Alive (17 page)

The guys at Duwamish are into fishing and polo shirts and making varsity lacrosse, all things Levi couldn’t care less about, which is good, because neither do I anymore.

In our first week of dating, we go to three concerts and I stay out as late as my parents will allow. Levi takes in music as if each note could be the last he hears. It’s the same way he
looks at me. In fact, that’s how he does pretty much everything and this, I realize, is a feeling I understand.

After the last show, we hang around in his car. He takes out a pack of cigarettes and asks if I’ve tried one. I haven’t, so he shows me how to hold the paper tube in the gummy part
of my lips while I cup my hand around the flame to light it. The first time I take a drag, the smoke gets in my lungs and I wind up hunched over, coughing in the front seat. Levi laughs. My eyes
sting. I catch a glimpse of them in the side-view mirror, pink and watery. The next time, Levi tells me to suck in my cheeks but not to let the smoke go past the back of my mouth.

I do. A small rib of embers and ash sinks into the paper at the other end. I pull it a little deeper with the next inhale. It’s satisfying to hear the crinkle of the burning cigarette. I
blow out a puff of gray and we talk about heavy things like guilt and dying and what we’d want people to say at our funerals. He’s the only one who’s ever asked, even though
it’s something I’ve thought about a lot.

When we have to separate that night, I get the sense that I’m wrenching something loose, liking pulling an arm out of its socket, and as soon as I do, the pain floods back into
what’s left.

It’s four o’clock on a Tuesday. Reluctantly, I agree to meet Brynn on the stadium bleachers, where she’s basking in the remnants of today’s unexpected
sun. Nightfall has been creeping up earlier and earlier, but there’s still a spot in each day where, if the clouds have burned away and the temperature holds steady, you can laze in the sun
without a jacket. In the fall, the light takes on a more orange-gold tinge, like the yellow foil on the inside of a candy-bar wrapper. Soon, the foggy winter will take even this away.

Brynn skipped cross-country practice, claiming she had one of her chronic sore throats. Translation: She wants to work on her tan lines. I don’t get this. When I was a swimmer, I
wouldn’t miss practice if you paid me.

“Um, hi, who are you and what did you do with my friend?” Brynn props herself up on her elbows. Streaks of sunscreen cover her nose and cheeks.

I run my fingers through my hair, still surprised at how quickly they reach the end. I feel for my long locks as for the ghost of a missing appendage.

“What do you think?” I get a small charge from her reaction. In all our years of friendship, this is the first time I’ve shocked her rather than the other way around.

Yesterday, my dad got off work early. A few weeks ago I would have been thrilled, the way a little girl is when her father brings home a present from an out-of-town trip. But this time my
parents insisted I stay home for family dinner. For the first time in several days, I watched in horror as the clock turned slowly to 5:08, at which point my brain split open like a coconut and my
chest turned into a black box of torture. Levi was the only one who could comfort me, who could keep the pain at bay.

When my mind cleared, I’d taken a pair of scissors from my desk drawer. I’d worked from one shoulder to the other, hacking it off in one blunt line at first and then retracing my
steps to angle the scissors. The blades made the satisfying sound of sharpened metal as I sliced at random to turn the ends jagged. My hair now hung from a center parting and swung even with my
chin. By the end, I looked like one of the punk rock chicks Levi and I watched onstage. The moment he saw me he touched the ends delicately, sending my heart into wild thumping as he wrapped the
frayed ends around his fingers and pulled me closer.

Brynn gives me a long look. “I think an alien invaded your body.” The reference reminds me of Henry. I push the thought aside. A small metal stud now adorns the left side of my
nose.

“Well, that’s supportive.” I recline on the bleacher.

She sighs. “Well, a hot alien.” I roll my eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m supportive, I swear.” She makes a motion of zipping her lips. I cock my head
and wait, knowing Brynn can’t possibly keep quiet about anything. A moment passes before she makes a dramatic gesture of unzipping her lips. “I’m sorry it’s just I’m
not used to—what I mean is, it just doesn’t look like
you.
”

“Well, it
is
me, okay?”

Brynn’s polo is pulled up to her bra and she’s unzipped the top of her khakis and shimmied the waistline to meet her underwear. From this angle, I can just make out the gothic angel
wings that are tattooed on the side of her hip.

Even with my new haircut and piercing, I’m not quite as ballsy, but Brynn wouldn’t be either if she had a scar the length of a yardstick running up her abdomen. I wear my clothes in
the way they were designed, taking in the UV rays like a lizard on a rock.

Brynn turns on her side and peers down at me from one bleacher up. “Yeah, okay, I get it,” she says.

I stare up at the sky and watch clouds drift by in slow motion. With nothing to obstruct my view, the space above me stretches out into oblivion. I laze back against the warm metal, comforted by
the world’s vastness and the feeling of being just another living human being within it.

The day of my diagnosis, I had passed out at a swim meet. I was soaking wet. My hair was matted with chlorine and all I could think about was how I needed to get back in time for my relay. I was
swimming the first leg, the youngest in the lineup. It was a big deal. I’d been poised on the diving block just before the starting beep, when all of a sudden my vision went blurry. I
couldn’t tell which way was up or down and the next thing I knew I’d fallen forward into the swimming pool. I remember staring up at the mottled surface like I was in a dream. I
couldn’t move.

Once I’d been fished from the bottom of the pool, I sat in a doctor’s office with my arms folded and legs crossed, huffing about how long it was taking and could we
puh-lease
get out of there already. It was nothing. I was fine. This was all a colossal waste of time.

That was the first time I met Dr. Belkin, sitting in the middle chair between my mom and dad in a square office that ought to have belonged to an accountant, not an MD.

That was the moment when he told me I’d swum my last lap. No more swimming—not now, not ever. I remember he started with that. As if he could ease me in before delivering the kicker.
(Oh yeah and you might
die
, too.) It didn’t help. Instead it was like two tidal waves crashing over me, first the tsunami, then the second groundswell to finish the job. I left the
office numb.

Over the next few months, things got worse. First, I didn’t make The List. Then I did. They issued my Life-pager, only it never beeped. I watched it, stared at it through the night, but
still no match. The numbness encased me, becoming a permanent condition. I wouldn’t survive. I would die at sixteen years old. There would be an obituary with nothing to say except how my
smile lit up the room or some bullshit like that. Honestly, I’d rather not have one at all.

But then came the spark of curiosity. What if I was right? What if the pager
didn’t
ever beep? What if I
was
never matched with a donor?
Then
what?

What happens…when you die?

The thought mesmerized as much as it terrified me. I started doing research. Near-death experiences—what were they and who had them?

I read stories of tunnel experiences, of the sensation of traveling through a passageway or up a staircase. Others felt a sudden immersion in a powerful light or even an ability to communicate
with the light. As for me, I could never imagine a scenario in which I would find myself conversing with a beam of light, but, hey, what did I know?

In real time, a person experiences near-death in a span of thirty seconds to three minutes. A whole life review can take place in a time shorter than a commercial break. I wondered if I’d
see angels or heaven or the members of a boy band singing me into the sky. The one thing I knew was that mine wouldn’t be
near
-death. It’d be the real deal.

“Are you dead, Cross?” I spring upright when I feel a pinch on my leg. I’m blinking back the sunlight and trying to shade my face. I rub the spot where my skin is stinging.

“What the hell, Brynn!” I pinch her back.

“Guess not.” She shrugs and frowns, closing her eyes again.

I try to smooth my hair. “You couldn’t have just asked?”

“Well, I wanted to be sure.” She flashes a grin without opening her eyes. “Plus, I’m bored. And I think you might be mad at me.”

“What time is it?” I ask, digging my phone out of my pocket.

“What? You got a hot date?” This time she crunches her shoulders off the bleacher. But I don’t have a date today. Levi said he was busy this afternoon but didn’t give a
reason. He doesn’t know he’s the only one who saves me. The mere thought of another afternoon without him leaves me nervy. And why wouldn’t he tell me what he’s doing? My
mind has done several tailspins imagining the possibility of other girls. As though I weren’t crazy enough. “God, I hate you,” she says, misreading my silence. “You know
that? Henry and Levi? I mean, Christ, Stel, leave some for the rest of us. Preferably Levi.”

I hold out my middle finger. “Pretty sure Henry hates me.”

The clock on my cell reads four thirty. I can’t waste too much time, but I haven’t made Brynn privy to my daily routine. Nor do I plan to.

“Yeah, right.” Brynn pulls down her shirt and sits up. “That boy would lick your sweaty socks if you let him.”

“Okay, thanks for the visual.”

“He’d be better off if he did hate you, though. You
do
know that.”

“You don’t get me and Henry. It’s complicated.”

“Except that it’s not. You want to keep him on the hook. You can’t let him go. Just admit it.” When I don’t say anything she continues, “Now
why
is
that, do you think?” She purses her lips as if to say,
Hm?

“It’s not that salacious, Detective McDaniel,” I say, getting to my feet. “I’m perfectly happy with my choice, but I did forget to bring my meds, so I need to get
home.” The buckles on my backpack clang against the bleachers as I sling it over my shoulder.

Brynn stares at me a beat longer than usual. I know that she’d prefer to forget that I was sick, that a part of me still
is
sick. I need medicines and regimens and checkups to keep
me running. Huff, puff, and you could literally blow this house down. And Brynn’s not exactly the type to treat anyone with kid gloves.

“Fine.” Brynn tugs on the hair tie holding up her bun and auburn curls tumble out. She threads her hand through the elastic and tousles her hair, creating a wild but sexy
look—like she’s fresh off a steamy make-out session. “Your vampire complexion is looking a little rosy anyway.”

I touch my cheeks. “Great,” I say. My phone buzzes in my hand and my breath hitches with excitement. Maybe Levi changed his mind. I turn it over. It’s a text from my mom.

Brynn slaps my butt. “Okay, lovebird. Stop making me want to vom and don’t forget to use protection.”

I glare back at her. “You need a hobby.”

The sun has burned a complete hole through the clouds, so that now when I look up, it’s at a fiery yolk surrounded by cornflower blue. Wispy gray clouds still hover at
the periphery. I slide into the driver’s seat and twist on the AC for the first time in weeks.

I click on my blinker and wait for a car to pass before I edge onto the main road that runs alongside campus.

My wheels hit a puddle and I bounce in the seat. I hear mud splatter the exterior. Whoever thought having a black car in Seattle would be a good idea was an idiot.

Oh, right, that’s me.

I tap the lever for the wipers to clear off the droplets still clinging to the glass and they smear mud across the windshield, tainting the blueness of the sky. Meanwhile, the clock on the dash
reads
4:51
. I shouldn’t have stayed so late with Brynn. I was supposed to take my meds fifteen minutes ago. At this point, Mom has probably perfected her lecture and is now pacing the
entryway, waiting for her audience to arrive.

I press a little harder on the gas pedal. My commute to and from school isn’t long, but my prescriptions don’t exactly work like Tylenol either. It’s not a
take-every-eight-hours (give or take a few) situation. The medications are synched with my body down to the minute.

At a red light, I slam on the brakes.

What happens when I miss my meds is a mystery to me, but my imagination has a way of filling in the blanks.

I blink and the light turns green. I race onto Flora Avenue. What had I been thinking?
That
is the question. My car speeds down the narrow, two-lane road and I search the side streets for
cops. It would be my luck. Par for the course.

For an instant, there’s a sick mental picture forming behind my eyes. Arteries and veins snap and my heart plummets into my stomach. I shake it away like a crude drawing on an Etch A
Sketch. I focus on the road. My street is coming up. Two more stop signs. I roll through both of them.

My tires screech on the concrete as I veer onto my street. Familiar addresses. Familiar houses. I try to wrestle my heart into submission. It’s going to be fine.

My phone buzzes in the cupholder. A goofy picture of my mom from her third-grade yearbook flashes on the screen. I fumble for the button to silence it. I’m almost there. When I look up,
there’s a reflection up ahead like the glint of a mirage on a hot day. I keep driving, but as I do, I see that the mirage at the end of the lane is moving, and not in the way that mirages
typically do—disappearing in one place before reappearing at a point further out. Instead, it seems to be spreading closer, morphing into a long sheet of water.

I lean forward to try to get a better view. As the wheels edge closer, I can make out white ripples pushing forward like gentle waves crashing onto shore. Is the street flooding? The sun still
gleams overhead. Not a drop of rain in sight. Where’s it coming from?