This morning before he left, he told me to scrub the kitchen until it shined.
They forgot to lock up the ancient tablet in Pete’s room, though, so instead of cleaning, I’ve been searching the internet for people who hear music that isn’t there. Pete would have known what to do. But he’s not here, and there’s nobody who can help me.
And nothing I’m learning is making me feel any better.
There’s something called Musical Ear Syndrome, but it’s for people who are hard of hearing and they hear actual music that isn’t there instead of random guitars.
And they don’t hear voices that tell them what to do.
I start looking up things like schizophrenia and psychosis, but that just ends up being scarier, even though I don’t have many of those symptoms.
It’s scary because they’re the ones that hear voices.
The only person I can think of to talk to is Julio, but he’s at school, and when he gets home my mom’ll be home, too. I look at my phone. It’s a little after eleven. I could be at County Arts in time for his lunch period.
I email myself the picture and print it off on Pete’s ancient printer.
I throw on some clothes, toss my lyrics book in my backpack, and look for my board. Damn.
The mailman’s at the gate when I leave. He’s an old guy, weird but generally cool. “Hey young mister,” he says when he sees me. He always calls me young mister. “You got yourself a letter today.” He hands me an envelope, then stuffs the rest of the mail into our box.
It’s a regular white envelope. The address is handwritten in big blue block letters:
ALEX MATA
1562 LAVETA TERRACE
LOS ANGELES, CA 90026
There isn’t a return address, but I hardly notice because I recognize the handwriting. It’s mine.
I mumble thanks to the mailman, who says, “No problemo, young mister,” and walks back out the gate.
I don’t think I can handle one more weird thing happening.
“Get ready runaway boy.” The Skywriting Voice drowns out the guitars momentarily. “Your ride’s about to begin.”
“What ride?” I say the words out loud even though I don’t mean to.
“Your wild ride, scared boy. You’re about to run away, gotta be brave.”
“Shut up!” She’s so loud in my head there’s no way the world doesn’t hear her and I can’t explain her. “You gotta shut up!”
She’s quiet again. I think for her, search inside, but she’s left my brain for the moment.
My wild ride. I look back at the letter in my hand.
I’m sweating. My fingers slip as I try to open the envelope, but eventually, I manage to pull out the sheet of lined paper inside.
The handwriting on the paper is mine, too. It’s terrible because I’m a lefty, and this is it right down to the smears where my sweaty hand ran through the ink. I unfold the paper, but it’s hard because my hand’s shaking, and it’s hard to read because my head is lousy with guitars:
Hey Alex,
This is you. Really. Please listen up, man, your stupid life depends totally on it. Can you please open your ears right now? Listen, I know it’s not cool what’s all happening, but you need to stop doubting and lift your ugly eyes up so you can see what’s happening around you. You’re not crazy, man—all this is real. You’ll understand when you get to Seattle and I can’t even begin to tell you about it now, because you’d think I’m crazy, but you’re not.
Yesterday you got suspended from school and you were nearly killed by a driverless. You’re hearing guitars in your mind and you just spent the morning on Pete’s tablet reading about Musical Ear Syndrome because you think you’re going insane. You’re going to find Beems and tell him about this, and he’s going to call your parents and they’re gonna try and 5150 you. It all started a couple days ago when you and Beems were writing on the stairs. You know what happened and no, you’re not crazy. I should know since I am you.
OPEN THE PACKAGE WHEN YOU GET HOME TONIGHT.
Anyway, it’s really important that you get out of town. Take the bus to Seattle. Keep this letter. You’ll need it when you get there—you’ll understand why when you’re at the bus stop.
The Incursions are real and it’s gonna get worse if we don’t stop them.
You’re gonna save the world.
Seen time is the only truth.
Alex AKA Plugzer
PS. Even though you won’t believe it, there are some things that happen no matter what and when they tell you that of all the ways things could have happened, this is the least bad way, it’s really true.
* * *
• • •
I’m standing there, stupidly holding the letter like it’s going to change or something—like it’s suddenly not going to describe exactly what’s been happening to me. I look at the envelope again and fold it open. Inside there’s a paper ticket for a Greyhound bus from LA to Seattle attached to a small stack of twenty-dollar bills with a paper clip.
“Don’t be a scared boy, Plugzer.”
“Go away.” It comes out halfway between a squeak and a growl.
“You’re gonna do what you’re gonna do. You’ll see it’s true.”
I’m trying to think about the letter, trying to think about what it says, what it means, how it’s real, but every time she talks, my mind shatters and I’m left with only scattered pieces of thoughts.
“Shut. The. Hell. Up!”
She laughs at me. “Oh, Plugzie’s mad now, but when you’re ready, you’ll come find me. You’ll dig out the drain under your brain.”
WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? I don’t say it, just think it, but it doesn’t matter. She’s gone.
Fuck her. I’m done with her. I’m done with all of it—the only person I know I can trust is me.
The letter warned me against going to Beems and I start to rethink my plan but then it occurs to me: If I’m crazy, I wrote the letter because I’m paranoid. I may not remember doing it, but I must have.
Plus, I’ve got no other play.
Nine
I read the letter again three times on the bus.
The guitars are like a ringing in my ears, loud, constant, but when I’m not thinking about them, I forget. Until I remember and then they’re loud again.
My voice hasn’t said anything since I yelled at her and now I have questions.
HEY! I try, but I can tell: She’s not with me.
Dig out the drain under your brain.
I’m not sure what she means, but I close my eyes and search hard for her. At first I don’t know what I’m looking for, but when I go really still I get a feeling like there’s a way through the bottom of my brain, that there’s a world underneath. There’s a barrier between me and it, a membrane. I can feel myself bouncing against it, searching it for a way in.
There’s a hole, small, a drain. A drain in my brain. It’s dream-clear to me—not something I can see, but something I know is there—a feeling of a picture—the idea of something solid and real.
And there’s something down there, under the drain.
The bus shifts as we get off the freeway, and I open my eyes, feeling alone.
I read about people who went off their medication because they missed the company of their voices and hallucinations; they said it was easier to think without the drugs. I thought that was ridiculous, but now I’m beginning to get it. Once you’ve had people in your head, when they’re gone it feels like your house after a party—messy and empty and lonely.
I get off the bus at the Cal State LA Station and walk up to campus. Julio’s school is on the college campus and his school friends eat in the student union every day, so I stand by the union door like an idiot and wait for him. When he sees me he raises his eyebrows.
“Plugzie?”
“I need to talk to you.”
He nods, puts his arm around me. “What’s up?”
“I think I’m going crazy and I’m freaking out.” My eyes start to burn. Stupid. I blot them with the back of my hand and hold my lips tight to keep from making noises.
He pulls me around the corner to a small set of empty tables. “Talk to me.”
I clear my throat and start to talk. I begin with the guitars that have been happening since Monday. I tell him about the Skywriting Voice on the stairs and my freak-out, and I keep going through the letter this morning. I show him the letter and he reads it.
I show him the picture. He looks at it, then at me. “That’s you?”
“Yeah, but I don’t even know that girl and I’ve never been there.”
He puts his hand on my leg, squeezes it. It’s weird having him do it because we don’t ever touch each other, but the rules have changed and I don’t want him to stop.
“Listen, man, I got to get my food or I’m not going to eat. Have you eaten?”
I shake my head. I can’t even think about food right now.
He pulls his hand from my knee. “Give me a minute.” He’s around the corner before I can ask him not to leave.
When he gets back I don’t notice until he says my name because I’m deep in my own head, trying to get down the drain. When I get really still and I picture myself folding inward like a flower in reverse, it feels like maybe I can slip down the drainpipe, but something’s stopping me.
I think my Voice is down there.
When I come back up to the surface, Julio’s looking at me and holding a burrito encouragingly.
I take it to be polite. “Thanks.”
We sit and talk about other things while we eat. I realize how hungry I am and it’s all I can do to keep from shoving the whole burrito in my mouth at once. Being with Beems, having him listen and just be normal with me makes me feel better than I’ve felt since it all started.
He’s telling me about some drama at his school when I happen to look over his shoulder.
My dad is crossing the quad toward the student union.
He’s bent forward, walking like an old man walks, but there’s no doubt it’s him. Beems sees my expression change and looks where I’m looking.
“You need help, man,” he says softly.
“You called my parents.” It comes out like a screech. I back off the bench and stumble into the bushes behind me.
“You’re scarin’ me. You tell me you’re hearing things and that there’s some invisible mind-voice telling you what to do—you need help.”
“But the letter.” I wave it at him.
“You wrote it, man!”
He thinks I faked it. I thought I’d faked it, too. Right up until the moment Julio did exactly what it said he would do.
It all falls apart in my head. I don’t have any proof of anything. I have a letter I wrote and an envelope that I filled out. I have a bus ticket I could have bought myself.
But the letter told the truth, and for the first time I begin to think that maybe I’m not going crazy. I think hard for something that I can use to prove that it’s all real. “The picture of me!” I shout at Beems. “I didn’t do that!”
He shrugs and shakes his head in reply. “I don’t know what you did or didn’t do, man, but you need help.”
My dad is closing in. I see him through the glass in the doors. He looks small and old, his face creased up like a paper ball.
For a moment I’m nearly overwhelmed with a need to tell my dad I’m sorry, but it passes and I need to get away.
“Fuck you, Beems.” I push backward through the bushes and out onto the walkway that leads up to the gate on the side of the university. Julio and my dad are shouting and running after me, but I’ve always been faster than Julio, and my dad is out of shape.
It doesn’t take long before I can’t hear them anymore, but I keep running anyway, out the gate and up the street. My denim jacket is heavy, stiff and hot. Sweat sticks my shirt and backpack to my spine. My jeans chafe against my legs, but I can’t stop. I end up on the far side of Lincoln Heights when I just can’t go any farther and fall against a retaining wall. My heart feels like it’s going to break my ribs and I’ve got a thirst like I’ve never had before.
I pull out my screen to check the time. Both my parents have blown up my pod and so has my tía. I have a dozen missed calls and a half dozen messages from each of them. My dad tells me that he’s sorry and that he loves me. My mom’s long messages are filled with crying, and my auntie just keeps saying to call her. I stop them because I can’t listen without crying.
I pull my pod from my ear and disable my screen. I can’t stay here, so I start over the hill.
I want to steer clear of main streets, but I don’t know the neighborhood. I don’t know who’s likely to mess with me or which blocks are bad, but at this point I don’t really care. Getting taken in an Incursion or killed by some Lincoln Heights bangers couldn’t make my day any worse. I begin to fantasize about getting shot.
I picture my funeral as I walk. My mom’s crying and my dad’s swimming in pain. My auntie keeps moaning about me and her Alex and that she doesn’t have anything left to live for. I picture Julio, too, sitting there silently, wishing he hadn’t called my parents, thinking that maybe I’d still be alive if he hadn’t.
Fuck Julio.
I spend the rest of the walk thinking about all the things that won’t happen anymore if I’m crazy and put in a psych ward. My mom took me to Vegas once, just me, when I was young, before Pete died. It was amazing because we went up to the top of the Stratosphere and rode the roller coaster and went to a show with wild acrobats and clowns that blew my eight-year-old mind.
Never again for crazy me.
By the time I make it to Union Station, it’s full dark. I’m hungry again and I’ve got a heat rash on the inside of my legs that burns with each step.
I catch the bus at Hill Street and collapse in the air-conditioning, able to close my eyes for the first time since running away. I try the folding-in thing again. I picture my mind like a piece of flat paper and begin to pull the edges in toward the center, which opens up. I can feel myself beginning to drop down the drain, pulling the paper surface of my mind in over me like a security blanket.
The opening is too small, though. I can’t get through, but I can feel my voice on the other side.
The bus jolts to a sudden stop, throwing me against the seat in front of me. Pain. I’ve hit my head hard on the plastic frame of the seat and I’m back in reality.
I’ve ridden beyond the stop near Mousie’s place and I’m going to have to walk back.
I pull the cord.
Ten
Mousie lives in the converted garage portion of a big house on Rampart. She’s lived there for her whole time in LA with her mom, her dad, her abuela, her brother, his wife, and their baby girl. She says she won’t let me see it because she’s not supposed to be dating yet and I’m not Salvi and I don’t even speak Spanish, but I think it’s more about keeping me from seeing how they live.
She’s perfectly willing to meet me out front.
The garage is dark when I get there. It’s shockingly small, half the size of our living room and dining room. Seven people live inside.
I regret letting Mousie pay for things.
There’s a window on the far side. I knock on it. I don’t know who’s going to wake up, but I’m desperate and I don’t have a choice.
A screen lights up inside within seconds of me knocking, and then a face appears. It’s a girl a little older than me and she looks pissed. It’s probably her brother’s girl. Her name is Ana. “Ana, I really need to talk to Mayra.”
She just looks at me. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”
I shake my head. “It’s late and I’m real sorry, but it
’s important.”
She stares at me through the window and I stare back. I’m not even bothered, because everything has gotten so completely messed up. Finally, she nods and turns away. A minute later, Mousie’s at a door that’s been cut into the side of the garage, dressed in loose plaid pajamas. Even now she looks good.
“Plugzie?” she asks. “What’s going on? You can’t come here like this.” She glances over her shoulder before closing the door lightly behind her. “You’re gonna get me in trouble.” When she sees my face her expression changes. I must look really bad, because suddenly, instead of worrying about herself, she’s worried about me.
Somebody inside says something in Spanish. She replies, sounding stressed. I think she tells them that she needs to talk to me, that it won’t be long.
I step back from the door and she turns and closes it behind her, comes to me, asks me what happened. I do my best to tell her, but it starts to sound really bad—I can’t say it without seeming crazy, so instead I just tell her that I ran away from home.
It’s a stupid lie, but I can’t tell her the truth.
We walk down to the wall in front of the house, sit down. Our skin is touching, but I feel millions of miles away. Every word I say takes the energy of a scream and I’m too tired to keep trying.
Mousie isn’t going to be able to help me. I sigh and tell her that I just really wanted to see her. She melts into my arms and pulls me tight. She’s warm and I can feel the strength in her small body. She pulls back far enough for me to see her and gives me a little kiss on the lips and then another, slightly longer one.
“Call me, Plugzie.” And then: “I really want to . . .” But she trails off. I wait for her to finish her thought. I’m not sure if I want her to say anything at all, but I’ll be disappointed if she doesn’t say something deep.
She doesn’t say anything.
The garage door opens and a man comes out. Mousie gets stiff under my arm and pulls away. The man looks me up and down. He says something in Spanish that I don’t totally understand, but I get the point.
Strange Days Page 4