Beast

by Brie Spangler

  “The senior? Yeah.”

  “Next time you see him, remind him he owes me that thing, will you? He’ll know what you’re talking about.”

  And I know exactly what JP is talking about. I bob my head, delirious with Wormhole dreams. “Yeah, yeah, sure. You got it.”

  “Anyway, later.” JP claps me on the back and runs off toward his homeroom, bobbing away into the scrum.

  Holy crap, the Wormhole. If I didn’t want to go to therapy before, I absolutely do not want to go now.

  Mom, Mom, do it for Mom. One and done. Deal with epic bullshit today, play with new Wormhole until my corneas dissolve tomorrow.

  I open my locker, only to have it clang into my cast. “Ow, ow, ow, ow…,” I mutter. That freaking hurts. I swivel the chair in another direction so I can actually spread the door wide; but then once it’s ajar, I can’t reach my books. They’re too high.

  There is something humbling about being unable to do things for yourself because your body simply can’t. I briefly consider asking someone for help but immediately squash it down.

  So I hitch myself up on my good leg and ignore the rush of pain as I stretch my arm high to get my books and cram them into my backpack. Hey, look at me coping and using skills to go on! I don’t need therapy this afternoon. Pretty pointless: I can do this by myself, but whatever. I’m only going for one day to make Mom happy, and that’s it.

  I have all the time in the world to get wherever the hell I want. While everyone else races to beat the clock, I get an extra ten minutes to wheel my furry ass down the halls.

  Perhaps sophomore year is going to rule after all.

  Trundling all around in a wheelchair kinda makes me feel bionic, and in homeroom everyone makes a huge to-do over my leg. I get tons of signatures on my cast. Except most of them are like: Get better, Fuzzball! Feel better, Beast! Hey, Sasquatch—Next time stick to the woods!

  JP was right: it is a pity magnet. All the girls in homeroom go, “Aww…!!” in that cute, high-pitched way. They touch me. Pat my shoulder and give me quick little side hugs and stuff. Nina gives me a piece of gum. I save the wrapper in my pocket.

  The bell rings for first period and I take a breath.

  Even though we have this stupid rotating schedule that I can’t remember for shit, I know someone else’s schedule better than my own. If I stall a little before going to my class, there will be someone coming in with her books and sitting down in the seat in front of mine.

  I waste some time and lo and behold, Fern Chapman.

  She comes into the room and it’s like time stands still. St. Lawrence gives girls an option between navy blue pants or a skirt and today she chose the skirt. I’m almost positive she did it for me, to make me and my broken leg feel better. She comes closer and I can feel my pulse in my fingertips. My rib cage might be the size of a small bathtub, but that doesn’t stop everything inside from bubbling and quaking like jelly.

  I will pretend body hair directly correlates to confidence.

  “Hey, Fern,” I say, mushing my books and papers in a pile.

  “Hey,” she says. And then she sends me the tiniest of smiles. I think I might pass out.

  When it comes to girls, I want to be a gentleman because if you break it down, you’re a gentle man. That’s what I want to be. A gentle man. Figure if I’m polite and nice and not manbearpigboy, everything will go well. So here goes nothing. “H-how are you?” Wonderful. A stutter. I clear my throat and cough. She frowns. Great, now I can’t speak or breathe right. Course correction and proceed to do-over. “What’s up? How’s things?”

  Fern sits down and swings an elbow around the back of her chair. “Going better than for you.” She laughs.

  I laugh.

  We share a laugh! Time to buy prom tickets. “Yeah, I…I fell off…ah…the roof.”

  “I heard,” she says.

  Fern turns to her homework from the night before and underlines a few answers. No tea and sympathy? I fall off the frigging roof and that’s all I get from my future wife? Cold, Fern. So cold. I check the clock. I should go, except I don’t want to. But she’s not even looking at me anymore. “Um,” I say.

  She looks up, in a “What the hell does this troglodyte want now?” way.

  “You want to sign my cast?”

  “M’kay,” she says.

  “I have a Sharpie,” I say, and hold it out.

  She hesitates before she takes it. “Why do you have a Sharpie?”

  “Um…” Because I’ve been waiting for you to sign my cast since I woke up from surgery. “It was JP’s idea. The marker. He said pen works like crap on casts. He’s always looking out for me.”

  “JP’s so smart,” she says.

  No, he’s not. He’s always “checking” his homework with me from the night before because he’s a lazy dumbass. Let’s leave my far more appealing best friend who’s already hooked up with half the class, okay? Bending over to make her mark on my ankle, she finishes and I read: Poor Beast. —Fern

  Time to get a refund on those prom tickets. I take the Sharpie and put my books on my lap. Wheeling backward, I knock into the desk behind me. Her eyes snap up at the loud bang. My chin stiffens. I’m down but not out. Prom’s two years away, I still got time. “See you in study hall,” I say.

  “Huh?”

  “ ’Cause I don’t have gym anymore. I have study hall in the library instead,” I say. Same time as Fern, and I prefer the term “observer” over “stalker.” Just because I memorized Fern’s schedule doesn’t mean I’m going to be hiding in her closet with a rag full of chloroform. “So I’ll see you.”

  “Okay,” she says.

  I sit in the chair. Is she going to say anything else?

  “Dylan…” My homeroom teacher, Mrs. Dobrov, butts in. She swings her thumb toward the door. “Class is starting soon. Don’t abuse your privileges.”

  “Right.” I roll my eyes at Fern. “Because having a broken leg is such a privilege.”

  Fern laughs again and I almost throw up. I got her to laugh twice. Suck it, JP.

  “Dylan, homeroom is over!” Mrs. Dobrov snaps.

  “Right, fine, I’m going already,” I say, and rumble my wheelchair into a whole row of chairs. They catch on my stuck-out foot and their metal legs shriek against the floor, but I don’t care. Only three periods until study hall!

  —

  After that, I seriously don’t care about the rest of the morning. Trig: blah-blah-blah. English: blah-blah-blah. Physics: blah-blah-blah. Aw yeah, study hall. In which I hope to not study at all.

  Just my luck, physics is on the other side of the moon compared to the library, but no worries. I got wheels and it takes almost seven minutes to get there.

  I get inside the library and listen. If I happen upon Fern “by accident,” it’ll be less weird than if I plow over to her table and am all, HI. IT IS I. I AM HERE.

  Way over by the biographies, I hear girls talking. I ease forward. Definitely Fern. And probably Madison too. Methinks now would be the perfect time to check out a super biographical book.

  I push myself through the aisles so carefully, concentrating on stealth mode. Mom would be proud. I never pull this off on two feet, let alone on four wheels. She’d be stoked I’m not clearing swaths of books from their shelves and leaving a path of destruction in my wake.

  “Oh my god, that’s so creepy,” I hear Madison say. I’m this close to coming around the corner. Deep breath, keep it casual.

  “I know, right?” Fern says back. “He was all, ‘Dur…Me fell off roof!’ and I was like, what kind of dumbass falls off a roof? I mean, seriously!”

  My breath freezes in my throat. I’m a dumbass? What the hell? I take trig with juniors, Fern takes algebra with freshmen, and I’m the dumb one?

  “No kidding,” Madison says. “I see him and I’m like, go back to your cave.”

  Fern laughs. “I feel so bad, but it’s so true! He weirds me out, no joke,” she says. “Does he even understand English? I’
m just like, ew, don’t talk to me.”

  “Maybe if you paint pictures on the wall, he’ll get the point,” Madison says.

  They giggle and I sit back in the chair.

  “And his hair? Why did he shave it all off? He looks ridiculous.”

  “Ugh, I know. His head’s all bumpy at the top,” Fern says.

  I touch the top of my skull. That’s why I never wanted to shave off my hair before. Even my bones are ugly.

  “I just can’t with him, you know?” Fern goes on, but I want her to stop. Please stop. “I only talk to him because he’s best friends with JP.”

  “Ohmygod, I know,” Madison drones. “Why someone as hot as JP hangs out with the Beast all the frigging time, I have no idea.”

  I reverse my wheels and roll away. In the corner behind the computers, I drive into an open bay of one of those forty-year-old study cubbies that smell like pee and bury my face in my hands. My head. I touch it. Run the palm of my hand across the skin from front to back, feeling the new stubble.

  “Whatever,” I mutter. Suck it up.

  I feel an ache to study. Doesn’t matter what, I have an urge to open a book and read things that dare me to figure them out. I’m dying for a problem to solve. One that doesn’t involve people, unless they’re there to be impressed. Like in trig. I love murdering those problems, stepping back, and having the whole class admire my handiwork. That I can do.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. I leave it there. Keep my head in my hands, feeling the rasp of my scalp with my fingertips. Like sandpaper.

  My phone buzzes again. And again. I pull it out.

  The first one blares: DON’T FORGET! This afternoon, you’ve got therapy. —Mom

  And worse: You’ve got therapy, f yi.

  Then even more worse: Dr. Burns said u need to try one session. Reminding u it’s today.

  And finally: Wanted to touch base—therapy/this afternoon, k?

  Got it, I text back.

  Another buzz and I look down. btw, ilu. Jeezus, Mom, enough.

  I’ll be there. Stop texting me, I send back before she can pop off one more.

  What I really want to say is this: leave me alone.

  FOUR

  “I’m so sorry I took so long,” Mom says from the front seat.

  “What are you talking about? You picked me up from school right on time,” I say, yanking my baseball cap down hard. School’s out; hat’s on.

  She stares from the rearview mirror at me in the backseat, where I’m stuck just like some little kid because of my leg. Her brows furrow with worry. “I had a meeting that ran long. I didn’t want you to think I forgot you.”

  It’s easier to let my mom fret about nothing than try to help her not worry, because *spoiler alert* she will worry.

  We pull up to the hospital. Mom parks in a handicapped spot and puts on the hazard lights. “No one will mind; we’ll hurry-hurry,” she says, opening my side door.

  She lugs my wheelchair from the trunk and pops it open on the sidewalk in front of the outpatient wing of the hospital. People trudge in and out of the sliding mechanical doors. Pregnant women, kids hugging teddy bears tight, old people with humped backs and walkers, and me. We’re all here to dip in and out for our scheduled hour.

  I unbuckle the seat belt and lurch out into the sun and into my chair.

  “You all right?” she calls out.

  “Fine.”

  She stuffs some money into my hand. “For some snacks,” she says. “Try to get something healthy. Like an apple.”

  “Okay.”

  “Maybe a banana.”

  “Okay.”

  “Or even an orange, if they have one.”

  “I know what fruit looks like, Mom.”

  She gives me a kiss on the cheek and squeezes my shoulders. “Want me to go with you to the room?”

  “Nope.”

  “Are you sure? I could help get you set up, find a good spot, carry your bag….”

  “I’ll be okay, Mom.”

  “All right then.” She sighs and then smiles. “Have to get back to work. I’ll pick you up as soon as you’re done. I’ll be waiting in the parking lot. Unless you want me to be here in the bay?”

  “Mom, seriously, it’s fine. I’ll see you in ninety minutes.”

  “I’m proud of you, you know,” she says, eyes filling with enough sap to fuel a greeting-card factory.

  “Bye.” I leave her in the parking lot and push myself into the giant box of glass and shiny surfaces. I find Room 12, no problem, but all I want to know as I wheel through the door is how to seem untroubled enough to never have to come here again.

  The room where we’re expected to hold hands and sing “Kumbaya” is plain. Bleached linoleum floors in a gray-on-gray checkerboard pattern with beige walls to box us in. Opaque shower-curtain-type blinds on the reliably rectangular windows. Fire-retardant furniture in a sloppy circle. It’s the kind of room where you take one look and don’t bother breathing because what’s the point? Even the plants listing in their wicker baskets look like they’re begging to be composted.

  A girl is already sitting pouty-style on one of the couches. She glares at me before going back to tearing fresh holes in her shredded fishnets. Black hair, black makeup, black clothes, black combat boots, black nails, and radiating a sullen aura as strong as the stench of her old cigarette smoke. I could chew the ennui.

  Of course this girl is at Therapy for Self-Harmers 101. If I’m being honest, I’m guessing her parents only send her here because they got tired of their credit cards getting maxed out at the local hardware store for all those chains around her neck.

  The girl in all black says nothing. I pull my baseball hat down, park in an empty space, and drum my fingers on the armrest.

  “You’re in Dr. Burns’s spot,” the girl says.

  “Oh.” I shuffle my wheelchair far over to the left and nudge aside a plywood armchair exploding with foam cushions. I check to see if this is a more appropriate spot, but she never stops picking at her nails, so I drop my bag on the floor and claim it.

  In time more girls file in. Based on Little Miss Sunshine over there on the couch, I worry this is going to be a bottomless pit where they all [fill in the blank] just to see if they can feel. But they seem more normal than my welcome wagon. With any luck, these girls are like me and were sent here by doctors and mothers who mean well. We’re all fine and we can all go home and forget about the whole thing. Except their tugging at and fidgeting with their long sleeves is too obvious.

  It doesn’t make any sense why they would hurt themselves, they’re all so pretty. And everyone—except for the Child of the Night—is friendly, nodding hello and saying hi. You’d never guess why they were here. They could be any girls from any school anywhere. T-shirts and jeans. Normal girls. The circle grows with lots of meandering small talk from everyone but me. I am the only guy here. This is not my scene. But whatever. I’m only here for a day, no point in butting in.

  Instead I observe, bio-lab style.

  This one girl, oh my god, when she enters the room I have to look down because there’s a part of me I keep locked up. Not the amiable furball joking in the halls at school, not that guy. The real beast. One look at this girl and the key is turned. The cage is open. I want to grab her hips and hold on for a long ride. Wavy blond hair rippling with every step she takes. What’s the word…“diaphanous”? Yeah, she’s like that too. She flows. Like a goddess on a throne, and I’d kill all the lions in the Colosseum if it meant she’d be underneath me.

  I want to get her on my lap and roll with her right on out the door, and we’d catch the bus to my house because my mom is still at work, and we’d…oh yeah. In my version, she’d be excited to go with me. I’d finally have my first kiss. A real one, not that stupid one with Tara Jardin. This girl, this goddess, she’d want me—and oh, the things I would do to her.

  Except once the goddess sits in her chair, her body screams she’s off-limits. She is not here. A part doesn�
��t fit right, and it shudders to the surface as she holds her knees and lightly rocks and rocks to try and knock it back into place.

  I want to pull my skeleton out through my nostrils so I can punch myself in the face.

  There is no hope. I need to learn how to slowly turn to coal from the inside out so I stop falling ass over teakettle for anyone who claims the pronouns “she” and “her.”

  I can’t fall for another girl again. I can’t. I look at the Raven Queen and that does the trick. She’s like a living cold shower. The real beast goes back to his cage and I lock him in. I remind myself of what I’d rather be. A gentle man.

  I notice a poster on the wall mocking a dangling kitten with HANG IN THERE in all big, white letters. My eyes slide off that and they fall on a bust of Nefertiti. Except she sniffles and wipes her nose. Holy shit, she’s real.

  Directly across from me a very tall girl sits on an aluminum folding chair. I’m instantly into everything about her. Even if I don’t want to be because girls, boo. Girls despise me; why wouldn’t this new one be any different? But she’s striking. In a way that’s like a neon-yellow bubble in a level not quite lining up, so instead she tilted the world and said, “There. That’s where it should be.” Everything about her is good and crisp: the skirt, the scarf, the boots; nothing has that super-relaxed, worn-in look. No scuffs, no soft folds. It’s all new. But then again, what do I know? I wear a uniform every day. She gets to wear whatever she wants to school.

  She’s reading a book I read over the summer, and I can see she’s almost at the best part. I want to start a book club with her where we sit over cookies and talk about the strange ending where everything was just bathed in sun and then it was over.

  As she reads, something about her catches all the light and holds it in her skin, divvying it about the room like cards for poker. Her legs, her willowy long legs. (Stop…keep it clinical.) She has two of them. She crosses them all ladylike despite, or because of, her short-short skirt and sky-high boots. Her dimpled knobby knees smile like they’re happy to be there. She plays with her long, curly brown hair and wears a loose purple scarf streaked with glittery bits. Our eyes hook as she lightly drapes it around her neck.