Twist

by Roni Teson

  “L. B.s?” I ask, as I peel my hand away from his.

  “Hmph. Pounds, my friend. Pounds.” He’s staring at me over the top of his glasses now, examining me more closely. “Sars told me you’ve changed. Said he didn’t know how to describe it.” I cringe, but it’s apparently not obvious to him because he keeps talking. “How about timing you today in the pool?”

  “Okay.”

  When we line up for gym, the entire class grumbles, and one guy says, “I ain’t getting my hair wet.”

  “Shut your horse traps,” Coach Hammond yells. “We’ll quit five minutes early for lunch if you do as I say.” He blows his whistle, and the guys get quiet.

  After a few warm-up laps Coach Hammond puts me in the first lane and holds up his stopwatch. “Okay, Nemo, let’s see what you’ve got. Ready?—

  “GO!”

  My face hits the water and I’m home! I breathe, stroke, stretch my body, and glide across the pool effortlessly. I feel my muscles go into overdrive and I feel like I have turbojets on my back. After four laps, I tap the pool’s edge and the coach snaps his stopwatch. “Not bad, Drake, not bad.”

  When the session is over, Coach Hammond follows me into the locker room. “How about practicing with the swim team? Slim you down, and . . . move forward.”

  I get dressed and I’m leaving the locker room when the coach yells at me, “Tomorrow at three-twenty, after school. Be here Drake!”

  Chapter 21

  Simon’s at the oak tree with two other guys and the kid with braces bigger than his mouth is gaping at me as I walk up to them.

  “Murphy, Tate,” Simon says, “This is Lou. Not Luke. Not Lucas.”

  I nod toward them and say to Simon, “Will you go to lunch with just me today?” All three of these guys look like total dorks. Simon shrugs.

  As he walks away, Tate says, “Thanks for selling us out, Simon.”

  Then Murphy adds, “Whatever—Louie Drake is a jerk.”

  Simon walks toward the parking lot. “Let’s go.” He’s wearing boat shoes, slacks, and a striped T-shirt with a collar. His skin is pale, like he’s never seen the outdoors.

  “So I surfed, but I also hung out with you nerds?” I ask.

  A pink splash shows up on Simon’s cheeks and the back of his neck turns red. “What’s wrong with you, Luke?”

  I don’t know what he means. “I’m just trying to understand,” I say.

  “Listen, shithead, I’ve known you your whole life.” A vein pops out on his neck. “You’re being a complete ass.”

  “What? I’m calling it like I see it. And my name’s Lou.”

  “No it’s not,” he says. “You’re Luke Drake. Come on, I’ll show you.” His car scrapes the street when he speeds out of the parking lot.

  “Easy.” I grab the handle above the passenger door.

  We drive for about five minutes, not speaking. He stops in front of a taco joint. “We go to lunch here. We were here on your last day.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Yes,” he says. “We were.”

  Then he pounds on the gas again, and as we speed away, he says, “I’m taking you to the pier.”

  I can’t stand this guy Simon. “When did we meet? How old were we?” I ask.

  “Little,” he says. “Our moms are friends.” He makes a big show out of taking me to where I park his car when I’m with girls, and goes on and on about how this last girl is the only one I wouldn’t shut up about.

  “How do you know this?” I ask him.

  “Because you tell me everything.”

  I can’t even imagine telling this guy anything. I hate him. Nothing seems familiar about anything he’s showing me. It’s like he’s making it up as he goes.

  “How long was I seeing this Beatrice girl?”

  He gets a smirk on his face. “Oh, this one was a long-term relationship.” He raises his eyebrows. “You met her the night before . . . your last day.”

  “Stop calling it my last day.”

  “Apparently that was your last day—as Luke!” he yells and spit lands on the windshield.

  “Did I go here with Erica?”

  “Such an ass,” he says. “I already warned you about her. But you can find out the hard way.”

  “Tell me?” I say.

  “Why? You won’t listen, Lou.”

  “Whatever,” I say, and we drive back to school without saying another word. He slams his car door and we part ways.

  I go to my next class, study hall. I sit next to a guy in a leather jacket and a girl with a ring in her nose. She says, “So you don’t want to go by Luke anymore?”

  “Luke is dead,” I say.

  “Cool,” she whispers. She’s got a tattoo inside her wrist.

  “What’s that mean?” I ask.

  “Freedom,” she says. “Birds flying free.” She looks at the guy in the leather jacket, then back at me. “Wanna get high with us?”

  “No,” I say. “Did I do that, before?”

  She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t know. We haven’t talked since the fifth grade. I’m Isabella.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m the antisocial one.” She squeezes my arm and giggles. “You’ve always been nice. Sorry you got the shit kicked out of you.”

  And then she looks at her friend and he says, “Lou, did you see the video?”

  “Video?”

  The guy leans in and whispers, “Somebody posted a video of you with that skinny chick. Totally hot, getting it on, that very night. Within a few hours, zappo—removed from the site.”

  “Where?” I ask.

  “Doesn’t matter now. You won’t find it. Totally removed,” he says. He gets up and walks away from the table.

  “See you later,” the girl with the ring in her nose says as she grabs that guy’s hand and they walk out the door. The teacher doesn’t even stop them.

  “What are you doing?”

  I turn around to see silver mouth standing behind me.

  “What do you mean?” I ask. “You’re Tate, right?”

  “Yes,” he says. “Why are you sitting with stoners?”

  “None of your business.” I spin my chair around so I don’t have to look at his silver-spoon mouth, and then I act like I’m reading. I don’t want to talk to this dork. He stands there for a few minutes and then he goes away. When study hall is over, I have one more class, and the longest day of my life will be done. Again, I sit through a class that I pay no attention to and on some level Luke is mad about that. But eventually the clock is on my side and the school day is over!

  Chapter 22

  I run toward the parking lot, because Lou apparently has no conscience. He’s a pessimist. And he’s driven to get his rocks off. That’s who I am, right now. I am Lou, the pessimist.

  I find the blonde, Erica, at her car. She smiles when she sees me. I touch her waist, and open the car door. We get in the backseat. She wants to kiss on me, so I let her. When she adjusts her position, the back of her hand touches my crotch and she smirks at me.

  My body says yes, but my mind is flashing a huge stop sign and I get this grinding feeling in my spine. I think Luke is trying to chime in, too, because I hear, inside this crazy brain of mine, ‘No, no, put the brakes on, Luke!’

  I grab hold of her fingers. “Wait, this doesn’t feel right.”

  She twists her lips sideways and then moves in toward my neck. I put my hands on her shoulders and say, “Didn’t we ever talk first?”

  Her breast brushes across my arm as she puts her hand on my chest. “We’ve always had this chemistry. We tear off our clothes and talk later.”

  I’m overcome with fuzziness, like a brain drain that I can’t shake. I rub my temples and she starts tugging on my pants. She doesn’t notice that I am not into her. The girl just keeps pulling on my clothes. I gently push her away. A sharp pain flashes through my head so I close my eyes and groan. I am weak all over.

  But she must think I’m excited,
because now she pulls my zipper down and before I can stop her she’s touching me and my body responds. I feel like crap and she’s only adding to my disgust. Suddenly, her touch is causing this sensation of jagged shards poking at me from the inside. I realize she’s got me pinned and her arms are around my waist and her mouth is on me.

  I push at her. “Get off of me!”

  She grabs hold of me tighter and an image suddenly fills my head. Brown hair, blue eyes, and everything inside of me tingles. I know it is Beatrice Malcolm.

  “Stop!” I shove Erica away. I am freaking, because my body just betrayed me.

  She laughs and wipes her mouth. “Too late, Lou.”

  My head’s swimming. I zip up my pants. “I shouldn’t have met you here.”

  Erica uses a small mirror to put on lipstick. “You and me. It’s like old times, Lou. You want a ride home?”

  Simon was right. I push open the door and the second my feet hit the cement, I run. “Where are you going?” she yells after me.

  Dad is standing in front of the school with his hands in his jacket pockets. I’m out of breath when I approach. He looks at his watch.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “You look a little flushed. Everything okay?”

  I pant for a few seconds, and in between gasps I say, “I remember B.”

  Chapter 23

  A woman opens the door and says, “Luke, you look so good.” She steps out on the porch and hugs me. Then she hugs Dad.

  “Thank you, Charlotte,” Dad says. “For seeing us on short notice.”

  “Come inside,” she says. “George is on his way home.”

  We sit at the dining room table and her pointy red nails poke at the placemat while she talks. “How are you doing, Kyle? We haven’t seen you much since the accident.”

  “Shoot, that was nothing. You can’t hurt steel,” Dad says.

  “George has some scars on his face. The car was totaled.” She looks up from the table and examines my face. “You look really good, Luke.” She has a light touch when she brushes my cheek and a shiny silver bracelet tickles my neck.

  Dad squirms in his seat. But she’s really nice, and her hands smell good. So I say, “Thank you.” I can almost feel the air leave Dad’s lungs when I hear him exhale.

  “Let me show you some pictures. Maybe that will jar something loose.” She looks over at Dad and says, “Kyle, you want a beer or something?”

  “A beer sounds good,” he says.

  When Charlotte leaves the room he says to me, “You’re doing great, champ.”

  “I’m trying. Sometimes I feel like I stole your son’s body and I’m more like a chump.” I look at my hands. It’s like I’m in someone else’s skin, like none of this is me, but I don’t know who “me” is.

  She has a beer in one hand and a laptop in the other when she comes back. Dad takes the beer and she hands me the computer, puts her arm on my shoulder, and stands next to me, guiding me through the pages. “Click on that folder there”—she points at the screen.

  Two faces fill the screen . . . and the one on the right causes me to have a full throttle testosterone attack. I sit up straight. A leapfrog dances in my breastbone. I close my eyes and see her. “Beatrice Malcolm,” she says, and curtsies.

  I open my eyes and Charlotte lifts her jaw toward the screen.

  I push on the arrow and another picture fills the screen. B is standing near a fence. Wind is blowing through her hair. She’s wearing boyish clothes and she’s so cute. I smile and in an instant I remember the day I spent with B.

  “Well . . .” Dad says.

  I look at him. “I remember Beatrice Malcolm.”

  He grins, and Charlotte’s beaming.

  “Time cures all,” Dad says.

  And I’m really enjoying my memory of B, until Charlotte asks, “What else do you remember?”

  I look at her, but I also see Dad in my peripheral vision. His face looks like a mudslide. My mind is completely blank—except for B. “I really liked B,” I say.

  Charlotte puts her hand on Dad’s arm. He takes a big gulp from his beer and tries to hide his disappointment.

  “She’s not going to have to testify, her dad made a deal,” Charlotte says.

  “And . . . ” Dad says.

  “She might be moving back here.”

  “Might be?” I say.

  Charlotte says, “She grew up in Seattle. Beatrice didn’t like it here too much. She’s staying with family friends.”

  I want to see Beatrice Malcolm so bad it hurts. She’s the one thing I remember from being Luke. “Can I call her?” I ask.

  Charlotte glances at Dad and then says to me, “She wasn’t real happy about everything that happened.”

  “Neither am I,” I snap. “I might not remember it, but I got my head bashed in and everybody tells me it’s probably because of her.”

  “Lou, be nice,” Dad says.

  “It’s true. I just want to see her . . . speak to her again . . .”

  I’m staring at B’s picture as a big tear rolls down my cheek. I feel Charlotte’s hand on my arm. She smiles and says, “I’ll talk to her.”

  We’re about to leave when George Hoffman walks through the door. Dad sits back down and has another beer. I wander into the living room and run my hand across the cushion on the couch. I met B right here.

  “You didn’t really know my niece,” Charlotte says, startling me. I turn around, and I’m relieved at the sight of her kind eyes. “Her life is . . . messy.”

  I did know her. I want to hold that girl again. I can smell her hair, and I remember her tiny breasts on my bare chest. It’s all I have of Luke. She made me—she made Luke—feel alive.

  “So is mine,” I say. “Real messy. I go by Lou because I can’t stand this guy Luke. He’s perfect. And every minute I’m with my dad, he’s looking for Luke.” My voice cracks. “I don’t even know who I am.”

  She frowns and sits down next to me on the couch. “But I know B,” I say. “I’ve been remembering her a little at a time. We had a special day.”

  Charlotte hugs me.

  “Mrs. Hoffman?”

  “Call me Charlotte, you always do. Or did.”

  “Will you tell me how I’m different? Everyone says that I’m different but no one tells me in what way.”

  She’s so awesome—she doesn’t hesitate. “Let’s start with the real obvious. Your hair is much shorter. They had to shave your head.”

  I run my hand across my short hair. “Yep.”

  “Your muscles aren’t as defined. Maybe that’s from lying around after the brain surgery.”

  “What was I thinking? Slacker,” I say.

  “Now that right there—a Lukeism. But the delivery was in slow motion,” she says. “So I think your brain is similar, just moving slower. Healing takes time.”

  “Do I look that much different?”

  “No,” she says. “I’d recognize you anywhere. Your hair’s a littler darker, but the sun will lighten that up.”

  Charlotte is totally cool, and the first person to accept me as I am.

  “Let’s go, Luke,” Dad says.

  But my head’s spinning again, like I’m going back in time. I see it like it’s happening live. Beatrice squeezes my cheeks and she kisses me—and for that tiny little moment I’m so happy.

  “C’mon,” Dad says, snatching me away from my momentary joy right back into my stinking reality.

  Chapter 24

  Mom is waiting at the door. She’s trying not to smile. Even though I don’t have a thing for blondes, if she wasn’t my mom, she’d be hot. She’s in great shape for her age—whatever her age is. Her long hair floats around her face and her high cheekbones are elegant. “Charlotte called,” she says, grinning.

  Dad and I stare at her.

  “Well, Beatrice’s phone number is right here.” She does a pirouette and pulls a strip of paper out of her pocket. “She says to call her tomorrow.” Mom’s overjoyed. It’s so odd, in all of my
four months with her I’ve never seen her goof around.

  “Close your mouth.” Her hand taps under my chin and she places Beatrice Malcolm’s phone number in my palm. “I’m just thrilled, that’s all.”

  And so am I, because I feel like I’m holding the Holy Grail.

  I go upstairs and start searching the Internet, looking for the video the leather guy told me about. He’s right, there’s nothing. I search “Beatrice Malcolm” and she pops up as a mention in articles about her dad, Teddy Malcolm, one of the FBI’s Most Wanted.

  I’m reading about his alleged crimes against the United States, and the biochemical weaponry and other crap, when Mom calls me down to dinner.

  “I’m ready to know what happened,” I say.

  And when they finish telling me about Beatrice’s mom’s death and her dad, the infamous Teddy Malcolm who claims he’s only tried to find a cure for his wife. Then the rumors about the FBI and the trumped up charges, I don’t know what to believe.

  How can I possibly call B after everything she’s been through? But then, how can I not?

  Chapter 25

  At school the next day, I look everywhere for Simon. He’s nowhere to be found until second period. I stand next to his seat, looking for a place to sit, but he ignores me. I see Tate on the other side of Simon.

  “Move,” I say to Tate.

  He protests, but Simon nods. Tate flips me off, right in my face. Then he takes his stuff to the front of the room, mumbling, “Asswipe.”

  “I’m sorry—you were right,” I say.

  “Erica?” he says.

  “Yeah, and probably all of it.” I rub my head. “Can you help me out, until I remember?” I’m talking real low because I don’t want anyone else to hear me.

  “What do you mean?” he says.

  “Tell me things, things about me from before. When I need to hear them.”

  He looks down at his paper and shakes his head.

  “C’mon!”

  “Mr. Drake,” the teacher says. “You have something to share with the class?”