“You wish.”
“I’m just saying.”
“I only just got here,” Layla says. “I told your mom I’d pick up
some chips and salsa on the way. My mom was still making her fancy
Greek dip when I left, and my dad was sneaking a cigarette
downstairs.”
“Doesn’t your dad know by now that he can’t keep anything from
your mom ’cause she’s got that all-seeing third eye in the back of her
head?” I ask.
“I actually think she gets a kick out of watching him squirm,” she
laughs, “when she finds the butts hidden around the backyard.”
“Just like a woman.”
She punches me on the shoulder.
“I’m going to start charging you every time you hit me,” I tell
her.
“That would negate your purpose as my personal punching bag. And
speaking of people who’d like to use you as one, Maddy called me.
She’s not coming because she’s at her friend’s house.”
“See! And she got all mad at me when I said friends. ”
“Yeah, but you say friends in a mean way. I say friends because I
don’t like her new friends .”
“Whatever. I don’t need her crying all over the place, feeling
guilty ’cause I’m not dead.” I suck my teeth. I need a toothbrush
ASAP.
We fall into silence. She tilts her head and combs her hair all to
one side. She twirls a strand around her index finger and stares at my
face. I wonder what she sees. If she sees something different from
what everyone else does. I wonder if she’s thinking I’m a
piece-of-shit friend and an even worse boyfriend. I wonder if she’s
thought about our CPR kiss the way I have.
Instead she whispers, “What were you dreaming about?” She
hesitates. “You were really tossing.”
I shake my head. I know how this would make me sound. If there is
anyone I let myself tell anything to, it’s Layla. Well, almost
anything. “Just some crazy stuff. You know, I still can’t remember
anything that happened to me out there. I see this blur. Then last
night I was going through the apartment, reading, Googling, pacing,
trying to make myself remember, like maybe it’s memory loss. But
nothing.
“I mean, I wasn’t expecting an instant replay. But when I fell
asleep, my dream was so impossible and it still felt so real. More
real than this-” I pinch her and she squeals. “What if something
happened to me down there? It would explain how I got this-” I pull my
T-shirt at the collar so she can see the red scratches on my chest.
“Yes, Tristan, you have pecs of steel. The guys are outside. You
really don’t have to do that with me-”
“No, dumbass. I mean, I do, but look-” I really don’t want to get
up for fear of the pillow shifting. “Scratches.”
“There’s nothing there, Tristan.” There’s a sort of pity in her
eyes.
She’s right. I rub my hands on my chest and can’t feel anything.
Not even the impression of scabs.
“Is he awake yet?” My mom is standing at the door.
“Just now,” I say, as Layla stands and pulls at where her dress
clings to her thighs.
Mom lingers at the doorway. She stands half in and half out.
There’s something about the way she’s looking at me. It’s not exactly
wonder, but similar to it. I mean, I can’t even imagine what it
must’ve been like to think I was dead.
“Hurry up and get dressed, honey. People are on their way.”
“Yeah, I’ll be ready in just a minute.” Though I don’t feel ready
for anything at all.
•••
While my mom spared me a Welcome Home sign, my friends-if I’d even
call them that after what they’re holding up-have made a crude sign on
white cardboard. It reads: “IT'S ALIVE!” With thunderbolts on the
side.
Jerry, Angelo, Bertie, Ryan, and some other lifeguards and members
of the swim team hang around the living room. They pat me on the back
and tell me they’ve never seen anything like this. They can’t believe
it. I’m a miracle. I’m the coolest dude that ever lived on Planet
Cool. They show me my mug on three newspapers, an awkward picture that
I recognize from Mike’s camera phone at the pizzeria, and one that
looks like a girl was edited out of the left half. I’m halfway between
a smile and a grimace, and my eyes don’t really come out right in
black-and-white. They almost look colorless.
Jerry polishes off his can of root beer and burps. From somewhere
in the kitchen, Layla’s mother scolds him, and he sinks into the
chair, which makes him look like a grasshopper retracting his limbs.
He’s so tall that watching him swim reminds me of a log with branches
flailing down a stream. “My mom was going to send flowers from her
flower shop, you know? But half the girls in school were already
buying them and sending them to your hospital room.”
“Tell her thanks anyway.”
Angelo sits up on the ottoman. “Bro, that nurse.” He makes the
symbol of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, then kisses his
fingertips. I’ve seen his father do the exact same thing when they’re
sitting on their front porch drinking beer and a girl in short shorts
walks in front of them. “You’re the luckiest bastard who ever lived.”
Now I’m a lucky-cool bastard. Hey, I’ve been called worse.
Layla walks over with a refilled bowl of tortilla chips, and the
guys are all over her. I don’t like the way Angelo’s eyes linger on
her. It’s not like she’s got giant boobs. I mean, they’re a nice size
for her height, but she’s also not wearing a bra, just a bikini top
under her dress. What’s with these guys anyway? She’s on our team.
They see her in a suit all the time.
Layla takes a seat on the couch between Bertie and me. She’s used
to being one of the guys, so she doesn’t notice how different they’re
acting, all shifty and nervous because she’s sucked their breaths out
just by being here. Maybe she doesn’t realize how she’s changed. How
practically overnight her Bambi eyes and full lips have grown into a
face that all you want to do is stare at it. How she’s set the bar
pretty damn high for every other girl.
Of course, none of the guys would try to get with her. She’s still
one of us.
I reach over the coffee table and eat chip after chip. My stomach
lurches, and I can taste bile creeping up. I gulp down water, and I
feel a little better.
“My mom actually wants me to quit my post,” Angelo says. “She says
the apocalypse is coming, so she’s got these garlic wreaths all over
the windows-”
“I knew I smelled something,” Ryan goes, shrinking back from the
threat of Angelo’s fist.
“-and crosses all over the place. She asked Father Thomas to
rebaptize me. He told her you’re only supposed to do it once.”
“Did you tell your mom that the apocalypse is coming, and not an
army of vampires?” Layla jokes.
“Whatever. All I care is that she was so happy I woke up too late
to go to work that day that she even let me sleep through school
yesterday.”
Angelo is a guy with no conscience and no worries. I almost envy
him. He’s the kind of guy who takes your lunch money at the beginning
of the day and then asks to borrow another dollar after school so you
can split a pizza. He smacks girls on their asses, and they actually
turn around and giggle, because other than being macho and using more
hair spray than the drama class, he’s a pretty good-looking guy.
Mom walks in with a gallon of root beer. “I heard you boys were
thirsty.”