When My Heart Joins the Thousand(22)

He averts his eyes. I have a feeling that wasn’t the answer he was looking for, but I don’t know what else to say.

When we finally leave the motel, it’s almost midnight. I drive him back to the lot where his car is parked, and I park next to it. The engine idles. The pale green glow of the dashboard bathes his face. “I want to see you again,” he says.

I know he’s not talking about text-chatting. My hands are locked tight around the steering wheel. “I can’t.”

“Ever?”

I close my eyes. “Trust me. It’s better if we just keep talking online.”

“I don’t understand. If it’s something I said or did—”

“It has nothing to do with you.”

“Then why?” he whispers.

He’s not going to give up, I realize. Even if we go back to Gchat, it won’t be the same. This was a mistake.

“Listen,” he continues. “I know you’re self-conscious about being—different. I know that’s why you didn’t want to meet at first. But I don’t mind.”

My breathing space has shrunk down again, confined to a tiny cavity inside my chest. Everything is hot and tight inside. I hear a sound like scraping rocks in my head—my molars grinding together—and I force the words out between them: “You don’t know how fucking different I am.”

A light drizzle patters on the roof of the car; the only sound. Droplets slide down the windshield, casting shadows that trickle down his cheeks.

“I’ll be in the park again tomorrow,” he says. “Same time.”

I don’t answer. I wait until he gets out of the car and gets into his own car. Then I drive away. A dull rumble echoes up from the Vault, and I shudder. I don’t ever want to look inside.

It’s horrible, and dark, and filled with the roar of water.





CHAPTER ELEVEN


Dawn creeps in through my curtains and spreads across my walls. I glance at the clock. 6:17 a.m. I haven’t slept.

I’m lying on my mattress, my T-shirt sticking to my sweaty skin. I sit up and peel off the damp cotton. My fingers tremble as I pick up my Rubik’s Cube and twist it around.

I keep replaying the details of last night in my head. The memory of Stanley is a constant itch under my skin. Particles of him are swimming through my blood, my brain. Whenever I close my eyes he is there, in the darkness behind my eyelids.

I didn’t even have sex with him, but somehow he got inside me anyway.

Stupid. So very, very stupid for me to think I could meet him and not suffer any repercussions. I broke every rule of my personal code, and now I’m paying the price.

I push the thoughts away, drag myself to my feet, and shuffle into the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face. I need to get ready for work.

“Hey!”

I turn, squinting. I’ve just finished mucking out the gibbons’ cage. Toby is leaning on his broom and dustpan, his jaws working a bright purple wad.

“You aren’t supposed to chew gum during work hours,” I tell him.

He smirks. “What, you gonna report me?”

Maybe in his mind, he’s being cool. Perhaps this is even his backward way of trying to flirt, like a little boy pulling a girl’s pigtails. I’m not amused. “Spit it out,” I tell him.

He spits the gum into his palm and sticks it on the underside of a drinking fountain.

Briefly I consider dumping the bucket of gibbons’ feces and rotten fruit rinds over his head. I’d be fired, of course, but it would almost be worth it. “Is there something you wanted to say to me,” I ask.

He tips up the brim of his khaki-colored cap and flashes a chipmunk-toothed smile. “Ms. Nell wants to see you.”

When Ms. Nell wants to see me, it usually isn’t good. Of course, it’s always possible that she wants to promote me. Possible, but not likely.

I arrive in her office and sit down. She squints at me. “Are you sick? You look like a dog’s dinner.”

I shift in my chair. She’s used this expression before. It means I look bad, though I’m not sure what that has to do with dog food. “I didn’t sleep well. That’s all.”

She taps one oval-shaped, Pepto-Bismol-pink nail on the desk, then shifts to a familiar, lecturing tone that signals I’m going to be here awhile. “You know, I’m trying to run a respectable business here. People all told me I was crazy to believe that I could turn a profit with this rinky-dink zoo. ‘No one makes money on zoos anymore,’ they said. But I proved ’em wrong. I bought this place when it was about to close down for good, gave it a fresh coat of paint and some new animals, put out some ads, poured in a few buckets of good old-fashioned elbow grease, and now Hickory Park is turning a profit for the first time in years. Decades. Do you know how I did it?”

She just told me in detail how she did it, but I recognize this game by now. “How,” I ask.

“One word: reputation. Reputation is everything. You think people come here to see animals?”

“Yes. I mean, no.”

“If people want to see animals, they can do it at home, in billion-pixel high-def, just by turning on a damn nature show. And on TV, the animals are doing interesting things. Here, they just sit around picking fleas off their furry balls. You think anyone wants to look at that?”