off in a huff, which she always does, because I always win. Then Mr. Vine goes, "You know, Jessica, you could be first chair, if you'd just challenge Audrey. You could blow Audrey away, if you just tried."

  But I have no desire to blow anybody away. I don't want to be first chair, or even second chair.

  But I'll be damned before I let anybody take third chair away from me.

  Anyway, when I was done practicing, I took a shower, and then went to bed. Before I turned out the light, though, I felt the place on my chest where the scar was. I couldn't really feel it. It wasn't raised, or anything. But I could still see it, when I'd looked in the mirror coming out of the shower. I hoped it wouldn't still be there the next day. How else was I going to wear my scoop-necked T-shirt?

  C H A P T E R

  5

  When I woke up the next morning, I knew two things right away. One, I had not died of a heart attack in the night. And two, Sean Patrick O'Hanahan was in Paoli, while Olivia Marie D'Amato was in New Jersey.

  That's three things, I guess. But the second two were totally random. Who the hell was Sean Patrick O'Hanahan, and how did I know he was in Paoli? Ditto the stuff about Olivia Marie D'Amato.

  Crazy dreams. I'd been having some crazy dreams, that was all. I got up and took another shower, since the red mark was still there, and I couldn't wear the scoop neck. I decided to go for clean hair instead. Who knew? Maybe Rob Wilkins would offer me another ride, and when we were at a stop sign or something, he'd turn his head and smell me.

  It could happen.

  It wasn't until I'was eating breakfast that I realized who Sean Patrick O'Hanahan and Olivia Marie D'Amato were. They were the kids on the back of the milk carton. You know, the missing ones. Only they weren't missing. Not anymore. Because I knew where they were.

  "You don't think you're actually wearing those jeans to school, do you, Jessica?"

  My mom was way disenchanted with my ensemble, which I had put together very carefully, with Rob Wilkins in mind.

  "Yeah, really," Mike said. "What do you think this is? The eighties?"

  "Like," I said, "you know anything about fashion, science boy. Where's your pocket protector, anyway?"

  "You cannot," my mother said, "wear those jeans to school, Jessica. You'll shame the family."

  "There's nothing wrong with my jeans," I said. 1-800-WHERE-R-YOU. That was the number you were
supposed to call if you knew where Sean Patrick O'Hanahan or Olivia Marie D'Amato were. I'm not kidding. 1-800-WHERE-R-YOU. Cute. Very cute.

  "The knees have given out," my mother went on. "There's a hole starting at the crotch. You can't wear those jeans. They're falling apart."

  That was the point, see. I couldn't expose my chest area, so I'd decided to go for my knees. I have pretty nice knees. So, when I was riding behind Rob Wilkins on his motorcycle, he'd look down and see these totally sexy knees sticking out of my jeans. I'd shaved my legs and everything. I was way ready.

  The one thing I hadn't figured out was how I was going to get a ride home if he didn't ask. Call Ruth, I guess. But Ruth was going to be mad at me if I asked her not to come in the first place. She was bound to be all, "Why? Who's taking you home? Not that Grit, I hope."

  Being best friends with someone like Ruth is hard sometimes.

  "Go upstairs and change, young lady," my mom said.

  "No way." My mouth was filled with cereal.

  "What do you mean, no way? You cannot go to school dressed like that."

  "Watch me," I said.

  My dad came in then. My mom went, "Joe, look what she's wearing."

  "What?" I said. "They're just jeans."

  My dad looked at my jeans. Then he looked at my mom. "They're just jeans, Toni," he said.

  My mom's name is Antonia. Everyone calls her Toni.

  "They're slut jeans," my mother said. "She's dressing in slut jeans. It's because she reads that slut magazine." That's what my mom calls Cosmo. It sort of is a slut magazine, but still.

  "She doesn't look like a slut," my dad said. "She just looks like what she is." We all looked at him questioningly, wondering what I was. Then he went, "Well, you know. A tomboy."

  Fortunately, at that moment, Ruth honked outside.

  "Okay," I said, getting up. "I gotta go."

  "Not in those jeans, you're not," my mom said.

  I grabbed my flute and my backpack. "Bye," I said, and left by the back door.

  I ran all the way around to the front of the house to meet Ruth, who was waiting in the street in her Cabriolet. It was a nice morning, so she had the top down.