Mirrored (23 page)

No. I love Celine, and part of loving someone is wanting the best for them, even if the best for them isn’t being with you. I’m not Violet. Even if Celine will only ever be my friend, I want her alive.

But how can I make that happen?

I gaze at Celine’s pale white face, and I feel the weight of utter hopelessness upon me.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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It’s Sunday now. Celine is still in ICU, stable, but no different. The doctor assured Violet/Kendra that Celine has a good chance for recovery. Of course, the doctor doesn’t know about the magic.

Friday and Saturday, day and night, I sat in a hard, metal chair by Celine’s bed, holding her limp hand, squeezing it, willing her to squeeze back. The nurses didn’t even try to kick me out. Kendra said it was okay, and I guess they felt sorry for me. Maybe they realize I can barely move. I feel petrified, not like when people say they’re petrified meaning scared, but actually petrified like wood, like parts of me have turned to stone, and if Celine doesn’t come out of this, maybe I’ll just turn to stone beside her. Of course, I can’t help but think of what Violet said about worshiping Celine’s shell of a body. How long can I go on, waiting for someone who may never awaken?

Forever.

Violet has been true to her word. She hasn’t been here. Still, I won’t leave Celine alone.

When I went home to get my clothes Friday afternoon, the poem I left for Celine was still on the bathroom counter, facedown, exactly where I’d left it. She never saw it. And that was when I realized, I wanted her to. Even if I was going to be totally crushed by her reaction. When you love someone, you have to tell her.

I lean close and whisper in her ear, “Please wake up.”

But she doesn’t. I squeeze her hand. I have my American history exam tomorrow, and I’ve been reading aloud to her from the book. In between World War One and World War Two, I tell her all the things we can do together if she wakes up. After Korea, I beg her to wake up. Vietnam, the Cold War, “I miss you so much.” Now, I’ve studied all I can, so I just watch her.

Stacey’s texted me about a dozen time, telling me I have to sleep at home tonight, long texts about how she understands I’m upset, but I have to finish out the year. Finally, I text back that I’ll be home by nine.

It’s a little before eight when Kendra shows up. She’s disguised as Violet, and I shudder. As soon as she closes the curtain, she changes into herself, red hair melting to purple-streaked black, her clothing turning to a long, black dress.

She looks excited. “I’ve figured out what will help Celine.”

“Really?” I clutch Celine’s hand, hopeful.

Until the next words out of Kendra’s mouth.

“Yes. A handsome prince! I remember once, there was a girl who slept for over a hundred years. It was a curse like this one, except a fairy placed it. The girl pricked her finger on a spindle and fell down as if dead. A century passed—they didn’t even have feeding tubes then—and everyone forgot her until, one day, a prince came riding
by on his horse. He kissed the girl. She woke and they lived happily ever after.”

I try to keep my voice even. “So what year was this?”

Kendra thinks about it. “The kiss happened in 1675, but the princess went to sleep a century before.”

“And this was in Europe? England?” I feel suddenly tired, like I could just put my head down on Celine’s bed and go to sleep.

“Or Germany, maybe. One of those countries.”

“One of those countries with princes riding around on horses?”

“Yeah.” She finally gets my meaning. “Oh.”

“This is America, Kendra. No princes here.”

“There could be. It probably doesn’t have to be from a reigning family. One of the Romanovs was mayor of Palm Beach for a while—the great-grandson of the tsar of Russia.”

Palm Beach is about two hours’ drive from here. “Do you know him?” I ask.

“He died in 2004.”

Not helpful. I shake my head. “Could there be another way?” But, even as I say it, I remember her saying the other princess slept for a hundred years. A hundred years before they found a way to wake her. Celine might live a hundred years in a state of suspended animation.

But I won’t.

I take a long look at Celine, the shell of Celine. Is this all I’ll have of her, ever? I want to shake her, slap her, do anything to wake her, but it won’t work. No, that’s not what I want. I want to take her in my arms and kiss her. But I’m no prince, just some poor slob who loves her. She’s not mine to kiss.

Suddenly I have to go. I can’t look at her anymore today.

“You’ll stay?” I ask Kendra.

Kendra smiles sadly. “Don’t worry. I won’t leave her.”

I turn toward the door.

“You know, Goose, the prince was also her true love.”

I shrug. No help there.

When I get home, I can’t sleep. Even though I’ve already spent the whole day studying, I lie in bed, reading the flash cards I made, because it gets my mind off Celine. After a while, I guess I drift off.

At three, I wake up. The lights are on. There are three-by-five cards all around me and only one thought in my head.

Jonah Prince.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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“He is, technically, a prince,” I tell Kendra. “And Celine’s not-so-technically completely hot for him, so maybe he’s her true love. There’s no royalty in Florida, unless you count Disney World. I know it’s a crazy idea. . . .”

“No,” Kendra says. “It might work.”

“Really?” I’m impressed with myself. We’re in Celine’s hospital room, where Kendra guards her motionless body. I try not to look at Celine. It makes me sad that she looks like a beautiful doll that should be displayed in a plastic bubble.

“Sure,” Kendra says. “I’ve seen people get off on technicalities before. But how are you going to get Jonah Prince here? Isn’t he, like, a rock star.”

“I figure that’s where you come in. You could use your magic
powers to just . . . zap him here so he can kiss her.”

Kendra rubs her forehead, the way my mom does to smooth out wrinkles, except Kendra doesn’t have any wrinkles. “I can’t do that with people. Even if I could, I wouldn’t.”

“Why the hell not? What kind of lame powers do you have?”

Kendra huffs a bit at that. “What if Jonah Prince was onstage, or just sitting down for dinner with his family, and he suddenly disappeared. People would freak. It would be in all the papers . . . and everyone would know that witches are real.”

“And that would be bad?”

Kendra nods. “You’ve heard of Salem, witch burnings in Europe?”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Women are being burned as witches in New Guinea to this day. I can’t take the chance. And it isn’t the right way. He must come of his own free will.”

“Wow.” I reach over and run my hand across Celine’s. It feels cold, but I warm it. “Okay, but you can still help me, right? If I get him to come?”

Kendra nods. “I can help you.”

Under my hand, I can feel Celine’s pulse. Touching her makes me feel better, knowing she’s still alive, warm, real. I turn toward her. In the elevated bed, her face is close to mine, so close I could kiss her, close enough to hear her breathing.

Instead, I lean my head against her shoulder and close my eyes.

I remember something, the argument Celine and I had about Jonah. I raise my head.

“There’s a concert coming up. He’s going to be in Florida.”

An hour later, between Kendra’s mirror and my phone, I know everything I need to know about that concert. It’s next Tuesday night in Orlando. I can’t tell where he’s staying, but Kendra promises to spy on him with her mirror and let me know as soon as he checks in.

Kendra is pacing back and forth in Celine’s room. “Okay! So all you have to do is go to Orlando, locate Jonah Prince, and ask him to come back here and kiss Celine.” She counts these things off on her fingers like they’re done. “Easy-peasy!”

I can’t believe she just said
easy-peasy.
I mean, aside from how annoying that phrase is, it won’t be. “You get that he’ll have tons of bodyguards, right? Big bodyguards, possibly with guns.”

“I have confidence in your ability.”

Glad one of us does.

“And you get that he’s a serious asshole?” I say. My research about Jonah also revealed an uncomfortable number of accounts of him urinating in public, sideswiping bicyclists with his Maserati, spitting on people, wearing diaper pants to meet the president—the list of douchery goes on and on. What did Celine see in this guy? “He’s not necessarily going to be helpful.”

She shrugs. “If you don’t want to do it, I’m sure I can keep Celine comfortable here.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to.” I look at Celine, noticing for the hundredth time the two little freckles on one side of her nose. I have always been a person who pushed myself, someone who tried to ignore limits and strived not to give in if someone said I couldn’t do something, whether it was playing the piano or climbing the jungle gym or being the Artful Dodger. But this sounds . . . really hard. And if it does work, I’ll lose her to Jonah.

And yet, if I don’t do it, Celine could die. Who’s to say Violet—the real Violet—won’t sneak in and put some real-world poison in Celine’s feeding tube. At best, she might live in a vegetative state. I have to try, at least.

“No,” I say. “I will do anything for Celine. And that means overcoming any obstacle.”

The main obstacle turns out to be my mommy.

“No. Are you crazy?” She’s tenderizing meat with a mallet. With it in hand, she is four feet of scary. “Of course you can’t do that.”
Whap!
“You can’t drive to Orlando on your own.”
Whap!
“You can’t sneak into a rock star’s hotel room.”
Whap!
“What if you were arrested?”
Whap! Whap! Whap!
“You’d never get into college.”
Whap!
“You could get shot.”
Whap!
“I won’t let you put yourself at risk in that way. Let Kendra do it.”

Funny how you never get over fearing the wrath of Mom.

I tell her, “Kendra needs to stay here with Celine. What if Violet comes back?”

Another series of
whaps!
I jump at each one. She keeps pounding as she says, “What if Violet does come back? What if she comes after you? Or our family? No!”
Whap! Whap! Whap!

“But I love her!”

It’s the first time I’ve said it to anyone. I’ve only just started admitting it to myself.

I feel naked.

At least Stacey stops pounding.

“I love her,” I repeat.

Stacey sucks in a deep breath. “I know you do. We love her too. And we’ve done a lot for her. She’s a sweet girl. But, don’t you see? We have to think of you first.” Stacey puts down the mallet and holds out her arms like she’s about to hug me. But, when she walks toward me, I dodge her.

“If she dies, I will never forgive you.”

I turn and leave. There is silence. Then, the pounding starts again, louder.

In the dwindling days of classes, I contact Jonah Prince’s agent, publicist, producer, the Florida Citrus Bowl, where the concert is being
held, and the local news, all with the same sad story. My friend is dying. Maybe a visit from Jonah Prince will help. No one bites. The guy’s a total douche, and everyone who works for him knows it.

I give Stacey begging looks every time I pass her. When that doesn’t work, I stop looking at her completely.

On Sunday morning, two days before the concert, I make the decision I always knew I’d make.

I’m going to Orlando with or without my parents’ permission. After school ended, Stacey hid my car keys. I hate her for that. Hate. But I will find another way.

I have never wanted anything the way I want this.

How can my parents not understand that it is like my heart is trapped inside her?

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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A few years ago, I heard about the show,
Game of Thrones,
starring Peter Dinklage, a guy about my size (and my personal hero), as Tyrion Lannister, the sometimes heroic, sometimes not, son of a lord. I begged my mom to let me watch it. She protested that the show was TV-MA, with tons of nudity and violence in it. She suggested,
Little People, Big World
as a substitute.

Because what any normal, red-blooded teenage guy really wants to see is a show about a bunch of little people, operating a wedding farm.

But I gave it a shot. Also, I read the book,
A Game of Thrones,
which is over eight hundred pages long. Then, I started on
A Clash of Kings.
And I begged my mom again. I pointed out that, if I wanted to see boobs, I could find them on my phone, just by Googling
boobs.
It wasn’t about boobs.

It was
mostly
not about boobs.

That time, she let me. She’d watched the show herself by then, and she said okay—if I promised not to be influenced by the character’s drinking and whoring. I swore I wouldn’t hire any prostitutes without asking her first.

Then, I marathon-watched the whole series in a single weekend.

Best. Show. Ever. For a lot of reasons. But, especially because of Dinklage. That’s not just my opinion. If you look at any poll about people’s favorite characters, Tyrion is the hands-down winner, besting even the hot blond dragon chick who gets naked a lot (okay, I like her too). Whether that’s because people love to champion the underdog or because of the character’s quick wit, I don’t know.

But I sort of lied to Stacey. Tyrion’s character had a huge influence on me. Here was a guy who looked like me (only old), using military tactics, wearing armor, and marching into battle with an ax. A hero . . . even if he usually got injured. And the legions of
GoT
fans found that believable. It made me see that a hero had nothing to do with size, made me want to be a hero too, realize I could be.

But how many battles do you get to fight in the twenty-first century? How many fair maidens are there to rescue from the cruel king?

Celine is my true love, even if I’ll never be hers.

It’s time to be a hero. And a hero must have a quest.

I have one.

And I’m starting on the freaking Metrorail.

The train to Orlando leaves at 8:10 a.m. I’ve never taken a real train, the kind that goes to other cities, instead of the lame commuter trains. The pictures on the Amtrak website make their trains look like the ones that go to Hogwarts.

And the best thing is, they stay firmly on the ground.

The worst thing? I have to take the Metrorail to get to the Amtrak train.

Have I mentioned I hate the Metrorail?

Oh, and lying to my parents. That’s another bad thing. But I’m so pissed at them, so pissed that they wouldn’t let me go, that I don’t care that much.

When I was a kid, I was a really bad liar. My mom said she trusted me completely because I was so bad at covering my tracks. Like once, when I was eleven, I took the leftover Fourth of July fireworks from the garage (in November). I was going to set them off with my friends, but I left such a trail of matchbooks and wrappers that I got caught red-handed before the first crackle. Dad said he was concerned that I lacked the logic skills to be a more proficient liar (yeah, he talks like that; he’s a lawyer). Since then, I’ve improved a little, but I still don’t lie much. It sounds nerdy to say, but I’m close to my parents, or I was. When I lie, it weighs on me. Besides, everything always comes out.

This definitely will. Sneaking out and training it to Orlando to stalk a rock star—hard to hide. It might even make the paper, and not in that good way parents like, like when you earn your Eagle Scout or sing at a charity concert or have perfect attendance for thirteen straight years. No, this would be more like the stories you see on the “Florida Man” Twitter feed, the guy who collects all the stupidest, craziest things done by folks in the Sunshine State: There was “Florida Man tries to remove face tattoos with welding grinder,” and “Florida Man caught with sushi sampler stuffed down pants,” not to mention the classic, “High school graduation canceled after Florida Man etches massive penis on football field.” I can be, “Florida Man arrested in former boy band star’s dressing room.” The humiliation. It has never been my ambition to be a Florida Man.

But it’s worth it if I can save Celine.

That’s what I try to remember when I go to my dad—to
lie
to my dad—before he leaves for work.

“Hey, can you drive me to the train station? I want to go to Jackson to see Celine.”

He looks at his watch. “It’s awfully early.”

It is. It’s 6:30. Dad usually leaves at 6:45. I’m counting on that to be able to make the 8:10 train.

I say, “I got up early so I could get a ride. So I don’t have to bother Mom since she took away my car keys.” I swallow. Angrily.

He shifts from foot to foot. “You have to understand—”

“I will
never
understand. Never.” He frowns, but doesn’t say anything. I add, “Look, all I want is a ride to the train. It’s on your way. But if you can’t help me with this one little thing, I guess I’ll figure out the bus.”

I can’t. I would never make it on time if I took the bus. But I try to sound casual anyway.

He shakes his head. “It’s okay. I can take you. Be ready in ten minutes.”

I don’t take much with me. I don’t want to arouse suspicion. With any luck, I’ll be talking to Jonah before people notice I’m gone.

I put Kendra’s mirror, a book, and my sweatshirt in my backpack from school, enough to look normal, not enough to look like I’m running away. I take all the money I saved from my jobs tutoring kids on their monologues for drama auditions, close to five hundred dollars. I cashed out my bank account.

I turn off my phone and leave it on my desk. If anyone tries to use it to find me, they’ll get nowhere.

I wish I didn’t have to lie. But nothing else worked.

At 6:42, I’m in the car with Dad.

“How’s she doing?” He’s trying to make conversation.

“No difference.”

“She could still recover,” he says.

I know he doesn’t believe it. Still, I say, “I know.”

We drive in silence. The streets are pretty empty without people going to school. Even the joggers and dog walkers slept late. It’s cloudy, and I hope I can get to Amtrak before it starts to pour.

We reach the Metrorail’s “kiss-and-ride” lot. There’s a huge escalator leading up, just like at the downtown station I went to with Kendra. Dad eyes it dubiously. “You’re going up that? I remember Tom Sawyer Island.”

Yeah, thanks for reminding me. But I say, “I love her. If the only way I can see her is this train, I’ll do it. I don’t give in to fear like some people.”

He starts to say something then stops. I hope he’s not going to offer to drive me to Jackson, but he just gives me sort of a pitying look and rubs his forehead with two fingers. “Let me know if you need a ride home.”

“Thanks.” I get out of the car.

I’d asked Kendra if she could transport me magically to Orlando, but again, she’d been unhelpful. “The only thing I could do is turn you into a crow to fly there.”

I declined, but now, as I head upstairs once again, I wonder if it would have been easier. A bird is in control of itself, its wings, its destiny. As it is, I’m at the mercy of stairs and tracks I didn’t build, putting myself at risk.

But, as I told my father, I can’t give in to those fears.

So, as the escalator bears me up, instead of closing my eyes, I concentrate on the sky.

“Where’s your mom?” the lady at the Amtrak ticket counter asks me.

“My dad dropped me off. I’m seventeen.”

It’s one of those high counters I can barely see over. The woman stares down at me. “I can’t sell you a ticket without your parents.”

“Actually, you can. I . . . I mean, my parents and I looked this all
up on your website. Minors who are sixteen or seventeen can travel without restriction.” I look at my watch. Seven forty-five. The train leaves soon. “I’m seventeen. Look, here’s my driver’s license. I’m visiting my grandma in Orlando. If I don’t get off that train, she’ll worry about me.”

I’ve experienced this before, the disconnect between my size and my age. Adults don’t like to sell tickets to an R-rated movie to someone who’s as tall as their eleven-year-old. I don’t mind getting in places cheap, but they’ll be handing me kids’ menus when I’m fifty. Maybe I’ll grow a mustache.

“I’ll have to get my supervisor.”

“No. You don’t.” I’m trying hard not to lose it because yelling will make me seem younger. I tap my driver’s license on the counter, which is above my head. “What you need to do is look at my license and check my age. Then, sell me a ticket so I can go see my grandma. Please.”

She doesn’t answer.

I say, “Please. She’s an old lady, and she misses me. The train leaves in twenty minutes, and the next one isn’t until twelve.”

Finally, the woman relents and takes the license from me. She compares my face to the photo, checks the birth date, counts on her fingers. “Oh, you are seventeen. I’m sorry. You look much younger.”

“What can I say? I have a great moisturizer.”

“I could use some of that.”

Huh. She doesn’t get that I’m kidding. How cute. Just print the ticket.

“Okay, will that be one way or round trip?”

“One way.” Part of me says I should buy round trip to avoid this problem when I come back, but I’m really hoping to come back in Jonah’s private jet. Why be pessimistic? “I may stay the whole summer.”

I get to my seat right before the door closes. There’s a bunch of Boy Scouts in the same car, probably going to Disney. They’re running around like someone gave them too much sugar. In fact, someone did give them too much sugar. There’s a box of donuts open on one seat and a mom is offering around another. Wish I could take one. I forgot breakfast.

“Would you like a donut?”

“Uh . . .” I look around, realizing the Boy Scouts are all wearing matching navy blue T-shirts and matching baseball caps. I’m wearing a navy blue polo. I could make this work.

“Yes, please.” I take a jelly, not looking up. I know from my siblings that little kids hate jelly. It would’ve been left anyway.

“Aren’t you polite!” The lady musses my hair.

As soon as she walks away, I scarf down the donut and head for the bathroom. I take out Kendra’s mirror. “Show me Kendra.”

She appears. I can tell she’s at the hospital. “How’s Celine?”

“The same.”

I want to ask to see her, but first I say, “Any updates on where Jonah’s staying?”

“He’s still on the plane. You could keep an eye on him in the mirror too.”

“I will. Can I see Celine first?”

“It won’t make you happy.” But Kendra turns the mirror away anyway. She’s wrong. Just seeing Celine’s peaceful face, knowing I’m helping her, at least trying to, helps. Maybe it won’t work. In that case, I’ll have plenty of time to be miserable. But, for now, I’m hopeful.

“Thanks,” I tell Kendra.

Before I leave the bathroom, I ask the mirror, “Show me Jonah Prince.”

It does, as if it’s a television. Dude’s in an airplane seat, first class. No—a private jet. He takes his gum out of his mouth and sticks it
underneath the shiny walnut trim on the wall beside him. Gross. Even though he can’t hear me, I say, “Please, guy, please be everything she thinks you are, everything she wants you to be. It’s crazy, but you’re her only hope.”

I take my seat, which is next to one of the moms from the scout troop.

“I think you have the wrong seat,” she says. “Where’s your mom?”

I look up at her. “Back in Miami.”

“Oh.” She starts a bit. “Sorry. I thought you were from my troop. I had an empty seat next to me.” There’s an edge to her voice.

“I bought my ticket at the last minute. I’ll be quiet, though, at least quieter than this group.”

“You’d kind of have to be.” She eyes a group of boys who are playing soccer with a squashed Bavarian cream donut.

“Where are you headed?”

“Happiest place on earth. I need a drink.”

It’s eight-thirty in the morning.

“Kidding.” She must see my rising eyebrows.

I can tell she wasn’t. “Sure. Where are you staying? I mean . . .” I realize this sounds stalkerish. “Are you camping? Because you’d really need a drink then.”

“No, thank God. We’re staying at the All-Star.”

The All-Stars are the cheaper Disney hotels, which are still pretty expensive, but nowhere Jonah would stay.

I nod. “So you have a bus picking you up?” I’m forming a plan in my head.

“I certainly hope so.” The donut sails past us at eye level. “Guess I should do something about that, huh?”

My mom wouldn’t put up with that crap for one second, but I say, “They’ll get tired soon.”

“They never get tired.”

Finally, one of the other moms takes the boys to the lounge car. The mom by me follows her, probably to get that drink. I take out the mirror and set it up between me and the window.

“Show me Jonah Prince.”

They’re off the airplane now. Jonah’s surrounded by people, bodyguards, an older, balding guy I think is his agent, and a girl I recognize from TV, Allegra Kendall. She used to be on this show Isabella likes,
What a Girl Needs
, and she looks basically, like every other teen star, the Demi Lovato model, with long, dark, wavy hair, brown eyes, and a ton of lipstick
.
She teeters on high-heeled boots and waves at a group of people inside the terminal as they walk across the tarmac.

“Can you be a little polite?” she says to Jonah. “Like, look up at them.”

“I’m dead tired,” he says.

“It’s that pill you took on the plane. Live in the now, Jonah. They’re your fans.” She says it through her teeth, still smiling and waving.

“I have a concert tonight. I shouldn’t get stressed out.” He tugs at his pants, which are so low in the crotch he looks like he shit his pants. “You don’t know what it’s like to have all these people demanding things of you.”