A Tragic Kind of Wonderful(22)
I get a phone call. The buzzing stops the moment I see it’s from Zumi.
“Something wrong?” Mr. Terrance Knight asks.
“No,” I say. “I …”
No voice mail pops up but it’s only been a few seconds. It didn’t ring enough times to go to voice mail anyway. She must have hung up.
“It’s fine,” I say.
It’s not fine. I want to call her back. But if she hung up, then maybe she doesn’t want to talk after all. Or the call might have dropped—that happens sometimes here on the coast— Mr. Terrance Knight says, “This can wait if you want to call ’em back.”
I do, though not if she changed her mind. But I also don’t want her thinking I’m ignoring that she called.
I text her:
Want to talk?
I set the phone down and resume the game.
We finish ten minutes later with no more signs of life from my phone. I excuse myself and head for the Sun Room.
Maybe she didn’t see my text. I try again: Zumi?
No reply. I sit on the sofa facing the south window and text Connor: You with Zumi?
Connor texts back:
Not going well got to go
I text him:
Should I come?
I’m sure Judith wouldn’t mind me leaving now since I came to work early. I’m not really on that strict a schedule anyway.
No answer. Maybe I should just go. That’s what Zumi would do.
*
July after freshman year, Annie’s in Connecticut with her family for a week. When we’re with her, we’re always doing stuff like crawling the mall or walking the beach or riding our bikes somewhere. It’s like she always wants to be seeing other people, or be seen by them, even if we’re not actually with them. While she’s away, we hang out all day at Connor’s. His house has the best food and the fewest number of other people; just his mom, and she hits the perfect mix of giving us snacks and leaving us alone.
Often we’re all three together on the living room sofa, talking or watching TV, but today we’re in Connor’s room. He sits at his desk, Web surfing, trying to ignore us while Zumi and I sprawl on the bed and make fun of his shelves: how his books and DVDs are mixed together but they’re all in alphabetical order, and how he has every Disney movie ever made, including stuff like The Little Mermaid. He says we’re just jealous that he has them all, and he’s right.
“What are you even doing over there?” Zumi asks him.
“Checking for new doppelg?ngers.”
Zumi rolls her eyes. She sees me looking confused and says, “He’s Googling his name again.”
“Ha,” I say. “The Internet doesn’t know who you are, Connor.”
“Doppelg?ngers,” he says again. “I once found a Connor Lewis on a hockey team in Canada—I don’t remember which one—and he looked a lot like me, just older, and with a nose that’d been broken a bunch of times. Kind of scary.”
“There’s a ton of me’s out there,” Zumi says. “And … surprise!” She rolls on her back and throws out her arms. “They’re all Japanese!”
I laugh.
Zumi rolls back on her stomach. “What about Mel?”
“Let’s see …” Connor says, typing.
“I know,” Zumi says. “There’s probably a mechanic out there named Mel Hannigan—maybe he owns his own shop.” She makes air quotes. “Hannigan’s Car Repair.”
I shove her and she almost falls off the bed. “Hey!” she says and shoves me back.
“This is weird,” Connor says. “Here’s a kid named Nolan Hannigan where you used to live. Did you know him?”
I freeze. Zumi jumps off the bed and stands behind Connor to look at the screen.
“This says he died there … a couple years ago …”
Zumi lowers her chin to rest on Connor’s shoulder, reading. “God … this is horrible …”
I stand and walk over. I can’t focus on the screen.
“This was before you moved,” Zumi says. “How could you not have heard about this?”
All I can do is shake my head. I can’t speak. I’m getting dizzy …
Connor says something else. Zumi answers. Their words are out of reach. I can’t see very well. My jaw clenches so hard I can feel my teeth spreading.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and pretend to answer it. “What? Okay. Be right there.” I put it away. “My mom. Gotta … do something …”
Zumi follows me down the hall. “Mel? Wait!”
I open the front door.
“Did your mom really call? I didn’t hear your phone.” She grabs my arm—I pull away.
Next I’m facedown on my bed with hardly any memory of climbing on my bike or pedaling home. The house is empty with everyone else at work. I think my bike fell over in the entryway and I left it—I’m not sure. I don’t remember when I started crying.
“Mel?”
I don’t know how I can be hearing Zumi now, alone in my room, over the roaring in my ears. I also can’t see anything with my eyes squeezed shut.
“I’m going to pop the window screen out,” she says.
“Wait,” Connor says. “Maybe she—”