7 Souls (17 page)

Scott could. And finally, two hours after the meeting with his dad, here he was, feet aching, heart pounding, shoulders screaming in pain as he entered the Shaynes’ apartment building.

I’m here again
, Scott thought excitedly as the elevator rose to the fifth floor. It didn’t matter that the fake wood paneling was peeling off the elevator walls: this was Mary Shayne’s building, and that made it a palace. When he alighted from the elevator and rang the Shaynes’ doorbell, he felt like he was walking on a cloud.
Maybe she’s feverish
, he thought, standing nervously in front of the scuffed metal door and trying to compose his features into the correct expression.
Maybe she’s weak and feverish and lying in bed in a gauzy nightgown, and she’ll need me to bring a glass of water to her lips
.

Then the door latch snapped over and the door swung open and Scott realized that he wasn’t going to be bringing any glasses of water to anyone’s lips.

Mary was holding her phone with one hand, pressing it against her ear, while she pulled the door open with her other hand. She was smiling, dazzlingly. She wasn’t even remotely sick—Scott had never seen a healthier girl in his life.

“No, Trick’s not coming until seven; if we get carded we’ll just go somewhere else. Hang on—someone’s here,” Mary said into the phone. “I’ll call you back.” Scott was trying not to stare at Mary’s flat bare stomach as she beamed at him, raising her lovely eyebrows. She was obviously dressed to go out: she wore tight leather pants and a scanty sequined top that covered her chest and shoulders while exposing her midriff. He could smell some kind of seductive perfume wafting from her. “Scottie!” Mary sang out happily, beaming at him. “You gorgeous guy, you—thanks so much for coming!”

“Um—” Scott couldn’t think of anything to say. Mary looked so beautiful that he could barely breathe. It was like she had stepped off the cover of a magazine and into this dingy Upper West Side apartment, right in front of him. “I brought all your books.”

Aching at the effort, Scott swung his book bag around and dropped it between them on the floor. Mary stood waiting as he fumbled with the straps, extracting her books.
She’s not sick
, Scott marveled.
She’s going out—she’s about to go out
. He wasn’t angry—not exactly. He just couldn’t find the anger inside himself, not while Mary was standing there, arms crossed, the perfect pale skin of her abdomen visibly expanding and contracting as she breathed.

“That’s the lot,” Scott said, rising to his feet—he had produced a big stack of schoolbooks. “You’re all set.”

Mary looked delighted. It was a good look for her. “Scottie
—thank you
,” she sighed, staring yearningly at him. She leaned toward him, her soft black hair brushing against his cheek as she gave him a kiss that almost touched his lips. Scott trembled; it felt like he’d just brushed against an electrical cable. “Thank you
so much
. Listen, I’d say come in, but I’m actually about to go somewhere.”

“Go somewhere?” Scott repeated weakly. His cheek was still tingling from Mary’s kiss.
She’s not going to invite me along. Of course she’s not
.

“Alas.” Mary raised her eyebrows prettily—and Scott realized that that was his cue. “Thanks again, Scottie. I really don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You’d find someone else to deliver your books
, he thought bitterly.
You’d find another sucker
.

“Please—it’s nothing,” Scott said magnanimously, shouldering his book bag, now a much more manageable weight. “I’m happy to be of service.”

Mary smiled again and then swung the door shut, and Scott turned away, toward the elevator. He could hear Mary resuming the conversation he’d interrupted.

So much for my Tour of Midtown Manhattan and Points West
, Scott thought. He was trying to be cavalier, whistling as he exited Mary’s building. But by the time he was collapsed exhausted, defeated, in the rearmost seat of a crosstown bus (while Mary, no doubt, was zooming downtown in a taxicab), he was starting to feel sick—sick like he wanted to get into bed and hide under the covers and not move until he finally fell asleep. Then the morning would come and his mother would bring him Pop-Tarts and he wouldn’t feel so bad; he’d go back to Chadwick, and count the minutes until he saw her again.

Tough day.

“
—HEAR ME
? I
ASKED
if you’ve got a tough day coming, Scottie.”

Mary stood there, blinking, confused.
What the hell?

An entire, detailed memory had come into her head right then, just as the doorman had used that phrase. She’d been reminded of something that happened and suddenly the entire experience was recalled to her, all at once.

But that was Scott’s memory
.

The sensation was bizarre, almost hallucinogenic: a piece of Scott’s past had just dropped into her brain, as easily and seamlessly as if it were her own.
It’s because I’m Scott
, she realized with growing wonder.
I’m not just in his body—I’m experiencing his memories, too
.

No time had passed at all. Mary was still standing in the same spot, facing Scott’s doorman.
That whole thing just occurred in a millisecond
. Just like in real life (as opposed to this insane dream or hallucination or whatever it was), memories didn’t take up any time; they just
appeared
in your mind when prompted—even when they were somebody else’s memories.

The doorman was still right behind her, gold buttons gleaming, watching her stand there like a chess piece waiting to be moved. What should she do? Go back upstairs? Stay here? The fear made it difficult to think.

She remembered the phone call—the one she’d been on both ends of, without realizing it. She remembered the beginning of the day, making the call and hearing herself—

Hearing what I
just
said
, she realized.
What I said just now
.

Maybe I can stop it
, she thought suddenly.
Maybe I can change what happened
.

I’ve got to get there—I’ve got to get to school
.

Pulling up the slipping strap of Scott’s book bag, Mary blundered outside, the seven
A.M.
overcast light gleaming in her eyes as her feet hit the sidewalk. The building’s awning had a round convex mirror bolted beneath it, and Mary saw her own reflection moving—saw a fish-eye view of Scott Sanders in an unusually rumpled sweatshirt, blinking comically.

Where the hell am I?

Mary gazed up at the white morning sky. She didn’t remember where Scott lived. It was embarrassing to realize: she knew Scott had told her, more than once, but she was drawing a blank. In the distance, the MetLife Building gleamed in the morning haze.
East Side—somewhere in the fifties
, she realized. That seemed correct: she vaguely remembered that Scott took the Lexington Avenue subway to school.

Don’t think—just move
, Mary told herself doggedly. It was starting to feel like she would genuinely lose her mind if she kept thinking.
Even if you’re dreaming, just follow the dream—follow it wherever it goes
.

Like she had a choice. Mary pulled the slipping straps of Scott’s JanSport book bag up higher on her—his—soft, sloping shoulders. Walking north—still trying not to lose her footing as she propelled herself on Scott’s short, overweight legs—she crossed East Fifty-eighth Street (nearly getting sideswiped by a loudly honking taxicab whose driver cursed at her furiously in a Middle Eastern language) and ran away from the grinning doorman and the fun-house mirror, hurrying toward the Chadwick School.

I
T WAS ALL SO
real, but it moved like a dream. She was not herself
—literally
not herself—painfully biting her cheeks with Scott’s large teeth, stumbling over the cuffs of his rumpled sweatpants, feeling his soft, doughy stomach quivering as she walked, rather than her own tight abdomen (and the narrow band of skin she made sure was occasionally visible), or the cold air on the bare back of her neck rather than the cascade of jet-black hair that was supposed to be there. It was like wearing a heavy Halloween costume, but vastly stranger.

There was something else, too: there was something wrong with the pedestrians around her. She’d been noticing it since she stepped onto the street. She couldn’t put her finger on it; it was like one of those body snatcher or zombie movies where the ordinary people in the crowd were not what they seemed. But, crossing Sixtieth Street, she suddenly figured it out.

Nobody’s looking at me
.

It was true. The difference was subtle, but she noticed it. Businessmen and kids and mothers and random passersby: nobody was looking. What did it mean?
Am I a ghost?
But that was ridiculous; Mrs. Sanders and Scott’s doorman had seen her, reacted to her.

But nobody’s looking
.

It wasn’t just that nobody was checking her out—nobody was noticing her
at all
.

It made her feel invisible; it was somehow more unreal and unsettling than being transported back to the beginning of the day. No girls were whispering about her as she went past, furtively scoping the brand names on her clothes; no men were trying to sneak a look at her chest or her ass while she went by. Nobody cared.

Because I’m Scott
.

Mary had
never
experienced anything like that. She was used to
avoiding
people’s glances, never returning the leers and stares of men she passed in the street—even if you
wanted
to look, you couldn’t, in case they got the wrong idea. She was so used to that rule, she obeyed it without thinking. Now she found herself
trying
to make eye contact, but it was impossible. It reminded her of the memory she’d just experienced—Scott’s memory.
Is that really what happened?
she thought. She remembered that night, of course; she’d faked being sick and made plans to go clubbing with Amy and Trick—and she remembered how sweet Scott was for bringing her books over.

But she’d never thought about what it had been like for Scott. She’d never considered the effort he’d put into helping her, or the sacrifices he’d had to make just to bring her the books she was too lazy (or too much of a truant) to get herself.

And there’s more to it, isn’t there?
Mary had to face the fact that there was.

Have I been taking advantage of Scott?

It was a brand-new thought. She’d always assumed that Scott did what he did—helped her—out of kindness, because he was, well, such a sweet guy. It never occurred to her that Scott might have ulterior motives. Like, say, an enormous crush on her. She’d never dreamed that she was asking a lovesick boy to perform menial tasks and leveraging his crush to get what she wanted.

But that’s not really true, is it?

Mary had to admit that it wasn’t.

Because who was she kidding? Of
course
she knew Scott had a crush on her. She’d seen his eyes skate over her body many times (not just that night two weeks ago when he’d appeared at her apartment door with her books). If she wasn’t aware of Scott’s attraction, then why did she flirt with him? Why did she play it up the way she did, getting close to him, calling him sweetie and honey, touching his shoulder, kissing his cheek? (The memory of how that had felt for Scott—that desperate, mournful cocktail of fear and desire and frustration and loneliness—was completely vivid.) She’d been taking advantage of Scott for a
long
time; really, as long as she’d known him.

How often have I done that?
Just demand that the people around her help her? As far as Scott was concerned, she had to admit that she couldn’t remember a time when she wasn’t leaning on him.
Didn’t I introduce myself just to get the notes for a math quiz?
she thought uncomfortably.
I did, didn’t I?

It was even worse than that. Scott
knew
it. He could see it in her eyes. Mary thought she was fooling Scott, but she wasn’t.

And yet he does it all anyway
, she marveled.
He knows what I’m doing—he knows the score—and yet he doesn’t stop; he still does what I ask
.

Mary was fascinated, engrossed with what she’d realized. She kept propelling Scott’s soft body forward, her mind overwhelmed by these new revelations. I
take advantage of Scott
, she admitted. I
totally take advantage of him—and he suffers, because of me
. She thought about Scott’s memory of hauling her books all over Manhattan and nearly felt sick.
I’m sorry, Scott. I’m so sorry
.

T
HE
F
IFTY-NINTH
S
TREET
subway station was much more confusing than Mary had realized—she hurried onto a departing train, jamming Scott’s thick body in among a harried crowd of late-morning commuters, only to realize, four stops later, that she was going in the wrong direction. She pushed through the irritated crowd, escaping, only to realize that she’d disembarked at a local station and would have to climb to the street to catch the train headed back the other direction.

By the time she got to Chadwick, Mary’s body—Scott’s body—was covered in sweat, and she was panting hoarsely as her heartbeat thumped dangerously.
Heart attack; Jesus Christ, I’m going to have a heart attack
, she thought dazedly as she collapsed against the cast-iron mailbox on the corner of Eighty-second Street. Her lungs were on fire; she felt like she’d smoked an entire pack of Trick’s Dunhills in one night. She gasped, burping slightly (and tasting blueberry), and had a single, horrifying moment when her vision darkened and she was sure,
absolutely positive
, that she was about to vomit, but she waited, the taste of blueberry Pop-Tarts replaying through her mouth as she coughed up spit, and then she felt all right; she could see and breathe again.