by Amy Giles
I close my eyes, redirecting my thoughts, like Dr. Engel taught me. When the graphic images overpower the present, trying to pull me back into that dark place. When I can remember every ounce of my brother’s dead weight pressing down, suffocating me, after he threw himself on top of me like two-hundred-and-forty-pound body armor to save me.
I don’t ever want to take my existence for granted. Especially when Jason’s Corner reminds me every day that I’m in the universe’s debt because it took the wrong Rossi brother.
Jess
This will crack you up: I got caught staring at Lucas’s butt today.
Joe saw me. He just said, “Uh-huh,” and kept walking. But I could hear him laughing. Busted.
So even though I didn’t get fired for breaking an expensive sink on my first day, I’m definitely going to get canned for ogling my boss!
And yes, it was a very cute butt.
I’ve been working at Enzo’s for a week and I’ve managed not to damage any more merchandise. I can’t say the same for the rest of the guys. Joe backed the forklift over a fireplace screen, mangling it. Everyone covers for each other here, so sometimes even Reggie doesn’t know what kind of messes these guys make.
There are no deliveries today, so I’ve been restocking shelves up front. I try to hide the grimace of pain every time I stretch my arm or squat down to reach a lower shelf. But it’s okay. Physical pain is so much better than the other kind of pain.
It rained most of the day but it stops right before my break. Outside is damp but the air is fresh and sweet compared to being inside the warehouse all afternoon, so I take a white resin chair out by the loading dock to eat the sandwich I packed from home. Pete takes a break too, and drives around the lot on the forklift making donuts and figure eights at a whopping three miles an hour while I eat.
When he’s done playing, he takes another chair and drags it out next to mine. He turns it around and straddles it, folding his arms along the back of it.
“How’s Marissa doing?” he blurts, out of nowhere.
“Uhhh . . .” I pause. “I don’t know.”
“Why not?” he asks. Overhead, a patch of blue appears in the parting clouds.
“She’s not allowed to have her phone,” I answer, watching the blue sky stretch, trying to squeeze out the clouds.
“That’s gotta be hard. I used to see you two together everywhere,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“Still . . . it’s good that her parents got her into that school, right?”
Marissa wasn’t okay after that night. I mean, no one was. My brother died, but she was covered in his blood. Going to the private school in Boulder was a healthy move. I just wish I could’ve gone with her.
I stretch out and tap my toe in a tiny puddle on the blacktop. Pete reaches his foot into the puddle next to mine and gently taps his work boot in the water.
“You must miss her though, right?”
I clear my throat. “Yeah.” Darting my eyes between the sky and the puddle, I add, “I miss both of them.”
I groan to myself, at myself. I blew way past just missing them last week when I started texting my basically imaginary best friend. If Pete notices, he doesn’t say anything. We eat in silence for the rest of our break.
Lucas
“You asked her?”
Pete’s driving again because Dad and I still haven’t figured out how to tell Mom I found where she hid my keys from me.
“Yeah. What’s the big deal?” Pete shrugs his thumbs up in the air off the steering wheel.
“You can’t just ask her about Marissa! God . . . that could have backfired so badly!”
Pete doesn’t get it, and maybe I should just be happy for him that he doesn’t. That he wasn’t there and isn’t prone to being set off by the smallest thing.
His ears turn pink. “Don’t make me feel bad. This is who I am.”
Now I feel bad for making him feel bad.
I flip through Spotify for music and find a song on his driving playlist, a really sappy Top 40 one he likes that he knows I can’t stand. I crank up the volume. He turns to face me with a huge grin. “Apology accepted.”
Pete makes it way too easy to be his friend.
He bops his head to the music, singing along under his breath. Then he adds, “Besides, she was fine about it.”
“Fine?”
He pulls up to Five Guys, a major hike but so worth it. There are other burger joints closer to home, but not like Five Guys. I grab the store door and pull it open.
“Yeah. I mean, she was sad. Obviously,” Pete says. “She said she misses both of them. I felt bad, you know? Like I think she doesn’t have anyone close left.”
Inside the store, I let go of the door and it starts to shut behind me as if shoved by a strong gust of wind. I grab it before it slams.
The guy behind the register looks up. “Yeah, sorry. Door’s busted.”
“I noticed,” I say, easing it shut.
Pete and I order our usual, bacon cheeseburgers and fries.
I fill our cups with Coke while Pete pumps ketchup into several paper dispensers.
“What else did she say?”
“Who? Jess?”
“No, the ketchup. Yes, Jess.” I take a long sip.
He shakes his head and scoops up all the ketchup, carrying it over to a table. “That was it.”
Following behind, I tug on the straw with my teeth. “Okay.”
“You should try it sometime.”
“Try what?” I ask.
“Talking to people about their feelings,” he says.
“Ha!” I laugh as we grab seats facing each other and sit.
“And maybe stop projecting all your feelings onto everyone else while you’re at it,” he says, shoving a straw in his drink. He takes a sip and scrunches up his face. “Buyer’s remorse. We shoulda gotten the milk shakes.”
“You sound like Dr. Engel.”
A big guy walks by outside. He stops and eyes me through the window.
“Does he like milk shakes too?” Pete asks.
“Who?” I ask, staring back at the guy, watching as his eyes narrow, like he wants to start something with me.
“Dr. Engel. Dude, our signals are off today.”
The guy is still glaring at me. Then he walks away.
“How would I know if Dr. Engel likes milk shakes?”
A bunch of things happen all at once.
The guy out on the sidewalk returns, this time with backup. Two of his friends flank him. They throw the door open, and a cold breeze follows them. Every muscle in my body tenses.
“Number fifty-two!” The woman behind the counter calls our order.
Pete, who has his back to the door, doesn’t see them come in. He pushes away from the table. “I got it.” He stands up and there are two loud explosions, one after the other. Boom! BOOM!
A woman screams.
The three guys walk up to the counter. It’s a holdup, I think, but I can’t move. The muscles and bones in my legs liquefy.
My eyes search for the guns, for the cause of the gunshots that just rang out through the store. I wait for the chaos to erupt, for people to run away. But the chaos is internal.
The guys are still at the counter, pointing up at the menu. There are no guns. My brain scrambles to keep up, but my body has other plans.
Black spots appear before my eyes; everything in my peripheral vision goes gray.
I can’t hear anything over my heart pounding in my ears.
I’m sitting down but I feel like I’m falling sideways.
Pete’s face is in front of mine. His eyes are huge, round with worry. A woman in blue scrubs comes over and shoves my head down between my knees.
I’m bent over for a while, until my hearing comes back and I stop feeling like I’m about to pass out. Someone puts a cup of ice on the table. Red fingernails dip into the ice and rub it along the back of my neck. It’s the same woman in scrubs; I stare down at an orphaned slice of b
acon on the floor next to her Crocs. I’m embarrassed, but the ice helps and I’m still too dizzy to ask her to stop, and besides, at least she’s a medical professional.
“Are you feeling a little better?” she asks. I can’t lift my head to look at her yet. I might still tip over. Instead, I nod.
“Pete?” I croak. “Can you get me home?”
All I can think of is the safety of my house, the finish line, my bedroom. I need to get out of here, right now.
I stand up, holding the table. The red fingernails wrap around my forearms, holding on to me.
“Take it slow.” Then she’s talking to Pete. “Where’s your car?”
“Right up front,” Pete says. He pulls the door open for us and holds it until we’re out.
They ease me in the car, and Pete reclines the seat back so I’m practically lying down.
“Date night.” I manage to squeeze a joke out. Pete laughs in relief. He thanks the woman and starts the engine.
Perspiration soaks through my shirt. I’m boiling from the inside out.
“Crank the air,” I say, my voice hoarse. Pete pushes a button and adjusts the vents so they’re hitting me in the face.
We drive in silence for a few minutes. I start to feel better. Enough that I can really savor the embarrassment of nearly passing out at Five Guys.
“Sorry,” I say, adjusting my seat up a few inches.
Pete makes a psshhhh sound, like it’s no big thing. But then he asks, “What happened?”
I draw a deep breath and take it all the way to the bottom of my lungs before releasing it. “I heard a loud noise and it . . . did something to me.”
“The door slammed,” Pete says. “And my chair fell over at the same time. It was definitely loud. A woman screamed. Did you hear her?”
I nod.
His silence requires me to give him more information. “I think I might be even more fucked-up than I thought,” I say, trying to pull off a self-deprecating joke. But Pete doesn’t laugh.
He puts a hand on my shoulder. He looks at me like . . . no, not Pete. He’s the last person left who hasn’t looked at me that way.
“I’m fine.” I laugh weakly, trying to erase the worry from his eyes. “Hey, at least I’ll have something to talk to Dr. Engel about on Wednesday!”
I reach over and turn the music up to drown out the pitiful voice inside of me telling me I’ll never be okay again.
Jess
Remember that funk my mom was in when my dad took off? I thought it couldn’t get any worse than that. I was wrong. It’s so much worse this time.
The other day I made us scrambled eggs for dinner. You know what she said? “Ethan used to love brinner, remember?” No, that was ME! I loved brinner! Not Ethan!
It’s like I don’t exist anymore. I’ve been erased.
I stop at my locker on the way to Spanish.
“Jess!” Pete shouts my name as if I’ve been hiding from him all day. I look up and find Pete and Lucas approaching down the hallway. Pete’s face is glistening with sweat.
“Did you just get out of gym?” His face is as white and waxy as a ball of fresh mozzarella.
“No. I’m gonna hurl. I think I got food poisoning at lunch.”
Lucas rolls his eyes. “You didn’t get food poisoning. I ate the same thing as you, and I’m fine.”
“Wait for it, my friend,” Pete says, clutching his gut.
Pete turns back to me, ignoring Lucas’s eye roll. “Can you cover my shift today?”
“Yeah, not a problem,” I say. Pete sighs in relief.
“Thank you.” He pats my shoulder and walks away, cutting through the thick stream of students. “I’m gonna hurl!” he calls out, much louder this time. A path clears as everyone gives him all the space he needs to get to the nurse’s office. I hope he makes it in time. There’s nothing worse than the smell of puke in the hallways all day.
When I turn from watching Pete leave, Lucas is still here.
“What?” I ask suspiciously. He shrugs and folds his arms. This is already the longest he’s ever stood next to me that wasn’t work related.
Lucas leans against my neighbor’s locker and smiles. He has the kind of smile that brightens his entire face. A tiny voice inside of me thinks whatever I’m doing that is amusing him is worth it for that smile. But I tell that voice to shut up.
I lift up on my toes and push all the papers, binders, and textbooks around, trying to ignore him.
“Your locker’s a mess.”
“No shit.”
“What’re you looking for?”
“My Spanish book.”
He peeks in my locker.
“Oh . . . I see it.”
I move my jacket and reams of paper out of the way.
“If it were a snake, it would’ve reached out and bit you by now,” Lucas says with a laugh.
I look, really look, and I still don’t see it. I move my APUSH and precalc texts to the side.
“Warmer,” Lucas says, chuckling under his breath.
The hallway thins out. The bell is going to ring any second, and I still have to haul ass upstairs to class. I’m running out of time.
Lucas makes a peace sign in front of my face.
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Two,” I answer. He shrugs again.
“Well, it’s not your eyesight then. I mean, you’re looking right at it.” I reach in my locker again and start over.
Lucas sighs in defeat. “Just say the magic words.”
“Abracadabra,” I answer.
“Not that one.”
“Hocus pocus.”
He looks like he’s trying not to laugh.
“Kalamazoo.”
A snort escapes from his mouth, but he folds his arms in a renewed effort to be serious. We are the last two people standing in the hallway.
“Baton Rouge.” He shakes his head in disapproval over that one. I shrug. Then he unfolds his arms and reaches in.
“You win. Here.” He hands me my book. It was right in front of me, just like he said.
“Thank you.”
“See? Maaaaagic!” He wiggles his fingers by his ears in some kind of jazz hands. The bell rings. “Ugh . . . we’re late. Better hurry up.” He turns and jogs off down the hall.
“You’re out of your jurisdiction. You’re not my boss here,” I call after him. As he’s running, he throws his head back and laughs, a sound of pure joy that fills the empty hallway.
Lucas
Jess is alone in the break room, a can of Coke in one hand, phone in the other, her thumb tapping furiously on the screen. Her feet are up on a seat. When she sees me, she lowers them as if she were caught doing something that was against Enzo’s ever-so-strict rules.
I drop my takeout from Gino’s on the table and pull a seat out. “Aren’t you eating?” I ask, stacking two slices together.
She lifts her can up.
“That’s it?” I ask.
“I’ll eat when I get home.” She scrolls through her phone.
“I’d be starving if I waited that long. This is just a snack.” Then I remember she’s covering for Pete. She wasn’t supposed to work tonight. “Crap. You usually bring something from home, right?”
She nods. “Yeah.”
“You want to borrow a couple of bucks to buy a slice?” I offer.
Her face clenches. “No. I’m fine,” she insists.
I push the box in front of her. “I got three. Take one.”
She looks at the slice, really looks at it, contemplating. “No. Thanks though.”
Sensing her hesitation, I push the box closer in front of her. “I’m not going to eat all of it.”
“Then why’d you buy it?” She pushes the box back.
I point to my eyes. “Always bigger than my appetite.”
She shakes her head and sips her soda. “You haven’t even started eating yet. You might want it.”
I take a bite, just to humor her. “Ohmygod, I’m so ful
l already,” I say, chewing on my first bite. When I swallow, I say, “It’s an occupational hazard to lift seventy pounds on an empty stomach.”
“Right.” She snorts.
“Says so right in the employee handbook.”
“We don’t have one of those.”
“If we did, it’d be on page one.” I slide the box back and forth in front of her.
Stuffing my face with three slices of pizza while she’s stuck here with no food doesn’t feel right. Even that one bite I ate for her benefit takes the bumpiest, most guilt-ridden route to my gut.
Plan B. “Okay. Let’s play a game. Odds Are.”
She glances up from her phone. “Huh?”
“Odds Are. Guess a number between one and thirty. If it’s the one I’m thinking of, you have to eat this slice.”
“And if it’s not?” she asks, smiling.
“I’ll get Reggie to give you the week off.”
Her smile deepens. “Paid?”
“Sure, why not,” I say.
“You’re being a complete and utter pain in the ass about this stupid slice of pizza, but fine: twenty-seven.”
I pick up a pen from the table and use it to ding against her Coke can. “We have a winner!”
“Totally rigged.” She laughs, but she finally accepts the slice. “Happy?” she asks after her first bite.
“Thrilled. Now I can eat.”
Jess takes her phone out again while we chew. I watch her hands, how small and delicate they seem yet how deceptively strong they are. She has not backed down from any job since she started. It’s almost a problem. The rest of us ask for help from each other all the time. Jess, though, she thinks she needs to prove something. And I know it’s because of how I acted on her first day.
“You’re doing a great job here by the way,” I tell her, as if that will undo the damage.
“Thanks.” She stares at my lip and points. “Am I being nosy if I ask what’s going on with your lip? It doesn’t seem to be getting better.”
I grimace. “Sparring.” I’ve been sparring with Honor to get ready for the match for a week now. He seems to always get in a few clear shots at my mouth. Leo says it’s my own damn fault. “You wouldn’t have a fat lip if you didn’t leave yourself wide open.”