A Tragic Kind of Wonderful

A Tragic Kind of Wonderful Eric Lindstrom The heart-rending and inspiring novel from the critically acclaimed author of NOT IF I SEE YOU FIRST.How can you have a future if you can’t accept your past?Mel Hannigan doesn’t have it easy. Mourning the death of her firework of a brother, facing the loss of three friendships that used to mean everything to her and struggling to deal with a condition that even her closest friends don’t know about. To protect herself and everyone else, Mel tries to lock away her heart, to live quietly without pain – but also without hope.Until the plight of an old friend, and meeting someone new, shows her that the risk is worth taking, that opening up to life – and who you really are – is what can make everything glorious… And that maybe Mel can discover a tragic kind of wonderful of her very own.A beautiful, captivating story about living with mental illness, and loving – even with a broken heart. Copyright (#ulink_58f6bdfe-e0ef-559b-873c-4578f8a2b1e3) First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2017 HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd, 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) A Tragic Kind of Wonderful Text © Eric Lindstrom, 2017 All rights reserved Cover design copyright © HarperCollinsPublisher’s Ltd 2016 Eric Lindstrom asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Source ISBN: 9780008147471 Ebook Edition © 2016 ISBN: 9780008147488 Version: 2016-11-09 Dedication (#ulink_de941eeb-09fc-51ed-b06a-822eb1f20623) To Mom and Dad, for all the reasons Contents Cover (#u19183db6-0c96-5351-91f2-6f72ce505bc7) Title Page (#u92d03e5e-80b8-54b1-92c8-f00c56b7ad51) Copyright (#ud64aaa4d-4875-5a66-8035-030c08b55cb8) Dedication (#uc270fcd7-8530-5aba-af50-7cabf411bf12) Zero (#ua3c4b61e-a670-58b4-b2fb-adb1809ecd3c) Chapter 1 (#u6da1b3b0-1aaa-5c34-ae6d-f9e6aaf566ca) Chapter 2 (#u4c048342-d181-5273-9771-d556f6f4d544) Chapter 3 (#u8c6c7fe1-9153-5d40-861c-6475f710d424) Chapter 4 (#ufd97b237-eac2-5697-a705-a9cfc4e9f6b2) Chapter 5 (#u0854af14-d195-5652-b738-fa914e0469c2) Chapter 6 (#u6a8a922a-89dd-5202-90ed-c4ee6df8782e) Chapter 7 (#u0b584f3d-93e1-576a-a585-dc21ce10cfb2) Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 25 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 26 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 27 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 28 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 29 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 30 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 31 (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo) Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) (#ulink_ccf6c786-13ec-5a15-890b-a95b0c8089c6) My big brother, Nolan, used to say everyone has a superpower. Not a skill you learned, but something you were born with. And it’s not always cool. Some people get perfect pitch or good intuition, while others get something useless like being able to go a long time without blinking. But if you don’t judge, everyone has at least one thing they’re really good at. Nolan’s superpower was, quote, “I can make myself be happy.” He proved it by having loud fun with lots of friends most of the time. But it also could be unsettling. Like when he was “happy” at times I knew he shouldn’t be. He wasn’t faking it exactly. It was real in a way, just not … authentic. Happiness, he said, was like the lights in your house, running on electricity generated by the good things in life. Unhappy people have dark houses without electricity, and they sometimes put candles in their windows to hide their sadness from others, but not Nolan. He said he had a bicycle in his head, attached to an electric generator, and he could imagine pedaling it whenever he wanted to power his real happiness lights. If you looked closely, though, you could sometimes see his lights dim, or burn too bright, or flicker in ways they weren’t supposed to. And once you saw this, you couldn’t unsee it. Then you saw it a lot. I didn’t understand; I was just a kid at the time. Thinking back on it now, it breaks my heart. A lot of the time Nolan was naturally happy without having to pedal his imaginary bike. Infectious, too. My happiest memory is from when I was thirteen and he was sixteen, on the first of November. All of us in Ms. Malik’s eighth-grade English class were slumped over our desks like empty puppets, crashed and crumpled after Halloween on a school night. It was silent reading time and we were silent but not reading. If it had been kindergarten naptime, nobody would have complained. A knuckle cracked. I saw my brother peeking into the room from out in the hall. He waved for me to come over and then ducked away. Maybe something was wrong. I asked to go to the bathroom, got the nod, grabbed the Magic Wand, and walked into the hall. Nolan was already outside the glass doors at the far end, on his silver eight-speed touring bike. I wondered how he’d managed to slip away from his prison-like high school without being seen. When I opened the door, Nolan pointed at the Magic Wand. “What the hell is that?” It was really a dowel with a plywood star glued to one end, painted with glitter. It was childish, sexist, and I hated it. The boys used a black dowel with white tips. I hated that, too, though not as much. I waved it impatiently. “Hall pass. What’s wrong?” “Get on. I’m gonna show you something amazing.” “Now? I can’t leave school! Why aren’t YOU in school?” “We won’t be gone long. You can say I made you do it. Get on.” “I don’t have my helmet.” “Use mine.” He held it out. “Then YOU won’t have a helmet.” He rapped his knuckles on his head. “Don’t need one.” Classic Nolan. But I knew the risk wasn’t getting hurt, it was getting caught, and I wouldn’t get in trouble if he didn’t wear his helmet. Didn’t work the other way. He often got in trouble for stuff I did because Dad said he was “in charge.” I bent over to set the Magic Wand down by the wall— “No, bring it. We might need it.” I didn’t know how that could be possible, but sometimes it was better just to go along when Nolan said random stuff like this. We rode the trail by the golf course, up and down the gentle slopes. We stopped for smoothies at the Healthee Hut—the sweet strawberry kind with nothing ‘Healthee’ added—and laughed at people drinking bright green blenderized grass. I made him stop at Sandy Park to go on the swings since I knew when he was like this he wouldn’t say I was too old and he’d push me super high. I’d shout, “Push me all the way around!” and it always seemed like he really tried to. Next he powered us through the tall weeds in the empty lot to go behind the police station, “So the cops won’t see we’re cutting school.” We stopped at a new store that sold greeting cards and scrapbook supplies and dorky little statues, and it started to get boring till he found a silly joke book that cracked us up. He bought it and off we rode again. Finally he stopped in front of the bank. “Ready to see something awesome?” I’d forgotten that was the point of this trip. Also how I’d been “in the bathroom” at school for over an hour and never showed up to Social Studies. “What is it?” “Bring your Magic Wand,” Nolan said. He opened the big glass door. “You’re gonna love this.” That’s where my happiest memory ends. My own superpower is the ability to not think about anything I don’t want to think about. It allows me to relive and enjoy one of the best memories of my life even though it’s moments away from my absolute worst. (#ulink_01687d3e-22fd-501c-9a12-2b2c94663916) HAMSTER IS ACTIVE HUMMINGBIRD IS HOVERING HAMMERHEAD IS CRUISING HANNIGANIMAL IS UP! I’m in a better mood than the situation merits. It’s only Thursday, I have tons of homework due tomorrow, we’re buried in a long stretch of overcast days, but there’s an unexplainable bounce in my step. Well, it’s explainable, but I’ve learned to just enjoy it. Holly swoops in beside me as everyone streams down the hall toward the exit. I get my usual impulse to touch her storm cloud of kinky black hair. I know she’d be fine with it—other white girls have asked. First she gives them a stern look and says, “How much cash you got?” Then she laughs at their stricken expressions and says, “Sure, whatever, but not for long or it gets weird.” I fight the urge anyway. I don’t want to be one of those girls. “Hey, Mel,” Holly says. “Want a ride home?” “Really?” I ask, lighting up. Then I droop. “Oh, darn … I rode my bike today … and I’m not going home now … same as every day of the entire year you’ve known me.” “Year and four months, if you’re counting. I rescued you December of sophomore year.” It’s no exaggeration to call it a rescue, how she befriended me when I got really sick last year and missed so much school—months, actually—and lost what few friends I had at the time. She says, “One day you just might find your tires slashed. Then you’ll change your tune.” “As if I’ve been turning down your rides for longer than … what, three days? You got your license Monday?” “Those tires are so old, I bet I could pop them with a nail file.” “It would make me sad,” I say. “Can’t imagine why. That old bike’s a P.O.S.” “But it’s my piece of shit. And a family heirloom. But I meant it’d make me sad if the cops catch you. They’ll put you in jail and I’ll miss you terribly. You’re not supposed to give any rides for another … three hundred and sixty-two days.” “Speak for yourself,” Declan says, joining us. “Illegal isn’t the same as impossible. I’m tired of walking every day. That’s two hours a day wasted. Ten hours a week. Forty—” I shoot him a look. “It takes you two hours to walk four miles?” He grins. “I might have added wrong.” “Doubt it. Probably didn’t subtract the time you duck behind the library. Though you’re right, that is part of those two hours a day you’re wasting … getting wasted …” “Baked,” he says. “Tell you what, I’ll look up those words in Urban Dictionary if you actually go inside the library today and look up the word hairsplitting.” Declan snorts. “I’m grateful my girlfriend has a license, and a car, and a backseat—” Holly stops his gratitude with an elbow to his ribs. She says to me, “Think of the time you’re wasting on that bike. I can get you home in no time. Or work, wherever.” “I’m not in a hurry. It’s exercise. You should try it. When the apocalypse comes, I’ll be ready and you’ll be zombie kibble. Come to think of it, you two keep driving everywhere. I don’t want to be the slowest in our band of survivors.” When we leave the building, Declan takes a crumpled bag from his pocket. “Check it out,” he says when he sees me looking at it. “I forgot to leave it in the car for the ride home …” He opens the wrinkled brown sack and shows me a baggie holding what looks like a chunk of sod cut out of someone’s lawn. “Gross.” I push it away. “That was in your locker all day? Where’d you even get it?” His grin gets sheepish. Holly frowns. “Is that …” I say. “I mean, did your mom make it?” He nods. “She can’t keep track of it all—” “You’re stealing your grandma’s cancer brownies?” “Shhh! Tell the world!” He jams the bag under his arm. “She never runs out. My mom always makes more when she runs low.” “That’s messed up,” I say. “Although … hmmm … let me see it again—” “No way, Mel. If you want any, you’ll have to steal from your own—” “Declan!” Holly says through clenched teeth, glancing my way. He stands frozen. My grandma Cece died of stomach cancer a year ago. His comment doesn’t upset me, though. Not today. I tousle his wispy blond hair—there’s nothing wrong with touching his hair. He hates it but lets me after his blunder. He’s not fussy; it just emphasizes how I’m three inches taller than him. “It’s okay, short stuff. I don’t need drugs to get high.” Quite the opposite. * * * I say good-bye to Holly and Declan, pop the crossbeam off my U-lock, and stow the pieces in my backpack. “Mel?” This is unexpected. “Hey, Connor.” I’m not sure what else to say. Connor and I aren’t friends anymore, though he and I didn’t fight like I did with everyone else. We just never spoke again after I was out sick. I focus on strapping my backpack to the rear rack of my bike with a bungee. “You know what’s up with Annie?” The question is odd enough that I stop what I’m doing to look at him. It’s a normal yet pointless reaction. Connor seldom looks at anyone directly, regardless of whether they’re strangers, friends, or ex-friends. Right now he’s looking somewhere off to my left. His straight red hair hangs over his forehead. “She’s been sick all week,” he says, still not looking at me. “But she won’t let us come over. Zumi tried and Annie’s mom wouldn’t let her in.” Zumi and Annie were the other two friends I lost last year—I only had the three. The fact that he’s asking me about them now makes this conversation stranger than anything Annie might be up to. “And, what, you want my recipe for chicken soup to leave on her porch?” “She texted us today that she’s flying out to see her uncle, I guess the one in Connecticut. That’s weird for someone who’s been sick a whole week.” “Maybe she’s pregnant.” Connor doesn’t react to this. “Zumi’s really worried about her.” I notice the shield I’m holding up when I feel it start to drop. He’s concerned about Zumi being worried, not about Annie being sick or acting weird. He and I had that in common. Zumi was the best friend I’ve ever had, and Connor by association. Then Annie and I fought, sides were chosen, and I retreated. I don’t blame Zumi or Connor—they had been friends with Annie first, and it was my fault. Though Annie slandering me afterward wasn’t. A car slows to a stop beside us. It’s Holly and Declan on their way from the parking lot out to the street. “Everything okay?” Holly asks. “Yep,” I say. She peers at me, so I smile and wave. “See you tomorrow.” “Call me later.” She drives slowly away. Holly’s protective intervention reminds me that while I still miss Zumi and Connor as much as ever, him talking to me now doesn’t mean we’re suddenly friends again. “Did Zumi put you up to this?” I say. “Or did you already ask the second-to-last person on earth?” He glances at me for the briefest possible moment. His wet green eyes look sadder than I remember, but I don’t have much to draw from; he’s not an eye-contact kind of guy. Some people say it’s me, though, that I’m way too much of an eye-contact person. I say, “You can’t really think I’ve been talking to Annie.” He shrugs. “There’s no one else to ask.” I watch Connor walk away toward the parking lot. Someone pushes off from the retaining wall ahead and joins him. It’s Zumi: long black hair, pale jeans, and the same black hoodie she was wearing the day I met her. (#ulink_afd02399-753e-5fcf-8e16-4015d61cde3f) The first day of freshman year is hard enough. It’s harder starting in a new town, like joining a game of musical chairs after the music’s already stopped when you don’t even want to play. For me, it’s even worse than that. I’m still deep in my hole, hardly speaking, a month after moving here, four months after the divorce, and less than a year after losing Nolan. Despite begging Mom to let me bring my lunch, so I could eat whatever I want and not wait in the cafeteria line, I’m the disappointed owner of a lunch card. For more variety of healthier food, according to Mom. I think she’s just afraid I’d sit alone outside if I brought my lunch, and I totally would. On the first day, I get to the cafeteria ahead of most everyone; my previous class and locker are right around the corner. I’m already halfway through my grilled cheese with apple slices—the messy spaghetti was out of the question—before the room starts filling up. Then a group of four girls lines up in front of me. “This is our table.” She says it without emotion, not snotty or falsely sympathetic. I’m not even worth a sneer. They look like freshmen, too, so they can’t possibly have a regular table. There’s plenty of room for all of us but I know the score. I grab my tray and scuttle off, silently cursing my mother. The same girls chase me from a different table the next day. Again I scurry away. This is the next level of harassment. I’ve been elevated from a random nobody to a specific target. I hang out in a bathroom stall the third day until I think my oppressors must be sitting down, and then I wait another few minutes, just in case. From the lunch line, I see them at a different table than either of the days before. As soon as I sit, wondering what Mom would think of the corn dog on my tray, the four girls appear again. “This is our table.” They actually got up and came over this time. I start to stand but get stopped by a hand on my shoulder. I look up and see a blond with a French braid beside me. “Scooch,” she says, pushing me sideways hard enough that I instinctively move over. She plops down and clatters her tray on the table. Another girl sits on my right, close enough that I’m squeezed between them, shoulder to shoulder. All I can see of this other girl is a wall of straight black hair draped down to her black hoodie. “Oh, I’m sorry,” the blond says to the four. “Are we interrupting?” “It’s too sunny here,” the tallest harasser says to her friend who’d been talking before. They leave without acknowledging us further, like we’d vanished. “What’s your name?” the blond asks me. “Mel.” “Like Melody, or Melanie?” “Just Mel.” “Okay … weird. Anyway, I’m Annie, really Ann, but call me Annie because Ann sounds too … you know. This is Zumi, really Izumi, but call her Zumi. I think it’s because she used to zoom around a lot when she was little, and … well …” Annie frowns. “Sometimes she still does. And this …” She twists around and waves impatiently for someone to come over. “This is Connor.” A guy walks over and sits across from us. He doesn’t look up from his tray but he seems relaxed. “The tall one’s Gloria Fernandez,” Annie says. “The one who does most of the talking is Tina Fernandez, but they’re not related. The other two are Elena and Sofia. They’re just minions. Gloria’s the leader and Tina’s her muscle. Like you’re my muscle, right, Zumi?” Zumi turns toward me. Her face is tipped down, but unlike Connor, she looks at me intently, like something creepy from those Japanese horror movies Nolan liked. “If Team Fernandez ever looks at you again,” Zumi says, “tell them you’re with us: Annie, Zumi, and Connor. They’ll leave you alone.” She says their names all together like a law firm, like how Dad is a part of Jensen, Hannigan, and Hsu. Maybe Zumi’s mom or dad’s a lawyer, too. Looking around at them, I think they could also be called Sunny, Sullen, and Shy. Zumi’s still scowling. There are big white letters on her sweatshirt, all caps: DON’T ASK. I wonder what it means … but … there’s no way to find out. Is that the point, like a joke, or …? She winks. It’s so sudden and unexpected, it makes me laugh. Not Sullen after all. Zumi points at the untouched corn dog on my tray. “You gonna eat that?” I wasn’t keen on it but the breaded fish option looked worse. And I guess she wants it. Will I have to pay for this new friendship? Or at least the protection? I shake my head and slide the tray toward Zumi. She shoves it away down the length of the table. “I was just making sure you weren’t going to eat it.” She smiles. “They taste like shit.” The next day, I wait in the bathroom stall again before lunch. Yesterday seems ages ago and a little unreal. I don’t know when Annie, Zumi, and Connor will arrive. Even then, what if they’ve forgotten all about me? I carry my tray slowly by them. “Mel!” Zumi says. She slides over to make room. “We’re right here! Sit down!” For the first twenty minutes, Annie does most of the talking. It’s a combination of random bits of everything and filling in basics we didn’t cover yesterday. Then she gets an idea. “Let’s ride bikes on the beach trail this Saturday.” I don’t want to say no to my first invitation, but my bike rusted out and got left behind in the move. Nolan’s bike is fine and parked in the garage, but I’ve never ridden it alone. “I don’t have a bike.” “Borrow one,” Annie says, as if this were obvious. “You have sisters or brothers?” I shake my head. “God, you’re lucky.” Connor glances up briefly at Zumi and smirks. Zumi nods slightly. Then she casually says to Annie, “What about your old bike?” “No, I gave it to Lulu.” “Your mom just got her a new one,” Zumi says. “Let’s ask her—” “No, it’s … it’s got a flat tire. We can just walk to the beach; it’s fine. I guess you’re closest, Mel. We’ll meet at your place.” If we end up doing this a lot, they’ll probably see Nolan’s bike at some point … “Well, there is a bike in my garage,” I say. “It’s … my cousin’s. But it’s too big.” “Oh, that’s no problem!” Annie says, brightening. “Zumi’s brother taught her all about bikes. You’re, what, five-seven, five-eight? Probably just need to lower the seat, right, Zumi?” “I don’t know without seeing it,” Zumi says to Annie. “But I know I can fix the flat on your old bike.” Connor’s shoulders bounce. He’s looking at his lasagna, picking at it. I think he’s snickering. “No,” Annie says, annoyed. “It’s not—” She stops and looks pointedly at Connor. “What?” He doesn’t answer. Zumi leans toward me and says in a low voice, “Lulu’s only eleven and Annie’s afraid of her.” “I am not,” Annie says, more indignant than defensive. “Okay,” Zumi says. “It’s just that Annie can’t stop Lulu from following her everywhere, so she has to sneak out of the house. She can’t do that if we all go over there.” Annie just stares at Zumi like she’s waiting for her to finish. “I can try and adjust your cousin’s bike,” Zumi says. “Do you want me to?” I nod. “Okay, I’ll come over before the weekend, in case it takes a while.” “Thanks.” Zumi points a thumb toward Annie and says to me, “But don’t you think sneaking around means you’re afraid of something?” I don’t think she’s really needling Annie; it seems more like affectionate teasing. Annie stares over our heads, looking perturbed. When I don’t answer, Zumi adds, “Maybe just a little?” Connor laughs. Annie says, “You be quiet!” Zumi busts up laughing and I join her. Team Fernandez walks by, carrying trays back to the kitchen. We instantly stop laughing. Annie coolly eats a bite of lasagna while Connor wrestles with the lid of his juice. Zumi scowls, her head pivoting to keep them in her glare as they walk by, like she’s a tracking cannon. The instant they’re gone, Zumi giggles, throws her arm around my shoulders, and leans into me hard. I’m in. (#ulink_e46d4872-3b38-5c40-8b0e-08c2976f23cd) HAMSTER IS ACTIVE HUMMINGBIRD IS FLYING HAMMERHEAD IS CRUISING HANNIGANIMAL IS UP! I’m still in a good mood despite that weird conversation with Connor yesterday. Two days in a row is some kind of record, at least recently. Maybe because it’s Friday, and I have almost no homework, and the sun finally came out … but no, I know better. My ups and downs have minds of their own. I ride after school along the beach trail, pumping the pedals, outpacing the lumbering zombies I imagine chasing me on my way to work. They’ll never catch me. Not as long as I have Nolan’s bike. Parked in front of the Silver Sands Suites is a small rental van. Maybe someone’s moving in. I head inside. Five minutes later I’ve locked my stuff in a cabinet by the sink, put on clean scrubs, pinned on my name tag, and washed my face and hands thoroughly. I check the mirror. Despite vigorous scrubbing, I’m still dotted with freckles. My aunt Joan and I have a long-standing bet that I’ll outgrow them. She thinks they’re temporary because I have slightly lower density plus brown hair and blue eyes, but I’m less than a month from my seventeenth birthday. As much as I wish she were right, I think I’m going to win this bet … damn it. In the kitchen I fill a glass of orange juice halfway. I hold it behind my back as I enter the Sun Room. Ms. Arguello is alone here and calls to me, “Excuse me, miss?” She’s in the paisley wingback chair by the south window, knitting a heavy scarf, like every day of the two years I’ve worked here. “How’s your first day going?” she asks. “Very well, Ms. Arguello, thank you.” “Oh! You know my name already. How nice, Miss …” I stoop to bring my name tag closer to her. “Mel Hannigan?” She laughs. “Was that on your shirt when they gave it to you? Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll get your own soon!” I smile. “No, that’s my name.” She looks at me askance, playfully suspicious. “Is it short for Melissa?” I shake my head. “Melinda?” “Nope, just Mel. What can I do for you?” I know what she wants—it’s the same every day—but she’s much happier when I play out this scene naturally. “Let me know when the mail comes? I’m expecting a letter from my grandson. I’m knitting this muffler for him.” “I’ll keep an eye out. Is there anything else I can get for you?” “No, thank you. Or, maybe a small glass of orange juice?” She smiles when I hand it to her. She doesn’t ask why I had it ready. The fact that her letter will never come pops into my head. I push it right back out and leave her to her knitting. Some days I avoid the Beachfront Lounge for as long as I can, but not today. The Hanniganimal is Up! As soon as I walk in, Mr. Terrance Knight sees me and grins. He sets down his book—today it’s his Bible—and struggles out of his usual chair by the heater vent. It’s a battle he wants to win without help, and it usually takes a full thirty seconds. I don’t remember how old Mr. Terrance Knight is exactly, but he’s at least eighty and still a few inches taller than me, maybe a full six feet. I wait till he’s standing and balanced, and then I look up into his eyes, his curly hair shockingly white next to his rich black skin. “You just get here, Mel? You need to settle first?” His voice is like thick melted butter; I want to swim in that voice. I squint at him and smile with the right side of my mouth. “Mr. Terrance Knight, I’m never gonna settle!” “That’s what I want to hear!” he says. We head for the piano. My boss’s door opens. A wispy ball of white hair like a dandelion pops out—it’s Judith. “Sorry,” she says to Mr. Terrance Knight. “I need her.” When I get close, Judith whispers, “Ms. Li. First day. I think she needs some of your magic.” Ms. Li is tiny, sitting in a chair, wearing a simple red silk blouse, black skirt and hose, and pumps that aren’t nearly comfortable enough for a woman her age, or any age if you ask me. Her hands are folded in her lap. Tears stream down her wrinkled face. Standing beside her is a tired middle-aged man, probably a relative, wearing a brown suit that’s rumpled and looks slept in. “This is Mel,” Judith says to Ms. Li in a loud voice. “She’ll stay with you while we finish up some details. We’ll be right outside.” Ms. Li doesn’t seem to hear. Judith leads the man out and closes the door. I sit in the chair next to her. It’s good to let them lead. After another minute of tears and trembling, she looks at me. I smile. Not my bright smile—I can’t imagine she’d want to see that now. I smile in a way that says, I understand how much the world sucks sometimes … but it doesn’t always. Her eyes crinkle at the corners. I think she heard me. “Do you want something to drink?” I ask as loud as Judith. “I’m not deaf,” she says. “I just didn’t want to answer her endless questions.” “Oh, sorry!” I laugh. “She only wants you to be happy here.” I open the apartment fridge by Judith’s desk, retrieve a water bottle, and show it to Ms. Li. She nods. There are plastic cups on the desk; I fill one halfway. While she sips, I say, “You maybe don’t want to hear about how nice this place is, but it’s really great. I know it’s probably not as good as being at home—” “Ha! The witch’s castle? That’s the only good to come of this!” “What?” “My daughter-in-law. Wretched woman. I only stayed in her castle because of Miles.” “Who’s Miles?” “My other son.” “Is he—” Her eyes shut and force two more tears down her cheeks. I take her hand. “I’m sorry. I won’t ask any more questions.” She squeezes my fingers and holds on. “Dad!” a muffled voice says in the hall. “Where is she?” The door swings open—our hands let go—and someone rushes in and kneels before Ms. Li. He looks about my age, my height, but nothing else is the same. Everything about him is sharp: his cheekbones, his nose, his chin, his shoulders; even his black hair looks like it’s usually neat but now is disheveled and spiky. It reminds me of an angry black cat. I see my hand reaching out to touch—I snatch it back. The movement catches his eye. He does a double take when he sees my face, caught off guard somehow. He scowls. “Are you a volunteer?” he asks in a tone that sounds like he’s really asking, Who the hell are you? “I work here. I’m—” “You’re not a doctor,” he says. “Or a nurse. You’re just a … just a …” He turns back to Ms. Li and grabs her hands. “Just leave us alone.” I stand and set the water bottle on the desk where they can reach it. Out in the hallway, I look back inside. He’s staring at their clasped hands, whispering. Ms. Li looks up at me with an expression I’ve seen here many times. I nod you’re welcome and close the door. * * * After I leave Ms. Li, I get a text. From Annie. I tap the screen. I need to swing by your house today. Bizarre. Must be a mistake. I saw her phone’s address book once and there was no one between Hannigan, Mel and Lewis, Connor. I consider texting Connor about it, but no. They’ll figure it out. An hour later I find Dr. Jordan sitting by a window with a mug of coffee. The direct sun on his face makes it glow almost as white as his hair. I sit across from him. “Hey.” He’s a resident and wants me to call him Piers. It feels too weird, though, so I rarely call him anything directly. He’s a retired psychiatrist but won’t let me call him Dr. Jordan because he’s not my real doctor. Except he kind of is. “How are you today?” he says. “Are you asking, or are you asking? If you’re asking, I’m not a danger to myself or others.” Dr. Jordan watches me over his coffee, amused. “What?” I say. “I do so enjoy our time together. You’re like the daughter I never had.” “Granddaughter.” He salutes me with his mug. None of the other ears nearby work very well. I’m free to talk. “I think my meds need a little adjusting.” “Feeling mixed? For how long?” “Today. Right now, at least. I don’t know. I’m revving up but also losing energy.” “An off day isn’t a cocktail issue. Anything stressing you out at school, or with friends?” “No. Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t want it to be about any of those things. That should count for something.” He sips his coffee. “I know,” I say. “I can’t choose how I feel, but I can choose how I think about how I feel.” “That’s not quite what I said, although I suppose it’s an adequate enough street version.” I sneer. “Seriously,” he says. “You need to talk to your doctor. About everything. Not just the meds. I’m not—” “Not my doctor, I know.” “I was going to say I’m not going to be around forever.” He watches me. Usually it’s other people who get uncomfortable with how much I hold eye contact. Now I get a glimpse of how they feel. “I’m glad you didn’t,” I say and stand up. “That would’ve been a shitty thing to say.” In the two years I’ve worked here, first as a volunteer and now as an employee, I’ve seen half a dozen residents leave the permanent way—through the roof, as Judith says—including Grandma Cece. I miss her, of course, and all the others who’ve left through the roof, but I really don’t know what I’d do without Dr. Jordan. I sit back down. “Sorry.” “You’ve come a long way, Mel. And in a very short time.” “Thanks to you.” “In spite of me. I promised Cece I’d help with life coaching, but we talk so much, it relieves the emotional pressure to engage with your therapist. More proof I was right to give up my practice. If I were doing this properly, I wouldn’t let sentiment and a promise to Cece stop me from cutting you off, to push you into a more productive relationship with your doctor. I shouldn’t be—” “Your ‘life coaching’ saved me, Dr. Jordan. I’m sorry if you regret that—” His look stops me. It’s a subtle expression but I know it. “I mean … my real doctor thought your life coaching was wrong! I wrote down his exact words …” I get my phone and thumb open the notebook app. “He said I was fetishizing the personification of my symptoms. He also said my bipolar disorder couldn’t be cycling as fast as I claimed, not at my age.” Dr. Jordan’s eyes narrow. “He thought it was wrong? Don’t you mean he thinks it’s wrong?” Oops. “I mean back when we talked about it,” I say. “You never told me.” “You just said I talk to you too much! And there’s plenty I don’t tell you! He said I should stop talking to you so I stopped talking to him!” Dr. Jordan sips his coffee. He once made the mistake of telling me Winston Churchill would relight his cigar to give him time to think or compose pithy, articulate statements. Now I know what Dr. Jordan’s coffee is really for. “I thought you said something last week about your doctor being a woman.” Shit. “Yeah. That other guy moved away. My new doctor, she just wants me to fill out questionnaires and talk about the meds. As long as I say I’m fine, I’m out the door.” “So you haven’t given her a chance.” “I answer all her questions.” “Mel, some doctors push you and divine meaning from what you say when pushed. Others wait to hear what you say on your own and divine meaning from what you offer up. Offer something up. Give her a chance.” I don’t say anything. Dr. Jordan sets his mug down. “Tell her what’s going on in your life. And if you feel strongly about something, say so. Stand your ground; defend your feelings. Be honest and hold nothing back. A good therapist will help you understand and process, not argue. Try her out this afternoon and see. It can only help.” Hold nothing back? How could I possibly tell that quiet woman in her sterile little office things I’m not willing to tell Dr. Jordan? Things I don’t even let cross my own mind? It’s inconceivable. (#ulink_4c464d31-d396-53e4-9c76-1b6e6e57782f) HAMSTER IS RUNNING HUMMINGBIRD IS PERCHED HAMMERHEAD IS CRUISING HANNIGANIMAL IS LEVEL/MIXED Dr. Oswald doesn’t seem old enough to be a psychiatrist. She’s slim, with dark skin, nice bone structure in her face, and wearing a stylish off-white sweater, like an eggshell, with navy slacks. None of the young psychiatrists I’ve seen were any good. I mean to talk to. They’ve been okay about tuning my meds. She sits there with this nice, open expression, ready for me to … what? I don’t know. And the stress of not knowing, plus maybe telling her about the Hanniganimal today, has shifted my moods even faster than usual. This is our third session and the office is less empty this time. The shelves have more books. There are more framed diplomas on the wall, a Van Gogh print of birds over a field, a bonsai tree on her desk with a tiny origami crane in its branches— “It seems like something’s on your mind,” she says. “We have some time left.” We’d talked about the routine stuff after I filled out the long weekly questionnaire: Manic Episodes? (no), Depression? (the usual amount), Irritability? (no), Rage? (no), Sleeplessness? (nothing I can’t handle), Obsessive Thoughts? (they mostly mean about sex, and no), Suicidal Thoughts? (definitely not, and that should be the first question), and so on. Annie called right before my appointment—couldn’t be a mistake this time, not with my name and picture popping up on her screen—and my mind started racing as I declined it. She left no message and that made it even worse. I’m not going to mention tweaking my meds. “Want to talk about it?” she says. “Or anything else?” No. Yet I also don’t want to say no tomorrow when Dr. Jordan asks if I gave her a chance. I swung by the house on my way here to bring my charts, but I’m getting cold feet. “You’re the doctor,” I say. “What should we talk about? My meds are working pretty well. No one at school even knows there’s anything wrong with me.” “You are doing very well, way above average for someone with your symptoms. Mainly because you aren’t resistant to medication. That’s a lot of the battle right there.” “I don’t feel like I’m winning anything.” “Battles are never won. Only survived.” “Then what’s to talk about? There’s no cure. I’m as good as I’m going to get.” “Dr. Fletcher wrote in his notes about things you haven’t told your friends, to protect yourself. Some trigger topics—” I stiffen and she raises a hand. “I won’t bring them up with only a few minutes left today. But you have painful, real emotions, which aren’t symptoms. Talking about them will make you feel better.” I don’t say anything. “I’ll give you a stack of blank forms so you can fill them out before you arrive. That way we can spend our time talking instead of you filling them out here. Okay?” Has she guessed that I fill them out slowly on her sofa to use up time? “You’re saying next week I have to talk about …” “No. You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.” I watch her carefully. “It’s okay, Mel. Dr. Fletcher had … an aggressive style of talk therapy. That’s not how I work. We can just talk about the weather every week till you go off to college if you want. But I do want us to talk. Okay?” Dr. Oswald gives me a real smile, not some obvious bullshit psychiatrist version. I want to believe her. Only it wasn’t just Dr. Fletcher. Every doctor except Dr. Jordan has pushed me, or thought I was exaggerating my symptoms, or both. “So …” she says. “I came from Seattle. Does it ever rain here?” I smile. “Not much.” “That’s a shame. I like the rain. Do you?” I’m relieved. And grateful. Maybe I can try this after all. I take a deep breath. “When my parents divorced three years ago, six months after … you know … what happened with my brother … I was pretty messed up. We moved here and then a year and a half later, I … had my breakdown. Grandma Cece was friends with a psychiatrist living on the same floor of her retirement home, Dr. Jordan, and … well, he won’t talk about my meds—he’s retired and won’t be my real doctor—but he taught me things that pretty much saved me.” “You were thinking about hurting yourself?” “God, no, nothing like that. But my dad says there’s lots of ways to ruin your life.” “How did Dr. Jordan help you?” “Too many ways to tell you in just a few minutes, but …” I pull the printouts from my pocket and unfold them. These graphs are my life decoded; I’m not keen on showing them to anyone. They’re like pages from my diary, or poems I wrote from the deepest, most secret place in my heart, the kind other people would think are silly. I hand them over. “He taught me that bipolar disorder doesn’t just mean bouncing between manic and depressed. That my rapid cycling isn’t just doing it faster than most. That my mixed states aren’t just being depressed and manic at the same time. He showed me it’s all much more complicated than that, but also how to break it down.” She looks at my graphs and sits up straighter. “I’m a mix of all these forces. We talked about it like they were all different animals.” Dr. Oswald looks at me thoughtfully. I don’t know what her expression means. It doesn’t seem negative. “The Hamster is my Head, for how clear my thinking is. When my Hamster is Running or Sprinting in its wheel, I’m sharp or racing. If it’s Stumbling, I can still think fast but I’m muddled and can’t put two thoughts together, or I can’t stop thinking something over and over. The attention-deficit part.” She’s listening. So far so good. “The Hummingbird is my Heart, how much energy I have. When my Hummingbird is Flying, I want to run around, or if it’s Speeding I stay up for days without sleeping. If it’s Perched or Asleep, I want to lie down.” She’s not judging. Not yet, anyway. “The Hammerhead is my physical Health. Cruising when I’m fine; Slogging or Thrashing if I’m sick. And I’m the Host, which is my mood generally plus the combination of the other animals. What Dr. Jordan and I started calling the Hanniganimal—” “I’m sorry, the …?” “The Hannigan Animal. The HANN-i-GAN-i-mal. Me.” My voice is getting quiet but I keep going. If this time goes bad like the others, I don’t want it to be my fault because I half-assed it. “My animals have minds of their own. They go up and down separately. When they’re all down at the same time, I’m depressed. When they’re all up together, I’m manic. Other times I’m Mixed. Like when the Hanniganimal is Down but my Hamster and Hummingbird are Running and Flying, I feel a dark, gloomy, anxious kind of manic energy.” “Dysphoric mania,” Dr. Oswald says. “Yeah, I guess. Anyway, I record everything a few times a day to make these graphs, or more often if I’m cycling rapidly enough. Seeing everything separated out helps me keep it together.” Dr. Oswald examines my charts, pressing her palm down on the creases. “Everything starts with H …” she says. “Head Hamster, Heart Hummingbird, Health Hammerhead, Hannigan the Host …” She looks up. “The Hanniganimal.” She’s trying to hide her expression, the way Dr. Jordan relaxes his face to not show judgment, except she’s not quite succeeding. My alarms aren’t going off, though. I try to keep my paranoia from revving up. “Is that why you chose a Hammerhead for Health? Because it starts with H? All your other animals seem to more closely match what they represent.” “Oh …” I wince. “Not exactly. My Hammerhead is how good my body feels, not just whether I’ve caught a cold or something. Look back a couple weeks, where my Hammerhead was Slogging? I wasn’t actually sick. Those days with the red asterisks?” Her eyes widen. “Yeah. Shark Week.” Her hand flies to her mouth. Is she …? “Are you laughing?” She looks at me. Her eyes are reflecting more light. Not sparkling, just shinier. “No, Mel. I’m not laughing. These charts, they’re very special.” “You’re making fun of me.” “No, I mean it. This is wonderful. Truly. Thank you.” “Uh, you’re welcome? For what? It’s not a Mother’s Day card.” “I understand this was difficult for you to share. I’m very glad you did. It’s remarkable. And it’s something we can really talk about. When we’re not talking about the weather.” I relax and sit back. “Dr. Jordan sounds like a smart guy,” she says. “If you’re keeping your diagnosis secret, how did you come to tell him?” “He told me. Well, he told Grandma Cece, then she told my mom. It’s in the family—my aunt Joan and my brother—and he said it was a dead giveaway when I talked to him for twenty minutes in one long rambling sentence.” “Pressured speech.” “Yeah. There are boring names for everything.” “There certainly are. These charts are much more interesting.” “Do they help you? So you can tell me … I don’t know … how to get better?” “Is that what you’ve been waiting for? For me to tell you what to do?” Not exactly. I was mostly trying to run out the clock. But now … “I only need prescription refills every month or two. Why else do I need to come every week?” “To give you a safe place to talk.” She waves at her diplomas. “I went to school to study how to prescribe medication, but also to learn good questions to ask, questions you might not think to ask yourself. But only you can answer them.” I slump. “Why can’t you be like psychiatrists in the movies? You know, confront me with truths I don’t want to face, explain the hidden root of my problems, tell me how to fix everything if I were brave enough?” “I thought you didn’t like Dr. Fletcher’s approach.” “Oh, when you put it that way …” “Do you wish your life were like a movie?” “Only if it’s a good movie. Doesn’t everyone?” “What you think is all that matters here. What do you want?” I think a moment. “Maybe a nice musical.” Dr. Oswald smiles. Something else occurs to me. “Actually, I want to tell Dr. Jordan to invite you over for poker night.” Dr. Oswald laughs. “I have a bad poker face?” I grin. Comfortable for the first time in any doctor’s office. Except now I’m worried about what I might tell her next week. (#ulink_19794488-97f4-5e3f-9a68-264004199113) It’s Saturday and Annie’s up in Napa Valley with her family. I want to hang out with Zumi and Connor but I’ve never called them directly before. In the few weeks since we met, Annie’s been the center of everything. I hope that’s not part of the deal. She’s not standoffish exactly … well, sometimes … but it often seems like she wishes she were with other people. I mostly just don’t want Zumi to think I only want to be friends with Annie, not when it’s really Zumi and Connor I like, but I can’t bring myself to pick up the phone— Zumi texts me: Awake? I exhale. Yep. You? Ha ha. Can I come over? Sure. Where’s Connor? Probably home. C u soon. While I wait in the living room for Zumi to pedal over, Mom leaves to go buy the weekly groceries. Not long after, I hear a squeal from the front of the house—tires on the driveway from someone braking too hard. Must be Aunt Joan rolling in from wherever she spent the night. Six feet tall, stick thin, ginger, pasty, spotted, graceful as a giraffe walking backward, that’s Mom’s little sister, HJ—short for Hurricane Joan. She calls herself the redheaded stepchild but my own freckles prove the genes are in our family tree. The door opens hard enough to bounce off the wall, possibly adding another dent; keys jangle, she kicks the entry table, brushes the pedal of my bike, drops what sounds like her work binders, or her cavernous purse, or both, and mutters “Shit!” three or four times. Her Saturday moods depend on when she comes home from being out Friday night. This morning she seems pretty upbeat and starts rooting around in the fridge, so wherever she was didn’t include breakfast but didn’t leave her in a sour mood. A minute later, Zumi pounds on the front door. I know it’s her because she uses the side of her fist instead of knuckles. It’s new to HJ, though. “What the hell? Jehovah’s Witnesses getting more aggressive?” “No, it’s—” I crack my shin on the coffee table trying to run around it. “Ow, shit!” “It’s okay, I’ll get it. I’m in the mood for a fun argument.” HJ opens the door. “Oh,” she says. “You don’t look like you’re here to talk about Jesus. Unless you’re hiding a Bible behind your back. You here for Mel?” “Yeah,” Zumi says. “You’re not her. Unless you got taller and older since yesterday.” “Older?” HJ raises her eyebrows. “How old do you think I am?” “No, Zumi, don’t!” I say, rubbing my throbbing shin. Zumi squints. “Twenty-nine?” HJ squints back. “Honest answer?” Zumi winces. “Not really?” HJ sighs and steps aside for Zumi to come in. “What kind of name is Zumi anyway? Sounds Aztec or Mayan.” “Do I look like I’m from Mexico?” “You look like you’re from Japan but I bet you aren’t.” Zumi smiles. “I was born a couple miles from here. On the kitchen table, supposedly. I’m still not sure if it’s a true story or just something my brother wants me to believe and my parents keep playing along.” I laugh. I think if Annie were here, she’d have said, “Zumi, gross!” with a look of genuine disgust. She wouldn’t have laughed. But then again, if Annie were here, Zumi wouldn’t have said it. “Zumi,” I say. “This is my aunt Joan.” “Call me HJ.” She walks back to the kitchen. “I like her,” Zumi says, not whispering. “Where can I get one?” “Be careful what you wish for.” We spend the next couple hours sitting in my room, talking and laughing. I keep expecting her to stand up and say it’s time to go, or call Connor, but she doesn’t. She stays for lunch—Frankenstein sandwiches we make from random stuff in the fridge—and then we’re back in my bedroom. “Hey,” Zumi says. “Is that what I think it is?” My closet door is ajar and she pulls it all the way open. She grabs a box. Oh no … “Why do you have a karaoke machine in here?” “Because … my aunt was a very different kind of teenager? And she can’t understand that? And she keeps trying to fix me?” “It’s never been opened.” “I keep meaning to return it. I guess it’s too late, now. You can have it if you want.” “Already got one. Let’s go!” She’s out the door. I find Zumi in the living room behind the TV. The karaoke box is torn open on the floor. “What are you doing?” “Looking for pirate treasure. Oh wait, I already found some. I just need to plug it in …” Against my silent hope, Zumi gets it working in less than two minutes. She thumbs through the screen menu with the remote. “No songs from this century? So much Madonna, my mom would love it, but God, if I hear ‘Borderline’ one more time … See anything you want to sing?” I don’t answer. “Here’s some less ancient stuff … not bad … something for everyone. What’s first?” “You,” I say. “You first.” “Okay,” Zumi says. I regret my word choice. The clear implication is that I’ll go second. The screen scrolls to LADY GAGA and stops on “Bad Romance.” It starts, blaring at high volume, but Zumi doesn’t soften it. The first lyrics on the screen aren’t words, just chanting, and she dives right in. She’s done this before. Not just karaoke; this exact song. I glance out through the dining room and see Mom and HJ standing outside the glass door, staring in, drawn by the commotion. It looks like they were eating lunch at the backyard picnic table. Zumi belts out the song like her life depends on it, rocking left and right. She even stretches her arm out to point at the imaginary audience behind the TV. It’s loud and shocking, and she sings so fluidly without stumbling, it takes a moment to register that her voice is … off. I don’t know anything about singing, but I understand it requires skill beyond saying the right words at the right times. Zumi lacks this skill. She spins around and points at me, singing without needing to watch the screen. I see it on her face, behind the grin she’s fighting to suppress. She knows she’s a lousy singer. I cover my face—I can’t let her see what I’m thinking. She laughs and spins around again, singing louder now. It’s glorious. The sliding glass door to the backyard opens. HJ walks in and Mom slowly slides the door closed again, watching from outside where it’s safe. Zumi sees HJ bobbing to the music and waves her in. HJ doesn’t pretend to be reluctant. I’ve heard her sing lots of times—in the shower, the car, or randomly when she’s flying high—and I know they’re well matched in their lack of talent. Like me, if I had the guts to stand up and open my mouth. By the time the song ends, I’m laughing at the both of them. They shake hands, exaggerating like their arms are wet noodles. “It’s a pleasure to sing with someone as bad as me,” HJ says. “Thank you very much!” Zumi laughs. “No one ever thanks me for singing!” I grin. Then I stop. HJ’s holding out the microphone to me. They both laugh as if something on my face is suddenly hilarious. Zumi takes pity and says they’ll be my training wheels. They prop me up between them and we sing the next song on the list, “Poker Face,” without either of them calling me out on how I’m silently lip-synching. “Gimme!” HJ grabs the remote. She scrolls up the list. “Aha! I had lots of machines to choose from, but only one at the store had this …” She stops scrolling at ABBA: “Take a Chance on Me.” “Okay,” HJ says. “This time with feeling.” “And volume,” Zumi whispers in my ear. Mom steps up. I didn’t hear her come inside. She smiles. “Ready?” I’m not, but by late afternoon, I’m singing audibly, then loudly, even dancing some. I prove to others what I already knew, that in addition to being a bad singer, I’m also a terrible dancer. Zumi texts Connor to come over. He does, but he just watches and won’t leave the sofa. Whenever we try to drag him up, he closes his eyes and goes limp till we give up. An hour later, all our phones buzz at the same time. It’s a group text from Annie: Home. Come over. “Let’s go!” Zumi runs to retrieve her hoodie from where she’d flung it behind the sofa. I start to pack up the machine and Mom says, “You’re not taking that, are you? It’s too big for your bike.” “No,” Zumi says. “Annie hates stuff like karaoke.” “I’ll put it away,” HJ says. “You guys go and have fun.” Now I guess we’ll go listen to Annie talk about Napa. I feel a pang watching Zumi scurry with excitement for Annie’s return. I get the feeling, not for the first time, that Zumi might want to be more than Annie’s best friend. “Text me if you want to stay out late,” Mom says and heads for her room. I hear the door close. Ever since we lost Nolan, on the rare occasions where Mom has fun, she disappears into her room for a while afterward to pay for it. I often do, too. Not this time, though. Nolan would want me to keep the party going. (#ulink_69ba8d8f-9640-55d5-aa9d-f0bbf15f44da) HAMSTER IS RUNNING HUMMINGBIRD IS PERCHED HAMMERHEAD IS CRUISING HANNIGANIMAL IS LEVEL/MIXED It’s dusk by the time I get home from Dr. Oswald’s office. Dad’s Mercedes is parked on the street. There’s plenty of room in the driveway next to Mom’s old Toyota but he and Mom aren’t together so their cars shouldn’t be together. Dad doesn’t like mixed messages. He hasn’t accepted that we’ve stopped listening to his messages, mixed or otherwise. I open the front door and wheel my bike inside. I clatter more than necessary. Dad’s sitting at the kitchen table, probably wincing. While I free my backpack from its bungee and take off my shoes and socks, I imagine a conversation we stopped repeating long ago, the one where he tells me bikes belong in the garage. I say it’s too much hassle. He says it’s more important to do things right. I ask him, what makes it right? It’s an argument he can’t win—it’s not logical. He’s tried that route, too: The tires are dirty because they touch the road (so do my shoes).… The rubber marks the wood floor (so do my shoes).… I shouldn’t wear shoes inside, either (I couldn’t give a shit and neither could Mom).… I don’t think everything that happened with Nolan caused the divorce. Mom and Dad were shaky for years before it all blew up. It really came down to Dad thinking there were all kinds of rules about everything. Like you were supposed to wear socks in the house because shoes would scratch the wood floor, but skin oil from bare feet would ruin the finish (maybe in a thousand years). Mom and I couldn’t remember all this stuff, let alone do it right. Dad said there was no need to memorize anything because it was all intuitively obvious. Not to us, so Dad left to find his true tribe. He’s still looking. We couldn’t afford to keep the house, even with alimony and child support on the first of every month without fail. I didn’t want to stay anyway. I’d withdrawn from everyone and everything by that point and was surrounded by bad memories. Even superpowers have limits. As soon as I finished middle school, Mom and I moved a hundred miles across the bay here to Costa Vista, south of San Francisco, to the house where Mom grew up with its deeply scratched wood floors. Grandma Cece had previously moved into the Silver Sands Suites and was letting Aunt Joan live here rent-free. Mom stirs two pots at the same time in the kitchen. She’s already changed out of work clothes and into baggy overalls, her thick auburn hair pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. We wave to each other and I drop my backpack hard on the dining-room table. Dad’s mouth tightens. “I’m not packed,” I say, though weekend packing takes five minutes max. “I thought you were coming tomorrow.” “Sorry, I can’t.” He shakes his head. “I have to go to Monterey. Partners are flying up from LA.” “I could go to the aquarium.” “I’ll be busy from morning into the night both days.” “That’s what the aquarium’s for.” “Sorry, not this trip.” I’m sorry, too. I can tell he means it, but I think if he really knew me, the fact that I wasn’t serious about the aquarium would be intuitively obvious. “How’s school?” I give him enough fuel to keep the conversation running. I know his motivational technique; he doesn’t express direct disappointment. He just sets the bar ten percent higher than wherever I am. I’m a solid B student, but if I got all As, I’d hear the same speeches about trying harder, applying myself more, taking my future seriously. In Dad’s world, potential is like a rainbow, this beautiful thing you should chase even though it always stays out of reach. He leaves me and Mom to our penne with generic-brand marinara sauce and garlic bread that’s really toasted sandwich bread with butter and garlic salt. It’s what sent him on his way tonight. Not seeing what we were reduced to eating, but that it’s one of our favorite meals. “Were his golf clubs in the car?” I ask Mom while we clear the dishes. “Monterey means Pebble Beach.” “That’s really how they have meetings, you know.” “Sounds like a wonderful life.” Tires screech on the driveway. Time to brace for Hurricane Joan. I wish Dad were still here for this. * * * I sit on the toilet lid, toes on the floor, bouncing my legs—my energy coming back—as I watch HJ lean into the mirror over the sink. She applies eyeliner fast enough to twist my gut, worried she’ll jab her eye. Mom passes the bathroom door. “Joanie, if you use all the Q-tips, pick up some more while you’re out.” I know that’s never going to happen. Maybe Mom realizes this too, since she adds, “Or at least write it on the list.” “Yes, Patricia.…” HJ tosses the eyeliner on a shelf, picks up a naked mascara wand, and knocks clutter around till she finds the tube. “Mel, please tell me you’ve got a date tonight. A pretty girl like you, it’s a waste to spend Friday night in this rat hole.” “But it’s our rat hole.” She starts in with the mascara. “Until Pats kicks me out. I’m a bad influence.” “That’s not what Dad calls you—” She laughs—it’s like a bark. “I’ll bet!” “He says you’re an inappropriate role model.” “He thinks I’m a role model? That’s sweet. Don’t change the subject. It’s Date Night!” “You go out every night—” “I mean for you, you’re in school—don’t distract me. Tonight is Date Night. If you don’t have one, get one. That’s my plan.” “I have a date tonight.” She stops to look at me, eyebrows raised. “With my soul mate … Netflix.” She grimaces. “I’ve failed as an inappropriate role model.” My phone rings. Curious. Usually only Mom or Dad calls out of the blue. It’s Annie again. I decline it again. Not going to think about that, not on a Friday night. “Who was that?” “Nobody. Wrong number.” “If it’s an unknown number, maybe it’s a new guy from school calling. How can you know without answering?” “I’m psychic.” HJ finishes her eyes and grabs a different eyeliner pencil. This is my favorite part. She hates her freckles—or, quote, her “blotchy face”—except she has a bare patch under her left cheekbone the size of a dime. She draws fake freckles on it to blend it in. It’s both wonderful and tragic. My phone burps. “You’ve got to change that ringtone.” “That’s what Holly would say if she knew I assigned it to her.” I tap the screen to read her text. Busy? “You’re popular tonight,” HJ says. “Is it a boy?” “I don’t know any boys.” I text back: Kinda. Burp: Important? With Hurricane Joan. Almost done. What’s up? Burp: Movie Roulette. You in? “Please, Mel. It’s disgusting.” I switch it to vibrate and then text: Not sure I feel like being a third wheel tonight. We want you to come. Bring someone if you want. Or we can find you someone! ;) Ha! Don’t you dare. I’ll go if it’s just us three. We’ll need a ride. Got it covered. :) I sigh. I’m not bringing bail money. See you in twenty. “There,” I say to HJ. “Happy? I’m going out with friends. Friday Night Binge with my One True Love is postponed.” “Just friends, huh? It’s a start.” She stands tall and faces me, head cocked to the left, chin up—she knows her good angles. “Verdict?” I smile. “Amazing. The world is not prepared.” “Damn right, it’s not. I’m going to reel in a good one tonight, you’ll see.” I gesture vaguely. “Especially if you go out in just the bra and panties.” She puts her hands on her hips and winks. “Plan B.” As we head out of the bathroom, my phone vibrates again. A text from Annie this time. You home? I’m out front. Huh? I open the door and peek out. A gleaming white car, something fancy, is parked facing the wrong way at the curb. I see silhouettes of people behind tinted windows. The car’s front passenger door opens. Annie appears. Her sense of style has grown up some but still includes buttoned collared shirts and the French braid she’s always worn. She says, “You didn’t call me back.” Does she think her disappointed tone means something to me? Or does she not even know she does it? My heart’s pounding anyway. Not from her tone, but from her being here at all. It can’t be good. She walks to the trunk as it slowly opens with a hiss. I step out onto the porch. “What do you want?” Annie picks up a cardboard box the size of a microwave, and then she closes the trunk gracefully with one hand. She walks along the sidewalk and up to meet me without cutting across the grass. She doesn’t look remotely sick. She looks done up—beautiful, even. But supposedly so was Lucifer. “I have something to give you before we leave town.” “To Connecticut?” I’m not sure why I feel the need to tell her I know this. I’ve never liked how competitive she is, or how competitive I sometimes became when around her. “Paris.” She smiles. She doesn’t sound sarcastic. It seems like one of her self-important pronouncements. “Why’d you tell Zumi and Connor you were going to your uncle’s?” “We are, until we find our own place. He lives in Paris now.” “Your own place? You’re not coming back?” Annie holds out the box. “Here.” I cross my arms. “What’s in it?” “Mostly Zumi’s stuff. Some of Connor’s.” A loud hum from the car makes me jump. The driver’s window lowers two inches. “Annie,” her mom says impatiently. The window slides closed again. The skin down my neck and back tightens. Annie rattles the box. “Are you going to take this?” “Why don’t you give it to them?” She sighs and sets it down on the porch. I get it. Annie lied about being sick to keep Zumi and Connor away, so they wouldn’t see her family packing. It strikes me that Annie and I have both lied to them about being sick in order to hide something. I say, “You’re not going to tell Zumi?” Annie’s eyes roll. It’s genuine and crude—not one of her poised, choreographed looks. Then she walks backward toward the car and points at the box. “She can sort out what’s hers and what’s Connor’s.” Something about this doesn’t add up. I drop my arms. “Why didn’t you just mail this?” “I thought you and I could be friends again someday. When we grew up. After everything blew over. Maybe we still can?” She looks for something in my eyes. Whatever it is, she’s not going to find it. I’m not her minion anymore. I wouldn’t follow her if I was lost and she knew the way to heaven. “Guess it wasn’t meant to be,” she says, pouting her lips. It almost seems sincere. Then she shrugs. “C’est la vie.” “So …” I say, trying to wrap my head around this. “You’re just leaving?” Annie cocks her head. “Already sold the house.” She pats the hood of the car. “And the Beamer. All we have to do is drop it off. Plane leaves in three hours.” “You have to at least say good-bye—” “I am saying good-bye—” “To someone who cares. You …” I swallow. “You know how Zumi feels about you.” Annie shrugs. “I know how I feel about her.” I clench my fists. “God, you’re unbelievable. What would it cost you to tell her you’re sorry you have to go?” “Wow, Mel … it’s been a while since I’ve seen you this worked up. Don’t waste it trying to protect someone you’re not friends with anymore. Someone who hates you.” Annie opens the car door. I step down off the porch. “You really came here thinking … what? That I’d want to see you again? You don’t care about anybody. At least now Zumi will finally believe it.” “She’ll get over it. You did. Au revoir.” The instant she closes the door, the car accelerates away and turns the corner without slowing at the stop sign. I sit down hard on the porch next to the box. I can’t look at it. Ten minutes later the front door opens. “Mel?” HJ says. “Something wrong?” Only that I gave away Zumi, my best friend, to someone she wanted more, walked away, watched the bridges burn, and now it was all for nothing. “Mel?” I can’t explain it. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t know where to begin. (#ulink_16b1ec2b-3f1c-5112-9f0a-30367ff5cf48) HAMSTER IS RUNNING HUMMINGBIRD IS FLYING HAMMERHEAD IS CRUISING HANNIGANIMAL IS DOWN/MIXED Midway through the movie I look around again. I can’t say there’s not a dry eye in the house since only half of them are dripping. The rest are dry and distant, from rolling or from thousand-mile stares. Declan is slouched so far down I doubt his butt is on the seat cushion. Holly never slouches and her expression is less slack-jawed, but she’s restless like when she’s bored and trapped. They’d pulled into the driveway while HJ was trying to get me to talk—I’d completely forgotten they were coming. I ran the box inside, hid it in my closet, ran back out, and tried to act like nothing happened. I didn’t feel like Movie Roulette anymore but couldn’t cancel now without explanations I wasn’t willing to give. I hoped the movie might stop the conversation with Annie from looping in my head. It’s too fresh to block out on my own. Trying not to think about it, and failing, is winding me up more and more. Every few minutes Holly touches my knee to tell me to stop bouncing my legs; I don’t even know I’m doing it until she does and then I stop, but a few minutes later it happens again. Unfortunately the movie isn’t enough to distract me. Worse, it’s not just boring, it’s aggravating. If I remember the novel correctly, which I do, and if they didn’t change it much, and they haven’t yet, we’re coming to a part that’s going to be longish, quietish, and unbearable without any ish whatsoever. I can’t take it much longer, this sappy nonsense playing out on the big screen in front of us. Somebody has to do something about it. For everyone’s sake. But no one will. It’s up to me. I scrunch down and cup my hands around my mouth … “In a world …” Holly’s head whips around. “… of sobbing twelve-year-old girls …” People laugh and heads turn. I’m definitely not the only one. It’s not just guys laughing, either. Being immune to this Kool-Aid is an equal-opportunity agony. “… based on the book that changed your life forever … in the seventh grade …” Declan laughs. Holly swats my leg and hisses, “Stop it!” but I can’t stop now … “… comes a movie about a love so strong it defies believability, reason, the ability to digest solid food …” “Quiet!” someone yells up front. Tearful. Definitely no older than thirteen. I’m unmoved. These people need to know life’s nothing like what’s on this screen. Besides, too many people are laughing now, pent up from silently enduring an hour of this feature-length Hallmark commercial. They get it. “And the guy’s a pussy!” some dude in the back shouts. His friends shush him but they’re laughing, too. “Shut up!” another crying girl yells. She can’t be more than ten. I guess some people’s lives were changed in elementary school. “He’s going to die for her!” “Spoiler!” someone yells, laughing. “Snape kills Dumbledore!” “Shut UP!” Roars of laughter and a room divided. Holly covers her eyes with one hand. I press on. “The story of a girl pursued by a dreamboat she doesn’t love whose solepurpose is to die for her … with a smudge of dirt on his cheek and perfect hair …” “Be quiet!” “Don’t be quiet!” More laughter. The room’s in chaos, the laughing faction joking loudly, the sobbing sisterhood whispering indignantly. A woman storms the exit. No way she’s alone. She’s a mom with her kids, her daughters—at least I really hope so—and she’s going to tattle. “See you outside,” I whisper and head for the aisle, crouching low. “You’re not leaving me here,” Declan says. Holly comes, too. Cheers and jeers follow as we walk quickly up the aisle. We pass behind the mom who’s bitching out some poor guy who only knows how to scoop cold stale popcorn into thin cardboard boxes. We escape into the cool night air. They’re laughing. I’m not. Holly says, “That was mean.” “Then stop giggling,” Declan says. “I’m not giggling. And I didn’t say it wasn’t funny. I guess I’m a bad person.” “Not as bad as Mel!” He holds his arms up to protect Holly from me. “I think we need to call an exorcist!” He drops his arms and laughs. “Man, what was that in there? I can’t even get you to raise your hand in class when you know the right answer!” “Yeah,” Holly says, looking sideways at me. “Is this what you’re like when you’re bored and we’ve just never seen you this bored before?” “The movie didn’t bore me.” I try to sound more casual than I feel. “It offended me.” “It’s just a fantasy,” Holly says. “She didn’t love him,” I say. “Being in love with someone who doesn’t love you back is a tragedy. A fantasy is having someone understand the real you and love you anyway.” “Yeah,” Declan says. “And having someone be exactly what you want every single moment is a perverse fantasy … like dating your English butler.” Holly thinks about this until Declan says, “Forget it, Holly. Your life isn’t a movie.” She sighs. “Sure isn’t.” Then she stops his reply with a quick kiss. “Okay,” Holly says to me. “I didn’t know you had it in you, but maybe you saved lives in there. A much-needed wake-up call.” “Maybe,” I say, starting to come down from the adrenaline of my outburst, getting my head back, and feeling the first pangs of regret. “But it’s not nice to go to someone else’s church and make fun of them. I knew the movie would be like that. They didn’t force me to come.” Declan says to Holly, “I guess it’s our fault, then.” “It’s nobody’s fault,” Holly says firmly. “Movie Roulette. Whatever starts next, no exceptions.” “Yeah,” I say. “Except we made that rule.” “You made it,” Declan says to Holly. “It’s your fault.” “Fine,” she says. “Want me to go back and apologize, or drive us to get frozen yogurt?” “I don’t feel like yogurt,” I say, hoping to bail out early. Even on normal days I can only socialize for so long without recharging. Although that wasn’t always true. I never needed to recharge when I was with Zumi. “Something else, then?” Holly asks. “I’m not going home till midnight no matter what. There’s no way I’m going back before curfew just to get stuck between Angie and Vicki’s never-ending argument.” Declan says, “You don’t know how good you’ve got it. I wish I had siblings to reduce my time under the microscope and my parents’ questions.” “I can’t remember the last time someone at home asked me a meaningful question,” Holly says. “With sisters who’ve been fighting since before I was born, I’m ignored like dining-room furniture.” “I could use some ignored time,” Declan says. “Apparently I’m an only child on purpose. My mom says it’s because they couldn’t improve on perfection. My dad says I was a terrible mistake they didn’t want to repeat. What about you, Mel? Why didn’t your parents have any other kids?” The question catches me off guard. I hope I don’t look startled. “I don’t know,” I manage to say. “It’s not a conversation we’ve ever had.” * * * I ask Holly to drop me off at work so I can check on something, which is true. They know it’s a 24/7 kind of place, and not a long walk from my house, so they aren’t surprised. Standing outside the Silver Sands makes me think of Grandma Cece. I wonder if Holly invited me out tonight to make up for what Declan said yesterday about stealing cancer brownies. Grandma Cece died around the time I met them. I only mentioned it to Holly once but her superpower must be remembering stuff. Inside the Silver Sands, most of the residents are in their rooms. I walk down the hall to Room 108. The crack under the door is glowing. I knock lightly. Ms. Li said she wasn’t hard of hearing. Her muffled voice says, “Hello?” “It’s Mel,” I whisper. “Just checking on you.” Shuffling footsteps. The door unlocks and opens. Ms. Li wears a floor-length red-and-black floral housecoat. “Sorry to bother you this late. I wanted to see how you’re doing. Need anything?” “Please come in.” A game of solitaire is laid out on her otherwise bare desk. The room is decked out with her own furniture but the open cardboard boxes scattered around are still filled with all sorts of other stuff. New residents often take a while to unpack. Dr. Jordan told me that even those who are glad to be moving in don’t rush because they realize it’s possibly the last time they’ll ever do it. “Not tired?” I say. “Me neither. You like solitaire?” “I like gin rummy better.” I smile. She doesn’t, but her eyes crinkle at the corners. After no more than ten minutes of playing, three hands at most—and she wins them all—I say something about how long we’ve gone without rain. Ms. Li flaps her hands, face puckering like she’d bitten a moldy grape. “I’m too old to waste time talking about things we both know! Tell me who’s who and what’s what around here.” And so it goes. Hours later it’s clear she didn’t just want some orientation. She really has no patience for small talk. Nothing we discuss is trivial, and somehow, around two in the morning, when she finally starts nodding off and I say good night, I head for home fully recharged despite having had no time to myself. It’s something I haven’t felt in over a year. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/eric-lindstrom/a-tragic-kind-of-wonderful/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.