Matters of Circumstance (2 page)

She would have rejected the offer point-blank if it wouldn’t have looked so bad in front of the girl who had just came up to make her order. Instead, however, she shoved the slip of paper into her pocket next to her cell phone, faked a smile and said, “Thank you.”

Grin still in place, the guy swirled his coffee and strolled casually out of the shop.

When they were relatively alone her co-worker Shellie had asked her what their whole exchange had been about, but she hadn’t been able to come up with an answer.

Shellie had only shaken her head. “This is what you get for being so popular, Fare.”

“Tell me about it,” she had muttered. “I’m not looking for this kind of mystery and excitement.”

This could have been taken two ways, because of her condition, but Farrah was the only one who knew that.

Farrah had meant to throw the paper away right after that conversation, but then more people came in and she forgot all about it—out of sight, out of mind and such. She didn’t discover it again until she had come home from work and started emptying her pockets.

It looked like a Verizon number, and the name below it was printed very clearly:
Neal Sumalt
.

Farrah had never heard of him. Yeah, he had guessed that he would come across as a creep, but considering the circumstances wouldn’t anybody? What if it was just a ploy for her to let her guard down? How the hell could he relate to what was happening to her back? How could he guess?

For better or worse, she was just going to have to see what happened with that strange Joe’s Joe customer. It may be nothing—just a passing weirdo—or it may be serious. Either way, she had no way to tell at this moment, and assuming had always gotten her into trouble.

That was right. The only thing to do was wait it out.

At school the next day Farrah noticed him for the first time. He was laughing and talking with some friends over by the senior building, but when he spotted her—in the crowd of kids spilling from the morning buses, no less—he looked
right at her
, smiled and waved. Farrah returned the gesture numbly, somehow unable to believe that she had never seen him before. He certainly didn’t seem like the shy type, and with all the people she associated with one would think that he would be one of them. She had a lot of senior friends.

“Oh hey, I never knew you knew Neal,” said Ruby, who had pranced over to greet her and noticed the interaction. “He’s cool, isn’t he? My brother’s pretty good friends with him.”

“No, I don’t know him. He just came into Joe’s yesterday,” she said, still a little dumbstruck.

“Oh, well—he’s still a good guy. Did you know he’s originally from Hawaii?”

“So did you get Friday off?” Michael asked, appearing out of nowhere. He was good at that sort of thing. Must be his height.

Farrah frowned, not liking the somewhat sneaky expression on his face. “Schedule comes out Thursday. I won’t know until then.”

“Hey Farrah,” said Shellie as she passed. She tended to talk in a monotone, so Farrah would know her voice anywhere.

“Hi Shel.”

“Such a weird day to put out a schedule,” Ruby mused. “But I haven’t been able to keep a job for more than two months, so who am I to say?”

Farrah snorted and said, “At least you realize you’re like that.”

“How could I not, when I hang out with perfectionists like you?”

“Hardy-har.”

“Whatever, you should still come to Robin’s party.”

“Why? You’re never so adamant about this kind of stuff, Michael. What’s so special about this one party?”

Again that sneaky look returned. “You’re just going to have to come and find out, won’t you?” he said pointedly.

Farrah waved her friend off. “Yeah, sure thing. I’m going to get my books now before the bell rings and I’m screwed.”

*****

For the next two days everything progressed as per usual. Farrah did have work on Friday like she knew she would, and that seemed to exasperate Michael to no end. As she was reading Dalton’s texts about the party after work
(‘u wont believe how cool it is 2 tell some1 about it! i feel so popular!’)
he also added that
‘mike tinks u shud get out more cuz ur a workaholic mushroom. Whatever dat means XP’

Quite frankly, Farrah had no trouble believing that. Michael would also probably say that to her face on Monday—no, not probably. He
would.

And yeah, Robin’s party sounded like it had been the rave of the year, and Farrah did like going out to such events every once in a while, but right now just wasn’t a good time. She was too tired from school, work, her back…

Michael was a good friend, but even if she tried to explain what was going on with her he wouldn’t believe it. It was too unreal. If it weren’t for the fact she was having trouble just sitting normally with those huge, uncomfortable lumps, she probably wouldn’t even believe herself.

Her cell phone started ringing. Farrah, half-drained glass of water midway up to her lips for another set of hearty gulps (she was parched, though she hadn’t been exercising), paused and looked down at it. The number wasn’t on her caller ID, but the digits looked vaguely familiar. Curious, she decided to put her glass down and answer anyway.

“Hello?”

“Farrah?”

She recognized the voice immediately, and it sent a chill down her stiff, sore spine. “Wait a second, how did you get my number?” she realized.

“I asked Ruby for it. We don’t talk much in school, but we know each other fairly well since I’ve been friends with her brother for so long.” Then he seemed to catch himself. “Sorry. I probably sound like a stalker, don’t I?”

Well, either this guy and Ruby were scheming together or he was legit. Knowing Ruby, if they were she probably wouldn’t remember to act her part properly. Farrah wasn’t worth scheming over, though, so what reason could they possibly have?

“Yeah, a little bit,” she admitted, sitting on the edge of her bed and ignoring how the jostling hurt her back. It had felt strangely sticky all day, too, but she hadn’t allowed herself to dwell too long on the notion. “So why are you trying so hard to talk to me?”

“I told you, I can see that you’re in pain.”

Okay, never mind. This guy was a creep. She was backtracking now. “Um, excuse me? I’m not sure I—”

“I know it’s rude for me to interrupt and all that jazz, but I’d like to point out that lying isn’t very cool, either.”

“Erm, beg pardon?” He couldn’t really—it was impossible that he would know, right?

He laughed, sudden and inexplicable and bizarrely genuine. “Wow, I can’t believe you just said that. Seriously, who
talks
like that anymore? It’s 2009, not 1912.”

“Look, I’m sorry, but I think you’ve got the wrong—”

“I went through the same thing you’re going through. I know what it’s like, and it sucked being alone,” he said with a solemnity she didn’t think she had ever heard before. What a contrast to the chortling voice he had just used. “That’s why I’m calling, because nobody should have to feel like they’re the only freak around. They haven’t hatched yet, right?”

What he said made Farrah’s blood run really, really cold. She had to get off the phone
now.

“Wait, what? I’m sorry, I really don’t think—”

“My name really is Neal. It’s okay to use it.”

“Okay, Neal.” Farrah was shocked and frustrated and in no mood to be playing games, but the fact that he wasn’t treating it like a joke scared her. In fact, this Neal guy seemed even more serious than she was.

But it was so impossible! How could he really know what was going on with her?

“Could you please stop speaking in code on me? I still don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Yeah, you do. You just don’t believe it,” he said flatly.

“Believe what?”

“The lumps of pain and suffering? All egg-like and superheated, on your back right between the shoulders for absolutely no apparent reason? I had them too, and they suck. I know what you’re going through right now.”

She wanted to believe that. Sweet gods above, she wanted so much to know that she wasn’t alone. Without much reason, Farrah’s eyes heated.

“How do you know you’re right?” she whispered.

“You started wearing hoodies when you’re so popular that everybody knows you prefer not to, you’re always stretching and rolling your shoulders, you aren’t accepting hugs anymore, you look pale and drawn, wince when you sit down, you walk like there’s a stick up your ass—people talk about you, Farrah. Word gets around.” He said this all so calmly, so point-blank, she could have been some nameless subject in a research project.

“And how do you know that any of that points to my back?” she wanted to know. “Maybe I’m just stressed out.”

“Are you even listening to yourself? If I hadn’t guessed right you wouldn’t be so defensive right now.”

He had a point, she was just… afraid of what it might symbolize if she admitted to it.

She was pinned down, though. That was the problem. He was so, so right about her and she didn’t want to go through this alone if she didn’t have to. If there was even a chance…

Farrah closed her eyes and braced herself, then said, “So what if I do have them? What can you do about it?”

Neal’s voice immediately became gentler. “Kindred spirit? I can tell you that they’re not going to stay like that for long, and it’ll be less painful after that. I can show you what they’ll look like in the end, if you want. I can listen if you have worries about it all—you know, it can get pretty scary, having these things.” Then he seemed to catch himself again, and she thought she heard a sigh. “All I’m trying to say is that you’re not alone. That’s it.”

She didn’t want to know, she told herself. She didn’t want to know at all.

What he had just said was disarmingly sincere. She wanted to curl up and take comfort in him. Farrah didn’t confide in anybody—there had never been a need—but she wanted to talk to him, this boy she barely knew the name of. What was all that supposed to mean?

It didn’t matter. She didn’t want to know.

“W-what happens next?” she found herself asking anyway.

“It’s not pretty,” he said. “At least, it wasn’t for me. What happened was they cracked open—felt just like giant blisters, pus everywhere. It was gross, and it wouldn’t stop oozing for a while. When it finally did, and the shells went away… well, it’s hard to describe. You should probably see it for yourself.”

“Wait, you can’t just leave it like that!” she cried, gripping her cell phone tightly, need for water all but forgotten. She was swept away despite herself. “What happens?”

“It’ll be easier to talk when we’re face to face. Does meeting at your work sound okay? Or were you just there? I know it’s pretty late to be calling at all…”

Farrah was too inquisitive to be numb, and too overwhelmed to be very emotional, but her better judgment was telling her to wait.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

The rest of her obviously wasn’t listening.

“Okay. I’ll be there in fifteen, tops. See you then.”

“Yeah, see you.” She hung up and stared at her phone, stunned by her own behavior. Had she really just done that? Was she actually making plans to meet up with a guy she hadn’t even really met to discuss back lumps? This was stupid, reckless, ridiculous…

And she was going, anyway. It would be rude for her not to, since she had already said she would meet up with him. She just needed to change out of her work polo and into something a little more comfortable, then—

Her shirt was stuck to her back. It was soaked with…

Oh shit. Pus.

Some of it had dried the polo stiff, discolored around the edges and vaguely smelly. Farrah stared at her back in the mirror, feeling like she wanted to cry. This couldn’t be happening to her,
couldn’t.

It would, admittedly, explain why she was so thirsty. Her body had to be losing a lot of water to make this much pus.

But sure enough, after going through the painstaking process of peeling the shirt off those granulomas of hers had very distinguished, weepy cracks. For the most part the liquid was clear, but some of it was milky and thick. It looked exactly like what Neal guy had described—what the hell was happening to her?

She needed to see him, she decided. At any cost, she needed to talk to him and get some kind of explanation.

The shirt she was fairly confident she could save via soak in the bathroom sink, and she knew her hoodie would survive, but her bra was probably ruined at this point. Since she didn’t want to ruin another, she kept it on even though it felt gross. Then she put on the crappiest shirt she owned and pulled her hoodie back on. The sweater sort of smelled like pus, too, but at this point she didn’t care. She left her jeans alone, disregarding the slight pus-stains on the waist. Hopefully that would come out in the wash, too.

Then she drained the last of her water and two more glasses after that. Now that she knew why she was so thirsty, the feeling of it was suddenly incredibly acute, and it was all she could do to satiate it.