“Hey,” he said.
He was wearing black pants and a black shirt that had the chest and arm bones of a skeleton on them. The shirt was supposed to create the effect that Jared was a skeleton-man. Unfortunately, the bones were way too big to be realistic.
“I apologize for not telephoning,” I said, “but Nana sent me on an errand nearby.”
Jared nodded. “What kind of errand?”
He still hadn’t opened his door all the way.
“Paint,” I said.
“Paint,” he repeated slowly.
He tapped his fingers on the door, then looked back into his room. I examined his hair. There were drops of moisture clinging to his individual scraggly black locks. He looked at my helmet.
“Did that come with a tampon?” he asked.
I didn’t respond. Instead, I just held out the paper bag I had been carrying.
“What’s this?” Jared inspected the bag.
“It’s for you,” I said.
I had been holding it so tightly that the paper was crinkled. It looked like a piece of trash now. Yet Jared’s skeleton arm took the bag. His glasses were clouded over again, and he wiped them and peered inside. He pulled out the disc. Despite the wear and tear of the sack, the compact disc itself was still shiny, the plastic wrapping untouched.
“Where did you get this?” he asked, staring at the cover.
“At a disc shop.”
“How did you buy it, I mean?”
“With a twenty-dollar bill.”
Jared blinked twice behind his lenses. “Come in,” he said.
He opened his door all the way and I followed him inside. The room had dark carpeting, and every inch of wall space was covered in photographs of musicians. Cutouts from magazines. Rail-thin men with bald heads or just a single row of hair down the middle. They were frozen midshriek, midleap. Guys with black guitars, spitting great arcs of water into the crowd. Across from his bed were two giant shelves of compact discs and record albums, some of them stacked on top of a computer (it must have been the one he used to contact me). There were also discs on the floor and on a bedside table next to some small plastic devices that looked medical. A humidifier huffed out dense clouds of mist in the corner. The temperature was balmy.
Jared picked at the wrapping on the disc. “I don’t have this one,” he said quietly.
“What’s that smell?” I asked.
Soon after I entered the room, I had noticed a strong vinegary odor.
“Nothing,” he said. “There’s no smell.”
He walked toward his stereo and placed the disc in its slot. While he fumbled with some knobs, I looked over at a bulletin board leaning against his wall. It was covered in “Get Well” cards. One of them was open and every inch of the card was covered in signatures. Jared pressed a few buttons on his stereo.
“This is a good one,” he said.
I sat down on his bed, unmade, the sheets knotted. He sat down at the opposite end. Three sharp drumbeats exploded at full volume. Then a chomping angry guitar started. And finally, that same operatic voice I’d heard first in the hospital.
Well, we land in barren fields on the Arizona plains.
The insemination of little girls in the middle of wet dreams.
Jared nodded and played some drums in the air. But he seemed far away. He continued wiping at his glasses. The song moved to its chorus.
Teenagers from Mars
And we don’t care
Teenagers from Mars
And we don’t care
Teenagers from Mars
And we don’t caaaare
The song ended after a minute or two, and Jared switched off the stereo. He stood there a moment, looking at the speakers. The only sound was the gurgle and hiss of the humidifier. I felt my hair dampening with sweat.
“It’s very temperate in here,” I said. “Warm.”
“What do you want?” he asked, suddenly.
“What do you mean?”
“What do you want from me, Sebastian?”
Jared faced me. “I mean, I never really said you could come over here, did I? Maybe I said you could call me up with times and everything like you asked. Maybe. But I didn’t say you could just pop over anytime you goddamned pleased. I didn’t say you could just waltz your ass in here and start talking about smells and heat!”
He was huffing.
“Have I done something wrong?” I asked.
“Just because you do stuff in a weird-ass way,” he said, “doesn’t mean the whole world has to be weird-ass to fit you. Some people have normal lives to lead.”
“You don’t like the disc?”
“That’s not the point,” he said.
“What is the point?” I asked.
“The point is you annoy people,” he said. “You fucking annoy people.”
I still had my helmet under my arm. I picked it up now and placed it back on my head. The sour smell in the room stung my nostrils.
“I’ll go now,” I said. “Nana doesn’t know where I am.”
“Nana doesn’t know where I am,” Jared mocked.
I walked to the door and opened it. I stepped out into the hallway, trying not to cry. My throat was tightening. My eyes stung. And I was hoping I could just pad quietly down the stairs and out of the house. I could be back on my Voyager before Janice saw me. I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. I wouldn’t bother anyone ever again. Please, please, just let me go. But at the end of the hallway, just coming up the stairs, was another human being. It was Janice Whitcomb. She spotted me immediately.
“Sebastian, you’re not going?” she said.
I froze. “I have a lengthy bike ride,” I said.
“But the sandwiches are ready.”
She spoke with such gravity that her real words took a moment to sink in.
“Do you like grilled cheese?” she added.
I watched her face. She smiled, but it seemed to belie a kind of desperation.
“Sebastian has to go,” Jared said from behind me.
“Oh, come eat your sandwiches,” she said. “I’ll take him home in the van.”
I stood still between them.
“Are you feeling better?” Janice asked.
She was staring at Jared now.
“I guess,” he said.
“How’s your stomach?”
“Fine,” he said. “Please drop it.”
He met my eyes, then turned away. Mrs. Whitcomb looked at me again.
“So, what’s the verdict?” she asked.
“Oh, c’mon!” said Jared. “Jesus Christ! Let’s eat sandwiches.”
8.
How Little I Know
WE WERE SERVED OUR AFTERNOON SNACK ON BROWN plates with a blob of deep-red tomato ketchup and some sliced pickles stacked in a pile. To drink, there was grape-flavored punch, bright purple. I watched as Jared picked up a diagonally cut half of his sandwich, dipped it in the ketchup, and took a bite. I followed the same process, and was pleased to find a rich cheesy, tomatoey flavor bursting into my mouth. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I began chewing the golden-toasted white bread. It was buttery and made a loud crunch when you bit it. The cheese was salty and melted down to a near-liquid state. The ketchup was a tangy accent. The first half was gone in seconds.
We ate in mutual silence, both of us concentrating on our food. Mrs. Whitcomb stood at the sink, washing out her skillet, listening to talk radio. Every few minutes, she turned around to glance at us. More than once, she winked at me. My plan had been to eat the food as fast as possible and leave. But I actually started to relax at the table. I took long gulps of grape drink. It was so sweet and cold. It made my mouth tingle. By the time my food was finished, I had almost forgotten about Jared altogether. He ate steadily at the other side of the table, paying me no attention.
“What are you staring at?” he said.
I looked over at him and found him glaring right at me.
“Jared,” said Mrs. Whitcomb. “Have you played your electric guitar for Sebastian?”
“No, Mommy,” he said, “I haven’t.”
He narrowed his eyes at me.
“I finally gave in and got it for him, Sebastian, after he promised he’d play it at Youth Group meetings. He’s always been musical. He used to have a beautiful singing voice before the surgery.”
“God,” said Jared. “No one wants to hear about the shitty songs I used to sing. I sang like a girl. Mrs. Huron told you so.”
Mrs. Whitcomb flinched at his profanity. “You sang beautifully,” she said.
Then she turned to me. “He never sings anymore.”
“A real travesty for the world,” said Jared. “How will mankind ever recover?”
Then a familiar voice came from the doorway.
“Shut up, already,” it said. “I can hear your whining from down the hall.”
“Don’t start with him, Meredith,” Janice said.
I looked up and Meredith Whitcomb rushed into the room, moving in a beeline toward Jared. She was taller than he was. I noticed that first. And her hair was light yellow (almost white), the exact opposite of Jared’s. It got darker when it reached her scalp. Her thin lips were covered in a sticky glistening gloss, and her cheeks looked so soft. Her nose was small, and her eyes were a severe grayish blue. She looked at me, and I felt my neck redden. She was magnificent.
“Who is this guy?” she asked, taking a pickle right from Jared’s hand.
“This is Sebastian,” said Mrs. Whitcomb. “Remember we told you about that dome and the unfortunate woman who had the stroke.”
Meredith shrugged, tossing the pickle in her mouth.
“Kind of funny-looking,” she said.
She sat down next to me and chomped noisily on the pickle. She looked from Jared to me. “You two make the perfect little pair, don’t you?” she said. “Two little wieners.”
“Meredith,” said Jared, “could you please have your period somewhere else in the house where it won’t bother anyone.”
“Could you please stop stinking up your room,” she said. “It smells like piss again. I can smell it through the floorboards.”
Jared had been ready to say something else, but at that last comment he closed his mouth tight. His head sank a few inches. He was quiet for a moment, then scooted out his chair. “C’mon, Sebastian,” he said. “I don’t want to be infected by the PMS rays in this room.”
“Please, just leave each other alone!” said Janice.
For a moment, she sounded on the verge of tears. She placed a frying pan on a rack, clanging some pots together in the process. Jared was already walking out of the room.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
Without looking back at Meredith, I stood and followed Jared’s path out of the room. When I found him, he was already halfway up the stairs.
“I should really go, Jared,” I said from below. “You told me to . . .”
He wasn’t listening to me. He was mumbling something to himself. He paused and looked down the stairs at me. It looked like he wanted to tell me something.
“Have you ever played a guitar before?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“I can teach you a chord.”
He looked at me intensely.
“You’ll show me your guitar?” I asked.
“Do you want to learn a chord or not?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
We walked back into his room and this time I didn’t comment on the smell. I pretended not to notice it at all. This time Jared went to his closet and took out a hard black plastic case. He unbuckled it and pulled out a dark blue guitar shaped like an upside-down V. I had never seen anything resembling it. It gleamed. On the side of the strings were thin airbrushed lightning bolts. He set the guitar in my hands.
“Be careful,” he said. “Don’t drop it.”
The plastic was cold in my hands. I gripped the neck and let the V sit across my legs. He went to the closet and pulled out a small amplifier and a cord.
“You are now holding probably the most badass ax ever,” he said.
He plugged everything in and a small hum escaped the amplifier when he flicked it on. “It has dual-fucking-humbuckers,” he continued, “a compound-radius fingerboard, and twenty-four jumbo frets. It will, if played right, melt your face off.”
“Do you play it at church?” I asked.
“Hell no, I do not play it at church,” he said. “It would probably piss off God so much, he’d have to blow up the chapel or something.”
While he spoke he arranged the fingers of my left hand on the hard metal strings. He pressed my fingers down once they were in place, and a pain shot through my hand.
“Strum,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He sighed. Without replying, he ran his thumb fast over all the strings at once and a crunchy blast erupted from the speaker. It took a few seconds for the amplifier to return to its initial low fuzz.
“Ha!” said Jared. “Did you feel that one in your balls?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
He ran his thumb over them again, up and down this time, and out came another wave of music. That same push of noise and harmony. It was a powerful flush of sound.
“That’s E!” he shouted. “It’s the best chord!”
Again, his thumb and forefinger attacked the strings. I pressed my fingers down as hard as I could, and the sound bucked out of the speaker and into the room. I felt an odd pulse in my arms, spreading all the way to my chest. Over and over, he strummed. The sound was deafening. The strings poked into my fingertips. My ears buzzed. And when the sound reached its frenzied peak, Jared waited what felt like minutes before he calmed the strings with his flat palm. I hadn’t been watching him during the last round of noises. I had closed my eyes in deep concentration, pretending I was solely responsible for the sounds. I looked at him now, and noticed his eyes growing red.
“Jared?” I asked.
“What?”
“Are you hurt?”
“No,” he said.
The guitar was still screeching a little in my hands. I tried to settle it, but it kept going, shrieking.
“You were in the newspaper,” I said. “I saw it on the fridge.”
Jared blinked. “I pissed myself, earlier,” he said.
I nearly dropped the guitar, but I caught myself.
“You urinated . . .”
“In my pants,” he said. “That’s what stinks in here. I lied when I said there was no smell. There’s a smell. It’s my pissed pants. They’re in the closet.”
Jared let escape a short laugh, then punctuated it with a sniffle.
“How did this occur?” I asked.
“Meds,” he said. “It’s this new med I’m on. It makes me go to the bathroom all the time. I got tired of it, so I tried to hold it in, you know. And . . . I fucking couldn’t.”
He sat down on the floor now in front of a box of compact discs. He lifted up a few and pulled out a package of cigarettes.
“Would you put a towel at the bottom of the door, Sebastian?” he asked.
“My mom wants me to try going back to school soon,” he said. “How am I supposed to do that when I’m pissing in my pants? How is that going to work?”
He took a long inhalation and spit it back out.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Sixteen.”
“How did you learn to smoke?”
“A kid at the hospital showed me,” he said. “This eighteen-year-old in for back surgery. He was really into the Dead Kennedys. Anyway, he taught me. Any other questions?”
The smoke crept up and gathered around the light.
“Why were you in the hospital?” I asked.
“Do you want to see?” he said.
“See what?”
“I can show you what I was in for.”
“I want to see,” I said.
Jared extinguished his cigarette in a nearby soda can. He rose to his feet and walked to the stereo. He fumbled with the switches again. I watched him push track number five again on his disc.
“Take a good look, okay?” he said. “I’m only going to do this once.”
The opening drumbeats of “Teenagers from Mars” began again. Jared closed his eyes. I saw his eyeballs fluttering behind his lids. The humidifier was still going in the corner, and I noticed now how the room seemed to be alive with shiny droplets of moisture. It glistened on the front of his music posters. On his disc cases. On the frames of his black glasses. Jared pulled an arm inside his shirt. Then he pulled the other arm in. He wriggled for a moment and then lifted the skeleton shirt over his head.
He held onto his shirt, and I could see his hand shaking. On the stereo the song was in its rollicking chorus again.
Teenagers from Mars, and we don’t care.
Teenagers from Mars and we don’t . . .
Right in the middle of Jared’s chest was a long thin scar. It was purplish and perfectly even. An entirely straight slice.
From downstairs came Mrs. Whitcomb’s voice, scarcely audible over the music.
“Sebastian, I can take you home now if you’re ready!”
The House of Tomorrow Page 7