What is Real (13 page)

I am running up the cement steps, two at a time. I am not in the mood to deal with Stacey or Mr. V today. Again. (Three times last week was too many.) I am trying to remember without looking whether English! is up first, or maybe Careers!

But Olivia wants to be thought about.

She sits on the steps, straight-backed, toes pointed in. Her skirt is hitched up high enough that I can see a dusting of fine, blond hairs on her knees. The crowd of kids parts around her like the Red Sea. No one talks to her.

Why doesn't anyone talk to her?

She is waiting for me. But the thing is, I can't think of a thing to say. Something about the weather. Or Math! No, that's not good enough.

Nothing that I think of is good enough. My brain is made of grinding metal gears, a dusting of rust falling around my feet. “I…,” I start. She doesn't hear me. My voice is a frog's croak. A really tiny frog. The kind you only notice when you step on it with bare feet.

There are thirteen stairs between me and her, and I don't know if she has seen me yet. People pass between us in a group, younger kids, jostling. One of them falls and pushes hard against me, and I push him back up again. For a second he hangs in the air, and then he's gone.

Kate says, “Move it, Pratt.” She is suddenly behind and beside me. She stares at my face. “Hey,” she says. “Seriously, move.” She looks disgusted. She glances at Olivia but doesn't say anything. “Tanis says to meet her at her locker, 'kay?”

“Sure,” I say. My hand is still in midair, about to greet Olivia. Kate walks right through her.

I lower my arm and blink. Once. Twice. My heart does a scuttle in my chest like a cockroach on a hardwood floor.

Olivia's eyes settle on me, then away, then back. She pushes her glasses up her nose. I can't move. I want her to move. Get up. Say something. She is so still. She's made of salt. She's dissolving. She's there. My heart speeds up and I think about how I was…you know, in the cornfield. About how I was jerking off and thinking about Olivia, pretending. And I'm sure she knows, the way she's smiling. She knows and I'm going to die and then come back to life and then die again. The blush starts somewhere below my abdomen and works its way up, and I start marching up the stairs again, right past her. I don't stop. I look over her head like I don't even see her.

I glance back at her, once I'm past, and I think she shakes her head, just a bit, like a dog shaking an irritating fly out of her ear, or a bird flapping free of a wire.

I want her to be normal.

I want me to be normal.

I want a joint.

I need one. I feel in my pocket. Need, want. Want, need. Maybe I have time. Behind me, two girls are talking about a concert in the city they are going to.

“Rad,” one says.

“Fucking rad,” the other agrees. “I've got the car.”

“Awesomely fucking rad,” the other one says. “Do you have my red shoes?”

“No,” says the other one. “You never let me wear your stuff, remember?”

“TANIS!” I yell.

It's not like Tanis is out here, so I don't know why I do that.

“Tanis,” I mutter.

I hurry to Tanis's locker and I spin her and dip her and she laughs and I make myself smile. People stare. They look at us and think we're in love or something equally bullshitty. They are jealous, but they don't know what is real and what is just pretend. Tanis is my fake girlfriend. I'm fake and she is not. I almost drop her and then hoist her back up. She cocks her head and says, “Wanna come over after school? I didn't get a shift today.”

And I say, “Absolutely.” Even though I know I can't and I don't want to and everything I say is a lie. I have practice. Sometimes I just want to say, “Yes,” to Tanis. Yes and yes and yes and yes and yes. I want her to explain me. I want her to tear me apart and put me back together, ratios in place. Instead I cough. I pretend to cough. I pretend like I didn't just about burst into tears. I cough and cough. She pats me on the back, “Whoa,” she says. “Don't die.”

I shake my head. “I won't,” I say. “I won't.”

Every time I see Olivia in the hallway, I pretend I don't. I edit her out of my film. Where she is standing, I edit in puce-colored lockers. A zitty-faced kid. An overflowing garbage can.

I try to talk to Tanis about normal stuff. I go, “Who'd you have for English?” and “Why're you taking Metal Shop?” I say, “You've got to listen to this song,” and I jam my iPhone earbud into her ear so she can hear too. I touch her leg. Everything I say feels stilted and untrue. I say, “My dad hit his head again.” I say, “I fucking hate math.”

When Tanis looks at me, I can feel her calculating and making me okay. She's mentally measuring the distance between my nose and my lip. The proportion of my ears. She draws a sketch of me on a blank piece of paper and presses her lips on it and gives it to me. It has a wrinkled lip print that looks repulsive. It's not her but the print that skeeves me out. I shudder and she takes it back, balls it up and texts Kate.

Tanis is always texting Kate. I want her to talk to me like she talks to Kate, but Kate has a million things to say and all I can say is, “Crows freak me out.” Just as one swoops down and grabs an entire lunch bag from the garbage can.

Tanis eats lunch sitting on my lap, and she traces my cheeks with her fingertips. I try to stop my mind from spinning. I try to concentrate on something, anything. I try to not look over her shoulder for Olivia, but I am, because I can't not. Then I go to Math! Bio! Careers!

I get through the day, and Olivia is everywhere, just watching. She is smiling but also isn't. Her dress is see-through when she passes windows. Still. Again. She isn't there.

She is.

She's wearing a white dress. But when I see her again, it's the same dress and it's blue.

I pass her closely and I smell vinegar and spice.

I don't know what she wants from me. What could she want from me?

Nothing.

Everything.

Besides which, I don't for a second believe she's real.

Our school is serious about very little, but basketball matters. Probably because Mr. V used to be some kind of college star. If Mr. V is the future of being a college star, I don't want to be one.

Practice is good. The new guy is killer. Phil Stars. He's better than me. Way better. But I already knew that.

Today I like him because he is better than me. I like that he is better than me. No one would believe me, but it's true. “He's just having a good day,” whispers Tanis.

“Nah,” I tell her. “He's better. It's okay.”

“No way,” she says. She doesn't get it. She says, “It's just straight-up because he's taller and has longer arms, Dex.”

“Doesn't matter,” I say. I want him to be better. It takes some of the pressure off me to be good. There is a lot of pressure.

Even my dad, this morning, while I made his eggs, said, “Practice starting today, huh?”

“Yep,” I said. “I guess.”

“You know, son,” he said—and I knew what he was going to say was going to be a Dad thing because “son” is reserved for Dad
things
. “Son,” he said, “basketball might just be the thing that changes your life.”

I shrugged it off. “I'm not that good,” I said. I was annoyed. Everyone thought I was this superstar, but they were wrong. I was good, but not good
enough
to matter. But Dad needed me to be this super athlete. Maybe it was as simple as I was supposed to use my legs because he couldn't use his. Besides, my life had already changed quite enough. Once. Twice. Enough times that I couldn't keep up. The last thing I wanted was more fucking
change
.

“You are that good,” he said. “You could get scholarships.”

“I don't need scholarships, Dad,” I said. I was getting mad. The eggs were burning. Sweat was dripping off my lip, but it wasn't hot in the room. It was just anger. The low simmer.

“Why not, son?” he said. He rolled closer. I smelled piss. He does his own catheter and he obviously messed up. I hesitate. Should I say something or pretend I don't notice?

“I'm sleeping on thousands of goddamn dollars, Dad,” I said through gritted teeth. “Probably could pay my own way to school.”

“Oh?” he said. “You could, could you? Is it
your
money now?”

“It's
my
pot,” I mumbled.

“If I wasn't in this chair, I'd kick your ass for that,” he said. “I would.” He stared at me. “What is going on in your head?”

If only he knew what a good question that was.

I almost answered him. Almost.

“Dad,” I said, “don't try to get all Dad-like on me now. It's too late for that.” I turned off the eggs but I didn't put them on his plate. I just left them there in the fry pan, too high for him to reach.

In the hot pan, they probably did burn. Gary could cook him some new ones. Gary could take care of it. Gary, Gary, Gary.

Fuck Gary.

Maybe Gary wanted to be his fucking son. Gary could have the job. I sure didn't want it.

I was halfway to school before I started to hate myself for that little stunt. Before I started to want to go back, give Dad his eggs and say sorry. But sorry for what, that's what I didn't really know.

Which is why I walked so slowly. Because of the weight of that.

Which is why I was late.

Which is why I never saw Olivia that morning on the steps and why Kate did not walk through her. Why I know my brain is looping around in a way that isn't right and the ratio of sane to crazy has tipped the wrong way, and no amount of smart math can undo that.