A Tragic Kind of Wonderful(44)
I think about it. “It wasn’t any one thing. It was just … obvious.”
She looks down. “Was it obvious to you, too?”
“Yes,” Connor says. “I knew in the seventh grade.”
“Bullshit, Connor. Even I didn’t know it then.”
“You probably would have if you’d thought about it.”
I say, “How come you never told Connor? I didn’t think you had secrets from each other.”
“It’s not a secret,” Zumi says. “I just didn’t say it. I love broccoli on my nachos but I’ve probably never said that, either, or all kinds of other stuff you don’t bother announcing to the world.”
Connor says, “You don’t have to say anything at all.”
“Sometimes you should,” she whispers. “We’ve been best friends forever. Even when everyone thought it was weird, us playing in kindergarten, the screaming Japanese girl with the quiet ginger boy. I’ve never said I love you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I wanted to. I … I just didn’t want you to get the wrong idea …”
Connor chuckles.
“But you knew what team I was on,” she says. “All those years I could have been telling you, every time I thought it, and that’s a lot.”
“I never said it either.”
“Hey, yeah. Why not?”
“I didn’t want you to think I had the wrong idea.”
After a quiet moment, Zumi combing Connor’s hair, I move to stand. Zumi clamps down on my arms.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“My work here is done,” I say.
“This is work? We aren’t friends?”
“Yeah, but—”
“No buts! God, Mel!” She shoves Connor off her lap, twists around, and after flailing and yelps from all of us, she’s lying on top of me. “Are we friends or not?”
“Yes.”
“Cool. Can I kiss you? On the cheek, I mean. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. You’re not my type.”
“I know what your type is,” I say. “And you don’t have to ask.”
“Neither do you.”
She pecks me once. Then she hugs me fiercely, rolling back and forth, like brothers do.
“Connor,” Zumi says, still hugging the breath out of me. “You want in on this?”
“I’m fine over here,” he says. “It’s weird enough now as it is.”
HAMSTER IS STUMBLING
HUMMINGBIRD IS PERCHED
HAMMERHEAD IS THRASHING**
HANNIGANIMAL IS DOWN
Pain behind my eyes. Blinding. Throbbing. Can’t think.
In bed. My bed. Hot. Sweaty. Trying to remember.
… ow… ow… ow…
Never felt pain like this. Not physically.
Flashes of memory …
Cold. Lying down. Connor facing the waves. Zumi behind him. Me behind her. Wrapped up tight. A burrito instead of a sandwich. Three pigs in a blanket. Zumi, Connor, and Mel. Dozing on the beach. How could I sleep? Blame the vodka.
Phone ringing. Zumi’s. Waking. Tangled. Trying to answer. Laughing.
Talking. Shouting.
In back of Eddie’s car. Pitching like a boat at sea. My head on someone’s lap. Zumi and her brother whispering angrily.
On the toilet. Then next to it. Trying to clean up. Giving up.
DOO DE DOODLY DOO DE DOODLY—oh God snooze SNOOZE STOP STOP STOP!
Pills. Extra painkillers. Not the Ritalin.
Forgetting something … maybe a few things …
*
I wake up feeling sick again, the urgent kind. I scramble to the edge of the bed and see my trash can but don’t remember putting it there. I recall it being full of papers, math scratch work, but there’s no time to dump it out—I grab it and see it’s empty and clean—not for long.
My stomach surges, like flicking a jump rope, and my body strains so hard I honk like a seal and can’t stop … There’s a box of tissues here; I grab some, wipe my face, drop them in the can, and push myself back up on the bed, gasping like I just biked up a hill.
The door opens and Mom swaps my trash can for a clean one.
“S’okay,” I mumble. “I’ll just get it dirty again.”
“You don’t want that smell in here. I’m surprised you have anything left to throw up.”
I vaguely remember puking before, more than once.
She puts her hand on my forehead. “You’re not hot. Any other symptoms?”
I shake my head.
“What’d you eat last night?”
“Ravioli. At work. Same as everybody.”
“Maybe it’s just hitting you extra hard this month. Call me if you need anything.”
A few minutes later I hear voices in the kitchen. They get louder. Strangely loud.
“What?!” Mom says.
I hear HJ’s voice, too low to make out.
Mom yells, “Are you fucking kidding me?!”
More murmurs. Defensive.
“Have you completely lost your mind?! She’s sixteen!”
The bed rolls beneath me. I squeeze my eyes shut.
“No! No! How could you?! You know how many meds she’s on! What it took to balance her out!”