The Impossible Knife of Memory(63)

“Dude!” Brandon shouted at him. “Get up.” He walked over and nudged Jonas with his foot.

Jonas rolled and leaned against the front of Ms. Rogak’s desk, his knees tucked tightly under his chin and his head down. I smelled it then. Unfortunately, so did Brandon.

“He pissed himself!” Brandon’s face lit up with horror and delight. “He literally pissed himself!”

Jonas wrapped his arms over his head as Brandon and his trolls laughed. A couple of girls said, “Eww!” The rest of the class looked away. Jonas was a quiet freak, not a zombie. The horde would not protect him. They’d stand by and watch the culling.

“Get up.” Brandon pulled on Jonas’s arm.

Before I knew what I was doing, I was out of my seat. “Leave him alone.”

“Shut up.” He grabbed Jonas by the shirt and hauled him to his feet so everyone could see the soaked crotch of his jeans. “The Urinator, ladies and gentlemen!”

Jonas thrashed, trying to break free.

“Really,” I said. “Let him go.”

Brandon sneered. As he shoved me backward, I grabbed ahold of his wrist and pulled him off balance. This allowed to Jonas break free. He sprinted for the open door and disappeared down the hall.

Then Brandon came for me.

Action *

Hours later, after letting the nurse check me out and meeting with Ms. Benedetti and the vice principal and talking to Dad and turning down the chance to go home early, Finn found me at my locker.

“I just heard what happened,” he said, panting. “Are you okay? Oh my God, did he do this?” His fingertips hovered above the swollen bruise on my cheek.

I pulled away from him. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing? Some douche bag tried to beat you up.” “He pushed me, I pushed him, we both fell down. Rogak walked in before it got serious.”

“I heard you kicked his ass.”

“It lasted two seconds.”

“I heard he’s suspended.”

“I guess.” I closed my locker. “I feel bad for Jonas.” “Yeah,” Finn said. “He’s a good guy.”

We stood there, my backpack on the ground between us, staring over each other’s shoulders. The loudspeaker announced that boys soccer practice had been canceled and requested that the owner of a white Camry move their car from the fire lane or it would be towed.

“You didn’t get in trouble at all?” he asked.

“I didn’t start it.”

“Doesn’t mean they’d pay attention to that.”

“True enough, but they did, this time.”

He picked up my backpack, but I pulled it out of his hands. “I got it,” I said.

“You’re mad at me.”

I shrugged, too tired to think about anything. “I had my phone turned off,” he said. “I didn’t see your text.”

“I don’t want to miss the bus.”

“You could stay,” he said. “Hang by the pool or in the library, then I could drive you home when practice is over.”

Down the hall a locker slammed. The noise made me flinch.

“You’re not okay.” Finn took hold of the bottom edge of my hoodie. “Can we forget about that stupid argument this morning?”

“Seems like it happened years ago.”

“The warped perception of time is a hallmark of trauma,” he said. “I’ve counseled a lot of superheroes. They all struggle with it.”

“Oh, really?” My hand dropped to touch his.

“Superheroes can be a pain in the balls,” he said. “Always acting tough, pretending nothing hurts.”

“What do you do with them?”

“Most of them go to a llama farm in New Mexico to meditate and spin wool. I don’t dare send you there.” He tugged gently, pulling me closer. “You’d scare the llamas.”

“You defame me, sir,” I said. “I am a kind and gentle friend of llamas.”

“You still mad at me?”

“A little.” I laid my cheek against his. “Mostly, I’m confused.”





_*_ 66 _*_

While Trish washed the dishes after dinner, I sat on the couch and killed hordes of attacking zombies with a double-barreled shotgun. Dad sat next to me, passed out. I could barely hear the sweet, wet sound of exploding heads between his snoring, the irritating tick-tock of the cuckoo clock, and Trish whistling in the kitchen like a demented mockingbird. She’d gotten a temp job on the pediatric floor, but wasn’t showing any signs of looking for an apartment. As far as I could tell, she really was sleeping in Gramma’s bedroom. (Thank all the gods.)

I turned up the volume on the television, chambered another round, and pulled the trigger, taking out three zombies with one blast.

Along with tacky clothes and cheap makeup, Trish had smuggled shards of my past in her suitcase: the way hair ribbons felt on my shoulders, the name of the girl next door at Fort Hood, the taste of pimento-cheese sandwiches, the sound of tennis balls being served into the net, and Trish telling me to toss her another one. I’d hear her voice as I was waking up and I’d open my eyes expecting to be in third grade. I’d catch the murmur of them talking when I was in the shower and it was the summer between fourth and fifth grades, only I didn’t take showers then, I took baths. And then I’d have to find my science notebook or remember the word for “bathing suit” in Chinese and I’d be seventeen again and confused.