Narc (4 page)

Between a paragraph on CPR
(“Perform abdominal thrusts until foreign body expels … ”)
she had scribbled a row of digits, along with her name. I noticed that she dotted the
i
in Baskin with a heart.

Morgan took her time, walking to the bottom of the bleachers. There was a bike in the grass, the handlebars looped with duct tape.

“I’m out like sauerkraut,” she said, swinging her leg over the bike’s front bar, no easy feat in that boho getup—a skirt that looked like something my grandma would drape over her kitchen window. Morgan was one of those girls who never look young, then grow up and never look old.

“Take it easy,” I waved.

She pushed off and glided into the street, her bike tick-tick-ticking like it was about to blow up. I stood there, watching her grow smaller and smaller, until she dipped into the street and slid into traffic, going the wrong way against the cars.

When she was gone, I whipped out my memo pad. I wrote, “MORGAN.” Then I drew a star next to her name.

Status: UNSENT

To: LadyM

From: Metroid

Subject: Wake Me Up When September Ends

Dear Morgan,

When I saw you on the bleachers, I thought you looked like Cleopatra. (Obviously, I’ve been watching too much History Channel. I caught this show where a bunch of archeologists dug up some Roman coins with her face carved on them. She looked really different from the movies. Actually, she wasn’t that hot).

Okay. That sounded weird. Let’s start over.

I’m sitting here in the basement laundry room. I keep thinking about last Friday in the library. I couldn’t believe you were actually talking to me. Seriously. You and your friends are like royalty at Palm Hammock, and I’m this nonexistent entity. Guess that makes me the perfect spy.

You’re going to hate me forever when you figure out what I’m really doing talking to you guys.

Then yesterday at the field, I started having second thoughts. You looked so cute, with your old-school headphones and that awesome dress. I mean, who wears a dress to school? I felt like you were being totally real with me. That was the best conversation I’ve had in months. To be honest, I used to think you were stuck up. (Not that I’m judging you or anything! Just saying!)

Notice I keep using exclamation points!!!!

I can’t stop thinking about the stuff you said. Please don’t think I’m a creeper. (I found your e-mail on fb.) I want to ask you a million stupid things. Question Numero Uno: Why were you hurting yourself?

I hold my cards close to the chest. Maybe you’re like that, too.

I don’t want you to get hurt, even if you are involved in this drug stuff.

I want you to understand that I’m working on a plan. Not sure what exactly. You can bet it won’t be some lameass hero bullshit. I need to figure out a way to separate the good guys from the bad. And right now, that’s not so easy. I mean, helping me find one bag of weed doesn’t make you public enemy number one, does it?

My mom just came in here and yelled at me. I swear, she thinks I’m mentally damaged and can’t function on my own.

This e-mail is becoming unintelligible. Sorry I’m not making any sense. I smoked a blunt and I’m decently baked.

I don’t have the balls to send this letter.

I should sign it “sincerely,” but that never sounds sincere.

—A.

4 :
Nothing To Wear

On Saturday morning, I practiced my magic. I’d been working on the ultimate trick—levitation. So far, I couldn’t pull it off. I had to secretly balance on my toes, lifting myself a few inches off the ground. I tried it once in front of my little sister and fell on my ass. After a while, I just gave up.

Time to get to work.

I logged online and started Googling the names of people from school, plus the names on my list. Outside my window, the pigeons rustled and paced. I tugged back the drapes and saw a bird speckled like a cookie. I had named her Wendy, after the fast food joint that blinked across Biscayne Boulevard. In the flowerbox, she left a bunch of smooth, leathery eggs. Sometimes she disappeared for days. Just when I’d start to get worried, she’d fly home again.

Me and my mom and sister had been living in this shitty one-bedroom apartment since Dad died. We had to move out of our house, near the Air Force Base in Homestead, to a cheap apartment in downtown Miami. Mom and Haylie shared the bedroom. My sister never stopped complaining about it. She was lucky. I got stuck sleeping on a Murphy bed in the middle of the spider-infested living room.

In Homestead, it was all fields and farms. In downtown Miami, we were surrounded by fast food chains and motels with names like Seven Seas (although there was no sea in sight). I used to pass the same dead dog, sprawled at the exit for I-95, its face locked in a toothy snarl. It rotted there for days.

Mom was barely functioning. She was finishing up her nursing degree and spent most of her time working at South Miami Hospital, taking care of strangers, while I stayed home with Haylie. We watched endless marathons of the Marx Brothers and lived off Ritz crackers. I helped her figure out her activity sheets on quadratic equations and forged Mom’s signature where it said, PARENT/GUARDIAN.

Haylie refused to believe that Dad wasn’t coming home. Maybe that’s because he hadn’t been overseas long, then bam. We got hit with the news.

The soldiers appeared on our front step on a Saturday morning. It was just after Dad had left for another photo assignment. He was never home long.

Haylie was still in her pajamas, watching the Cartoon Network, while I munched leftover pizza for breakfast. I joked that she was getting too old for superheroes, but we always watched TV together. Mom was snoring in the back bedroom. She had just finished another late shift at the hospital. She hadn’t even taken off her scrubs, which I remember were decorated with tiny teddy bears.

Haylie ran to the door. Two men in uniform stood there—a chaplain and a sergeant. Both of them were drenched with sweat.

My sister knew. She started crying, and as I stumbled through the house, all the noises faded away, as if I’d floated into outer space, where sound doesn’t exist: the stupid, high-pitched giggles on TV, the dog yapping as if demon-possessed, the dishwasher churning because I forgot to set it last night. All silent.

When I finally shook Mom awake, I didn’t have to explain.

“They’re here,” I said.

She shot out of bed so fast, she knocked over a lamp. I tilted it upright and plugged it back into the wall. What the hell was I doing? I didn’t want to go back out there. I already knew what the chaplain was going to say:

“The secretary of defense regrets to inform you … ”

They muttered the words
cardiac arrest
, just a fancy way of saying that Dad’s heart gave out. I couldn’t even imagine it. In my mind, I envisioned Dad charging across the desert with a camera around his neck. Maybe he was shielding his buddies from an IED. Or maybe he was taking aerial pictures from a plane that crashed over enemy territory. I replayed these images over and over, fast-forwarding and rewinding. None of them were what really happened.

If I couldn’t deal with the truth, I’d settle for something fake.

I kept poking around online, trying to find information about Skully’s party—the one that I was supposedly crashing without an invite. It didn’t take long to find her Facebook page, along with 1,490 of her closest “friends.” Skully had posted an event:

Full Moon Madness @ mi casa.
Bring snax, booze, whatever/whomever u want.

Here’s the deal. I want to see ALL your beautiful faces. If u don’t show up I will never talk to u again. JUST KIDDING!!!! LOL.

I scanned down the page. No address. Maybe somebody else had the details? It took me, like, half a century just to scan through her invite list. Under the names of people who had responded YES, I found Brent Campbell. I clicked over to his profile, where he had uploaded a picture of Lil Wayne, along with some weird lyric about Martians. Under this profound statement was a column of quizzes. Brent’s answers stretched on for pages. Obviously, he had a lot of time on his hands. Among the highlights:

In the past month have you Drank Alcohol? HELL YEAH. Your weakness? CASH AND THE LADIES.
First thought waking up? GOTTA PISS.

I clicked back to his main page. Morgan was in his Top Friends. God. What was she doing with that tool? In the chat box, it said,
Online now!

Here was my chance. I slid my finger over the keyboard, but I couldn’t make a move. I was stuck on pause, just staring at the screen like a fool. How lame is that? Finally I sent an instant message (hi) and held my breath.

Seconds slid by.

Either she was ignoring me or away from the computer.

Please, please, please.

My little sister barged into the room. She was holding our dog, Zeus, like a baby, and talking to him in this goofy voice: “Do you want to visit the doggy salon and get a mani-pedi? Yes? I think you need a makeover.” She peered over my shoulder. “What are you doing? Looking at porn?”

“Nosy much?” I closed the screen. “Just checking my stocks.”

Haylie dropped the dog into my lap. “Get off the computer. I need to borrow it.”

“Nice. You practically threw him at me.” I reached down and massaged his wrinkles. Zeus licked my bare toes (Mom had a no-shoes policy in the apartment).

“He’s all anorexic now,” I told Haylie. “I mean, he has, like, no hair.”

She snorted. “That’s all kinds of wrong. Have you seen Mom?”

“Negative.”

“Tell her I’m staying at a friend’s house tonight.”

“Where?”

“Now who’s nosy?” she yelled, almost startling me out of my skin. God, she could be really annoying sometimes. She was silent for a moment, then she was making the dog “wave” at me, like nothing happened. “How come we never talk anymore?”

“That’s not true, we talk,” I told her. “I’ve just been really busy.”

“With what?”

I glanced out the window. Mama Pigeon, Wendy, looked back at me, her eyes like drops of blood. She didn’t move, not even when I tapped the glass and looked back at my sister.

“So what’s new in the Life of Haylie?” I asked.

She rambled on about a boy who got suspended for bringing aspirin to school, the lack of dessert options in the lunchroom, and her creepy Health teacher, Mr. Mitchell.

“If you’ve got a headache,” she said, “he’ll sneak up behind you and rub your thumb. It’s so weird.”

“You mean, like acupressure?” I asked, glancing at the laptop. I clicked back on the page, where an instant message blinked on the screen.

“I guess,” said Haylie. “It’s just plain gross, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t. Hey. Can we have this conversation later?” I scooted closer to my desk. The computer had gone blank. I’d left it alone too long. I pushed the space bar and the screen woke up again. There was an instant message reply on the screen, and it was from Morgan.

BRB

In other words, Be right back.

“If I tell you something, will you promise not to blab it all over the universe?” Haylie asked.

“Maybe.”

“I’ve been hanging with this guy,” she said.

“What guy? What do you mean ‘hanging’? You’re only in junior high. You’re not old enough to date.”

“Oh, my god. People at my school have been dating since, like, sixth grade. You promised not to tell.”

“Okay, okay,” I said.

“At least I have a social life. Unlike my stupid brother,” she said, pushing my shoulder. “Can I use the computer now?”

“Not if you continue to insult me.”

“Fine. Me and Zeus have better things to do,” she said, scooping up the dog. She grabbed his leash and stomped out of the apartment.

My sister had no clue what was going on, despite the fact that she was technically the whole point of this circus act. Her biggest problem was choosing between rainbow sprinkles or gummy worms at Whip ’n Dip.

Lucky.

The bathroom door banged open. Mom came rushing out, decked in her teddy bear scrubs.

“Haylie just took off,” I told her. “She’s staying at a friend’s.”

“What friend?”

“God. How do I know?”

Mom said, “I was clearing out your stuff when I noticed that you left your glasses in the closet. Don’t you need them anymore?”

“Not really. The prescription is out of date. Besides … I prefer contacts.”

“Well, you’ve got to give your eyes a rest sometime.”