No scissors, but that was fine, because Ryan already knew what he was going to do and he did it. His left hand flashed out almost before he realized it, and gripped the bee-trapping lock of hair just above the bee. He slid his fingers down smoothly with just the right amount of tension to move the bee out of her hair without tangling his own fingers in it.
He could feel the bee writhing even as he pulled it out of her hair. Because his touch was light enough to not actually pull on Bizzy’s hair, the bee was undamaged. Ryan knew that the moment it got out of her hair, the bee would be enraged and would go into sting-anything mode. He couldn’t let the bee fly loose or it might sting Bizzy after all.
He didn’t dare hold the bee in his hands—he knew from Defense’s stories that catching bees gave you lots of experience with stung palms and fingers. But he knew exactly what to do. Without any break in the motion of pulling on the bee, he bent to his hand and brought his hand up toward his face and popped the bee right into his mouth.
It wasn’t that he thought bees couldn’t sting you inside your mouth—of course they could. But his mental picture was of a whole set of unstingable teeth, upper and lower, and himself chomping down on the bee, killing it immediately. He had put the bee into a place fully armed with his own weapons—cuspids and bicuspids and . . .
And the bee wasn’t stinging him or even trying to. He could feel it moving inside his mouth, but there was no pain.
So he thought, maybe the bee doesn’t have to die this time. It hasn’t injected venom into anybody, so it might live through this, and who am I to kill it? It was only doing what nature shaped it to do. It was Bizzy’s hair that had trapped it. The bee was—so far, at least—an innocent victim. And if Ryan had pulled it away so gently that it was still trying to buzz and fly in his mouth, maybe he had known that all along. Minimal violence—that’s what he had used.
Ryan turned his face away from Bizzy and opened his mouth and exhaled hard, blowing the bee out of his mouth.
It flew away. Maybe it was going to have an amazing story to dance about to the other bees in the hive. Maybe it was going to huddle in a corner somewhere and rethink its career choices.
But it was gone, no longer divebombing Bizzy.
He turned back to her, and she looked at him with a still-panicked expression and said, “Did you pull my hair?”
There would be no explaining what had actually happened. Even if she believed him, the weirdness of having put the bee into his mouth might bring an end to any thought of hand-holding with a bee biter.
“Sorry,” said Ryan. “I might have brushed against your hair when I was swatting the bee away.”
“Oh, good. Swatting bees always calms them down and makes them fly away,” said Bizzy.
“In this case, it did. It flew away.”
“Are you sure you didn’t just stun it and it’s on the ground, waiting to get even?”
“I saw it fly away,” he said.
“You’re sure it was that same bee?”
He shrugged. “Pretty sure.” He did not add, I had it straight from your hair into my mouth, kid, so yeah, I’m sure. It was enough that she was safe.
“That really scared you, eh?” she asked.
It was her fake-Canadian “eh,” so he chuckled.
“It was tense. My little sister almost died from a bee sting a long time ago. I take bees seriously.”
“Anaphylactic shock?”
“Her first-ever sting, and it was nearly fatal,” said Ryan.
“I’ve never been stung, so I don’t know. But I saw the movie My Girl and it just about killed me when Macaulay Culkin died, especially after my mother explained about anaphylactic shock. I decided I never wanted to find out whether I was allergic to bee stings.”
“Wise choice,” said Ryan. “I’ve never been stung, either.”
“Lucky,” said Bizzy.
“Short hair,” said Ryan.
“You think so?”
“Bee got caught in my sister’s hair and stung her on the neck. And your hair . . . pretty much caught the bee before I managed to brush it away.”
“Felt like you grabbed my hair.”
“Brushed your hair,” said Ryan. “Or, you know, kind of combed it with my fingers.”
Bizzy shuddered. “That puts your hand awfully close to the bee,” she said.
“I’m walking you home for a reason,” said Ryan.
“To fight bees?”
“To keep you safe, if it’s in my power.” He said it simply, but he was trembling inside. I can’t keep her safe. I can’t keep anybody safe. I’m weak and slow and I have no skills and . . .
And he had acted instantly, got the bee out of her hair and away from her skin without any regard for his own safety, and put the stupid thing in his mouth, and . . .
Surely it didn’t happen. Surely he just imagined it and then remembered what he imagined as if it had been real.
But if bee-sting allergies ran in families, he might well have been risking his own life. He would never say anything so tacky, but if he said, I’d die for you, Bizzy, he had already proved that such a statement was true. He wouldn’t choose to die, but he would do ridiculously perilous things to keep her from harm.
That was something that people did when they loved somebody, right?
But Bizzy started talking about something from math class, and Ryan paid attention and all his self-gratulation about jousting with bees retreated into the back of his mind.
That night, he found that he was dying to tell somebody what he had done—even the put-the-bee-in-the-mouth part—but who would he tell? Not Dianne, in case she still wasn’t over her own bee episode, and not Mom, because she’d mock him and accuse him of lying, because the idea of him being brave could never enter her head. Not Dad, either, because Ryan didn’t want to claim credit for brave actions that his father hadn’t actually seen.
Defense? He would never stop teasing Ryan about bees and saving damsels in distress.
No, the only person he could tell was Bizzy. And she had been there—and saw nothing.
Still, he went out on the back porch in the dark and waited for a while, in case she came out on her deck. But she didn’t.
Just as well. He might have become too fervent about seeing her. Might have said something that gave away too much about his feelings. Might have cried with relief that she was okay, and that would have sunk him forever. He cried way too easily. It was his downfall. Cried when he was sad, sure, but also when he was relieved or proud or angry, and pretty much anytime he felt something strong. Girls don’t like guys who are weepers. Dad told him long ago, look away and think of something important that doesn’t make you cry. What Ryan had not said was, can you give me a hint about what won’t make me cry?
Not feeling anything, if he could help it. That was how he got by. Laugh at everything. And everybody. Keep your distance.
But there was no distance between him and Bizzy, not in his own mind and heart. This was love. Sickening, crippling, humiliating love.
She had held his hand today. For about three steps. And he maybe saved her life, so he knew inside himself that his love was real. This was a red-letter day. Worth writing about in his diary. If he kept a diary.
6
Mrs. Horvat met Bizzy at the door with a smile, but the smile vanished when she looked at Ryan.
“Just leaving,” he said, backing away.
“No you’re not,” said Mrs. Horvat.
“Mother,” said Bizzy softly. Like a little prayer.
“If he’s going to be useful, he has to know.”
Apparently Ryan was supposed to be useful.
“Come inside,” said Mrs. Horvat.
“I’m going to go upstairs and study,” said Bizzy.
“You’d only sit and stare at yourself in the mirror,” said Mrs. Horvat.<
br />
“Where did you put your broom?” asked Bizzy quietly. “I don’t see it.”
Mrs. Horvat’s gaze never left Ryan. “When I don’t obey her,” she said, “Bojana teases me about being a witch.”
“Not teasing,” said Bizzy softly.
“Escorting Bojana out in the world is not a trivial task,” said Mrs. Horvat.
Ryan nodded. Bizzy rolled her eyes.
“She thinks she is in no danger, because she’s young and stupid,” said Mrs. Horvat. “People watch her.”
Ryan nodded again. Bizzy did not roll her eyes. She got a faraway look, as if she were watching a movie instead of taking part in the conversation.
“If you see the same person in different places,” said Mrs. Horvat, “you are to inform me. Take a picture of him if you can.”
“What are they looking at her for?” asked Ryan.
“Have you seen such a person?” asked Mrs. Horvat.
“A couple of people, maybe,” said Ryan. “I didn’t take pictures, so I can’t be sure.”
“You see someone like that, you will point him out to Bojana, yes?”
“Sure,” said Ryan, glancing at Bizzy, who gave no response at all.
“She is in danger.”
Ryan was puzzled. “What’s so special about her? Why is everybody always looking at her?”
Mrs. Horvat looked at him as if he were insane. And Bizzy turned to her mother with a look that seemed to say, Told you so.
“You have to ask?”
“I’ve been trying to figure it out,” said Ryan. “I see all the people staring at her but trying not to look like they’re doing it, and I thought maybe Witness Protection, but if somebody had recognized her, the Marshals Service would have relocated you and renamed you already. I mean, if your moving in here was part of your most recent relo, it’s already kind of failed.”
Mrs. Horvat turned to look at Bizzy. “I didn’t believe you,” she said.
Believe what? Ryan wanted to demand. But he just looked at Bizzy, waiting for an explanation.
“You really don’t see it?” Mrs. Horvat asked him.
“See what?” asked Ryan.
Mrs. Horvat seemed not to believe him, but she didn’t interrogate him any further.
That night, when they both were on the back porch talking, Ryan sitting on the lowest step and Bizzy in a cheap lawn chair on the small deck, he asked, “So what is it that I was supposed to see?”
Bizzy didn’t answer. But Ryan didn’t go on talking. He let the question hang there.
“Most people find me . . . remarkable.”
“So do I,” said Ryan, feeling very bold.
Bizzy shook her head.
“What is it that your mother thought I didn’t see?” he said again.
“If you really don’t see it,” she said.
“I probably do. I see a lot of things, I just don’t know what thing I’m supposed to see.”
Bizzy covered her face with her hands. She mumbled something behind that mask.
“What?” asked Ryan.
She took her hands away from her face. “Mother says that when I was a baby, a Gypsy woman got so angry at Mom that she cursed me with something that would cause my mother grief for the rest of her life. Quite a vicious curse when you think about it.”
“If you believe in curses,” said Ryan.
“Oh, being the daughter of a witch, I absolutely do believe in curses.”
“I’m assuming you’re speaking with humor. Or irony. About your mother.”
“Of course I am,” said Bizzy. “No such things as witches.”
“Cursed you how?” he asked.
“She put a glamor on me. A look.”
“No she didn’t. You’re pretty, that’s all. How can that be a curse?”
Bizzy shook her head. “It’s one of the things I like about you,” she said. “You really don’t see it.”
Ryan shook his head. “Okay, don’t tell me.”
“I’m not just pretty, Ryan. The glamor is one of astonishing beauty. I’m heartbreakingly beautiful.”
“Oh,” he said. “That.”
“Don’t pretend you can see it,” said Bizzy, “because I know you can’t. If you did see it, you wouldn’t have been able to talk to me. The only boys who will ever talk to somebody as beautiful as this glamor makes me are the kind of boys who think they’re such hot stuff that every girl is dying to have them talk to her. That’s not you.”
Ryan was trying to understand whether she was teasing him or not. “I’m not that kind of guy,” said Ryan.
“That’s just it,” said Bizzy. “Boys sort themselves. Most guys know that if a girl is extraordinarily beautiful, then she won’t like an ordinary guy like them, so they never talk to her, they just ignore her, so she can’t hurt them by putting them down.”
Ryan had to laugh. “Come on, Bizzy, I never would have taken you for having this level of conceit.”
She got up out of the chair and came down the stairs and stepped a little way out onto the lawn. The light over the back door softly illuminated her face. She did not even look at Ryan. But a change came over her face—something subtle, so that he couldn’t say what it was she actually did, but he knew that there was a change. And now she was so amazingly beautiful that it brought tears to his eyes. Heartbreakingly beautiful—that was right.
Why hadn’t he seen it before?
“Mother’s story about the angry Gypsy woman is hogwash, of course,” said Bizzy softly. “It’s not something that’s been put on me. I put it on myself, when I want to. And take it away when I don’t want it.”
And suddenly her face changed again, and she was back to being Bizzy—pretty and intelligent but not astonishing.
“So everybody stares at you because you show them that face?”
“I don’t really understand how it works,” she said. “I can see myself make the transition when I look in the mirror. When I came into European History class that first morning, I was deliberately not showing the glamor. Or you wouldn’t have talked to me as naturally as you did—the way you would talk to a regular person.”
She still sounded vain, and yet, after seeing that transition, that desperate beauty, he knew it was true. He could never have talked naturally to that face, to that girl.
“But on the street—” he began.
“For some reason, people who are a little farther away, I can’t control what they see. They see the beautiful face. They have to look back, several times, in order to believe it was real. And they still can’t believe it.”
Ryan hardly knew what to say, because it did sound as if Bizzy believed she had some kind of magical power.
“Mother is afraid some maniac will abduct me and use me in some hideous perverted way.”
“To cook for him? Do his laundry?” asked Ryan.
“That’s why I like you, Ryan. You’re an idiot.”
“I’m glad you hold me in such esteem,” said Ryan.
“If Mother had her way, I’d wear a mask or a veil or a bag over my head all the time.”
“I see how pretty you are,” said Ryan. “I can hardly take my eyes off you.”
“That’s because you’re a shy nerd,” she said. “But you talked to me, you joked with me, and you know perfectly well you never saw the face I just showed you.”
“I did in my dreams,” said Ryan.
It sounded so cheesy to him that he put his hand to his forehead to cover his face.
She stepped over and sat down next to him, put her arm across his back, holding him by the shoulder. “Do you think you’re in love with me?” she asked.
“I don’t think it,” he said.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound patronizing,” she said. “I’m so honored that you feel that way. Really.”
>
“But everybody says they love you,” he said.
“They love that face.”
“I don’t believe in magic or curses,” said Ryan.
“But you saw me make the transition,” she said.
He nodded.
“You’re wondering which one is really me,” she said.
He nodded again.
“They both are,” she said. “Still me, all the time.”
“So you really are out of my league,” said Ryan.
“You already knew that,” said Bizzy. “But somehow you still had the courage to talk to me. I liked that. Still do. It means that you’re really my friend.”
“Friend?” he asked.
“We’re in high school,” said Bizzy. “Of course I’m going to keep you in the friend zone.”
Astonishing himself with his bravery, he reached out and touched her cheek.
She grimaced. “Checking to see if I have horrible acne scars under my makeup?”
“You’re not wearing makeup,” said Ryan.
“I never do. It gets in my pores and starts to itch.”
“Bizzy, I think about you all the time. It’s not about your looks, though sure, you look nice, way out of my league. But I like talking to you, being with you.”
“That’s how I feel about you.”
“But you can do better,” he said.
She smiled. “Not so far,” she said. “Lots of offers, but no one better than you.”
She reached out and touched his cheek. It sent an electric thrill through him. “I’m not crazy,” said Bizzy. “I just have the gift of making people look at me.”
“Did you make me look at you?”
“It was the school secretary’s idea to have me follow you from class to class,” she said. “And when I came to class, you were the only one who didn’t look at me. Because you were asleep and drooling on your desk.”
“What gave me immunity to your glamor? Was it the sleeping or the drooling?”
“The drooling gave me immunity to your glamor,” she said. “Ryan, don’t make this weird. Mother worries that one day somebody will kidnap me. It really scares her, whether there was truly a Gypsy curse or not. But I want to have a life, as close to a regular life as I can. You’re helping with that, and I’m glad I have you as a friend. Please don’t make it weird.”
Duplex Page 6