Invincible (16 page)

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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Dear Stella,

When I can't sleep, I listen to your CD and look out the window and imagine I'm somewhere else, like I've been plucked out of this life and put somewhere brand-new, where I don't have a history, I don't even have scars, I'm reborn, like I just came out of the factory, still warm from where my parts got glued together. And the future is infinite because the past hasn't come with me, because it's not dragging me down like an anchor, not pulling me back into itself. Until that day comes, until the magic happens that wipes my memory and my body clean, I will never be able to truly be free. I will always be marked, always defined by what I survived.

Remember how I told you my parents don't fight? Well, things have changed. They try to keep their voices low, but it's pretty impossible to not hear the constant bickering about money, about the hospital bills they'll never be able to pay off, about not knowing how they're going to pay for Jenica's college, about having to get a second mortgage on the house. And then we all sit down for dinner and pretend everything's okay, even though Mom's face is still striped with tears, and Dad's grinding his teeth, and Jenica's looking at me with daggers in her eyes. And I want to tell her, Well, you should have thought of that a year ago, so you could have killed me before I got sick and saved us all a lot of trouble. You'd have plenty of money to pay for college and nobody's life would have had to stop so mine could keep on going.

God, I am so sick of my own thoughts. I limp through my days listening to this whiny voice in my head complain about how nobody understands me. Whenever Will or someone at school offers to carry my books, I want to punch them in the face. I know they're just
trying to be nice, but I am so sick of being pitied. I'm so sick of being defined by having been sick.

If you were here, you'd want to slap me. I want to slap me. I'm doing nothing with this life I should be grateful for. I'm doing nothing to deserve it. I don't know who I am and I don't know where I belong. I want to find myself, but I don't know where to look. I feel like I'm disappearing.

I want to make you proud, Stella. Is that weird? I want to be someone cool enough to deserve our friendship. I want to live large enough for both of us.

I want I want I want I want.

I'm taking good care of your hat, by the way. Maybe someday I'll actually be brave enough to wear it outside of the house.

Love,
                  

Evie
                    

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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I PAINTED MY CANE BLACK WITH PURPLE STRIPES IN ART class today. The teacher patted me on the shoulder and said, “That's nice, Evie.” The first thing Kasey said when she found me in the hall was, “Isn't that kind of goth?”

I got my math quiz back, which I'm pretty sure I answered maybe two questions right on, and instead of a grade, the teacher drew a smiley face and wrote, “Good try!” like I'm in kindergarten.

But at least I can drive now. And at least my parents are still in this weird phase where they're afraid to say no to me, as if they're afraid that upsetting me will bring the cancer back. Mom hands me her keys and I close the front door behind me before she's finished saying, “Be careful.” I have
Stella's magic box with me, even though I still don't have a pipe or rolling papers or even a lighter. I heard someone talking once about smoking out of an apple, but I have no idea how that works.

I have nowhere to go, so I wander. I drive up to Telegraph by the university, past the jaywalking college students and fake homeless kids. I drive down College Avenue, with all the moms in yoga pants pushing strollers. I drive down Fortieth past the hipster coffee shop and the restaurant where mac and cheese costs fifteen dollars, past the BART station, past the Emeryville strip malls, onto Mandela Parkway and into the West Oakland ghetto.

I think,
What would Stella do?

I stop at a corner store. I park Mom's Prius behind a shiny purple low-rider with giant tires. I walk straight to the counter and ask for rolling papers and a lighter. The man behind the bulletproof glass barely even looks at me. His eyes are glued to the fuzzy TV in the corner. He hands me my purchases through the hole in the glass. I hand him money. That is all. Easy-peasy.

I am giddy as I get back into the car with the contraband in my pocket. But as I put my seat belt on, I realize how ridiculous this is. I bought a lighter and rolling papers. Big deal. I don't even know if that's illegal. And I don't even think I know how to work a lighter.

I keep driving, under the BART tracks and freeway, to where civilization stops and is replaced by silent warehouses and giant parking lots full of semi trucks and shipping containers. The giant Port of Oakland cranes tower in the distance and there is no one, not a single soul, anywhere.

I realize this is exactly where I want to be—away from people. Away from anyone who thinks they know me. I park in an almost empty lot next to the entrance to the Bay Bridge trail. I take out my phone and review a YouTube video about how to roll a joint.

If Stella were here, she would laugh her ass off.

After many tries and several soggy, ripped rolling papers, I manage to create something that looks reasonably enough like a joint. I can't figure out how to get a flame out of the lighter until my thumb is sore and scraped raw from trying. I light the joint and inhale like I remember, but I only get a sour taste of soggy smoke before the thing goes out. It is too drenched with my spit to stay lit. I try a few more times until I've accomplished a couple of good, crackling pulls, but I still don't know if I've done it right. More smoke fills the car than seems to have made it into my lungs.

I feel embarrassed even though no one can see me. I don't feel stoned, I feel stupid.

I can't stand to sit in the car with myself any longer. I'm annoyed by my own company. So I pull the hood of my raincoat tight around my head and get out of the car. It's windy, wet, and cold out here by the water, and there are no bikers or walkers anywhere on the trail. But it's better than being inside with myself. Better than being with other people who want me to be something I'm not.

I inch along the paved trail. The world sounds different out here, empty. There are no voices, just cars traveling fast on the freeway above my head. Just my cane clunking along the pavement. I walk past chain-link fences guarding vacant lots. I walk past old sun-bleached warehouses with peeling paint and broken windows.

I don't know how far I go before I realize I'm really, really high. Ten minutes, maybe. All of a sudden my feet feel heavy and I need to sit down, but everything around me is wet and dirty and exposed. The freeway is too close and the cars sound too fast. I am too alone. This is the kind of place girls like me get lost and are never found again.

I turn around to return to the car, when I notice a set of stairs that go underground. It's the only place I can see that might be dry, and I can't imagine walking any more right now. I feel dizzy. I smoked too much. All I want is a cave. A dark, dry place to catch my breath. A place to hide.

I make my way down the stairs slowly, my bad leg threatening to pull me down. I pass an orange cone and a sign that says tunnel closed. I'm out of breath when I reach the bottom; the muscles in my arm burn from holding so much of my weight with the cane. Black stenciled letters on the white painted wall read admin bldg, toll plaza, bus stop with an arrow pointing the only direction there is to go. I hear my breaths echo as I stare into the concrete tunnel, just wide enough for three people to pass through side by side. Pale light shines in from outside and illuminates enough to tell me I'd need a flashlight to go any farther. Any other time, I'd be terrified. I'm aware of this, aware that the logic of this moment is completely backward, that I am crazy for favoring this place over a short walk to return to the safety of my car.

The sounds of my cane clacking and the padding of my feet bounce off the walls. As I make my way deeper into the tunnel, I can hear the muted traffic of the freeway above me, so many tons of steel overhead. It is strangely comforting, like some urban version of being inside the womb—hard, cold, dirty, and possibly dangerous, but tight and close and full of white noise just the same.

I find the place where the light almost ends, where there is barely enough to see my hand in front of my face, barely enough to see proof that I still exist. I am almost in the darkness. I am almost completely underground. I am somewhere no one can find me.

The tunnel's so loud with the pulsing of the freeway that I don't hear the footsteps. I don't see the flashlight. I don't see the man coming out of the shadows.

And then it is too late. He is too close. His face is clouded by cigarette smoke. He is getting closer.

Fear sobers me, makes my senses sharp. But I forget I am lame. I forget about my leg and my cane, and I try to run. My good leg moves as it should, but the other is too slow, the stride too short, and I trip. I fall. My palms scrape as I collapse onto the concrete. The cars thunder overhead, the tunnel is so narrow, and the man is running, he's coming fast. He is here, in the dark, and I am gone.

“Hey!” the man says. His voice is young. I try to crawl. Dirt grinds into the wounds in my hands. I am getting nowhere.

“Hey, wait,” he says. I should scream, but nothing comes out. This is the part of the nightmare where I'm supposed to wake up. Before the real pain comes. But I am still here. I will not wake up from this.

I close my eyes. I pull my legs to my chest. The darkness of the world swirls around me and I wait for it to suck me in.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry,” the voice says. It does not sound like the voice of a killer. But I still can't open my eyes.

“Shit, you're really freaking out.” The voice gets closer. He is kneeling down next to me. I flinch and pull away.

“I am such an asshole. I should have said something when I saw you so you'd know I was there. Usually this place is super well-lit, but the lights are all out for some reason.”

Silence. I'm supposed to say something. But I'm still a ball. Still blind. Still shaking.

“Oh, man,” he sighs. “I'm going to hang out here until I know you're all right. Is that okay? I mean, I can't really just leave you here like this, right?”

I have no choice but to look up.

I blink and the smoke clears and I see quite possibly the hottest guy I have ever seen in my life.

He smiles. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi?” I croak. My throat is sandpaper.

“Are you okay?”

I can't say anything. I don't know the answer.

“This is me,” he says, still shining the flashlight to illuminate his face. “See? I'm a nice guy.” It's hard to tell in the weird lighting, but I don't think he's lying. He looks like he's around my age, with light brown skin and short dreadlocks. His eyes are greenish-gray with eyelashes that go on forever. They are deep eyes, kind eyes. They are eyes you want to have see inside you.

I sit up and take a deep breath. I feel the cold ground solid beneath me. The knife blades of fear in my chest are replaced by something slightly less sharp. His shoulder is inches away from mine. I feel a warmness radiate from where we almost touch. I think I just went from fearing for my life to crushing on a stranger in ten seconds.

He jumps up, stubs out his cigarette, and offers me his hand. “I think you're going to be okay.”

I take his hand and let him help pull me up. I'm still a little dizzy and have to hold on to the wall for support. “Oh, here,” he says, bending over to retrieve my cane from the ground. He hands it to me like it's something as normal as a purse or a grocery bag, with none of the pity I see in everybody else's eyes.

“Thanks,” I say.

“I'm sorry I scared you.”

“I wasn't scared. You just surprised me, that's all.”

He laughs. “Okay, tough guy.”

His laugh immediately puts me at ease. The tunnel lightens. The heaviness of the weed I smoked turns to air, and now I know why it's called getting high. I am floating. I can't even remember being scared.

“What are you doing down here?” I say. “Do you carry a flashlight with you all the time?” My voice is strong. Am I flirting?

“As a matter of fact, I do keep a flashlight in my car in case of emergency, along with a first-aid kit and blankets. You never know when you're going to need a Band-Aid or to an emergency nap.”
I notice his jacket is some kind of neon green vintage Windbreaker, with a logo for El Dorado Bowling Club on one side and
ALFONSE
etched in pink cursive on the other. I can't believe I was ever scared of this guy.

“And I could ask you the same thing,” he continues. “An unlit tunnel under the freeway is not exactly the safest place. What are
you
doing down here?”

What should I say? What's the right answer? What's the witty thing to say? What's the thing that will make him like me?

No. Stop it. I'm sick of caring what everyone thinks. I'm sick of trying to make everyone happy. What if I just told the truth? What if I just showed him exactly who I am?

What would Stella do?

“I just wanted to get away from people,” I say.

“Yeah, me too. People can really suck sometimes.”

“Yes, they can.”

“Guess we didn't find what we were looking for.” He grins. I could melt in that grin. We hold eye contact for what seems like forever.