Now That You're Here (Duplexity, Part I) (24 page)

I tell them the truth. I tell them everything.

About Danny showing up in class that day and how he came from another universe. About Warren and me trying to figure out how to help him. About Danny's nightmares that pull him away somewhere else and how we built an EMP device to try to help him get home but it failed.

They don't believe me, of course. Dad accuses me of lying, of being on drugs, of not being grateful for all they've done, giving me opportunities that others only dream of. Mom diagnoses me with depression, low self-esteem, poor impulse control, a personality disorder evidenced by self-deception. She picks up the phone to make an appointment with her shrink, but before she can dial, I do something I haven't done in years.

I raise my voice.

“I'm not a machine. You can't just feed in information and output good grades.” I turn to Mom. “And you can't just start caring fifteen years too late and expect it to be enough.”

It feels good to yell.

They look at me like I've lost my mind, then they lay into each other. Ten years of ugliness explodes right there in Mom's kitchen.

Instead of listening to them shout in each other's faces, I slip down the hall to my room. They just keep debating whose fault it is I'm ruining my life, accusing each other of giving me too much freedom and not enough, of letting me watch too much television and too little, of letting me eat the wrong things and read the wrong things and think the wrong things.

That's my parents, blaming Twinkies. Are the other Eevee's parents as ridiculous as mine?

I stare out my window, hoping he'll be out front but knowing he won't. Where did he go? The foster home? Will he be eating out of the garbage again? I curl up on my bed and cry.

When I can't cry anymore, and when I can't stand the yelling, I crawl into my closet and wrap the sleeves of a sweatshirt around my head to drown everything out. Suddenly I'm six years old again, ankles crossed and arms around my knees in the safety of the darkness. I hum until all I can hear is my own voice. What would the other Eve do in this situation? She wouldn't cry or hide. She would never have gotten caught in the first place.

A sound that isn't shouting or humming carries through the sweatshirt. Ringing. I let the sweatshirt fall away from my ears. The yelling has stopped, and only the phone disturbs the quiet. I slide the closet door open partway. And in the half-light, I see it.

Did you find it?
he'd asked at the end of our perfect day.

I touch the pencil lines on the inside of the closet door. Danny drew us sitting knee to knee under the Canal Park overpass, surrounded by street art. Every detail is amazing, from our initials on the walls—
EV + DOA
—to our entwined hands.

It's been right there all along.

The front door slams. I crawl out of the closet and watch out the window as Dad's car pulls away. Either he's had enough, or something is wrong.

There's a knock at my door. “Eevee?”

Mom's face is pale. “That was Danny on the phone.”

My stomach drops. “Where is he? What's wrong?”

“He's in jail. Your father's gone to bail him out.”

“I just don't understand why you thought you had to lie.”

Mom and I take turns pacing the living room, waiting for news from Dad. My eyes are so dry from crying I want to claw them out of my head. I don't have the energy to tell Mom
again
that I'm not lying, so I just say what she wants to hear. “I'm sorry.”

“Honey, I was fifteen once. I know how strange it is, having all of these changes going on in your brain and body.”

“
Mom,
I—”

She holds up her hand. “And I might be old, but I'm still human. I know what it's like to have a boy take interest in you.”

“Mom, really, it's—”

“It's exciting. It makes you feel alive. But sometimes those feelings can cloud your judgment. Make you do foolish things.”

I laugh. “Like you ever did anything foolish.”

“I did. And I'd tell you about it, too, except I don't want to give you any ideas.”

I raise my eyebrows. Whatever she's done, I don't want to hear it.

She sits beside me and takes my hands in hers. “Listen, I know we're not a typical family. And I know I've been too busy trying to get my new career off the ground. It's a lot to handle, especially on top of school and a social life. But whatever's going on, you can always come talk to me.”

“I know, but…”

“But what?”

I shrug. “It's like you're always trying to fix me or change me into something I'm not.”

She sits up a little straighter, surprised. “Oh.” Her hands fidget in her lap. “I—I suppose I am guilty of that. I don't mean to be. It's just…Sometimes I'm afraid you're going to end up like me, like I was before I realized I didn't like who I'd become.” She takes my hands and looks me in the eye. “I don't want that to happen to you.”

“I don't either.” My voice is pinched in my throat. “But maybe if you let me figure out how I am now, I won't have to change it all later.”

She nods. “Less fixing, more listening. I can do that.” She hugs me and for the first time in a long time, I don't fight it.

“Mom?” We both dab at our eyes. “What is Dad going to do with Danny after he's out?”

“Take him home, I suppose.”

I rocket from the couch. “He can't.”

“It's for the best.”

“Danny's foster dad will kill him.”

“He'll be CPS's worry now. They have systems in place—”

I don't wait for her to finish. I leave by the front door and she doesn't stop me.

Outside, I sit in the grass, in the spot where we'd sat that perfect night, and try to figure out how he could've landed himself in jail. He's smarter than that, even if he doesn't follow rules.

Doubts wiggle their way into my thoughts. What if he isn't who he said he is? What do I know about him, really? And the Danny I do know—the one I've known since sixth grade—well, the cops probably know him by name. I sit for a long time, feeding the doubts with all kinds of awful ideas.

Later, after the stars have shifted in the sky, headlights glare down the street. I recognize the sound of Dad's car before he turns into the driveway and kills the engine. I watch from the shadows as he walks toward Mom's.

No Danny.

I don't stick around for the fireworks. Instead, I sneak around the back of Dad's house and get Danny's bike. I have to find him.

I scrawl my name across the form and hand the officer the clipboard. He drops it onto the counter and opens a plastic bag.

“One wallet.” He doesn't look at me. “One pen.”

There it is, the sum of my existence in this world on display for all to see. And neither actually belongs to me. I stuff the wallet and pen into my back pocket and say thanks, but the officer's already moved on to his next incarcerated loser.

Sid stands by the exit with his arms crossed, his face like a brewing storm. I didn't want to call him, but who else is there? Brent? Yeah, right. I'd end up in the morgue.

When I get close enough to talk to him, Sid turns and walks out, clanging his car keys against his thigh with each step. I follow him, expecting the door to slam behind me, but it has one of those slowing arms on it and I have to actually push it shut, then hurry to catch up. Sid's already in his Volvo. I get in and sling the seat belt across my lap, inhale to speak, but he clears his throat and starts the engine. Gives two loud revs.

Right. Okay. Silence is good. I can do silence.

Sid backs out of the space and the car pushes forward into the night. Clock on the dash reads 8:18. Three hours in a holding cell, watching my back and studying the scraped paint on the bars. A guy in the next cell was tripping something fierce. Rolling on the floor and yowling like a cat. No idea where they stuffed Germ and Zinc-Neil. I touch the knob on my head where Germ clocked me. Pull away my hand expecting to see more blood, but there's none.

God, what an idiot. What was I thinking, getting in that car with them?

The streetlights paint a slow strobe across the hood, the dash, my knees, and repeat. Sid's hands grip the steering wheel. My own are clammy. I wipe them on my jeans and clear my throat to speak, expecting him to shut me up again. But he doesn't. Instead, he just smolders.

So I do what neither of us expects.

I tell him the truth.

“I'm not from here. I'm from another universe.” My voice sounds like someone else, someone not me. Sid just stares ahead, turns on the blinker, makes a right.

“See, there isn't just one universe. There are lots of them. And somehow I crossed from mine to here. We think it had to do with the EMP, but now we're not sure.”

The car accelerates. Sid merges onto the freeway, heading north. The streetlights blink by.

“There's an Eevee in my universe, too, but she's not like your Eevee. She's…” Adjectives race through my brain, but I stick with what's safe. “She's an artist.” When he still doesn't respond, I add, “A really good one.”

Sid navigates through traffic, weaving from one lane to the next, always using his blinker. He may drive fast, but he drives responsibly.

“She and Warren have been trying to help me. There's this…thing
…that keeps happening, almost pulling me back to my universe, but it's like it loses its grip on me. I don't know. It's weird. But anyway, they were…trying…”

Sid passes the Thunderbird Road exit. Where is he going?

“…Were trying to help me get back to my world. And I thought it was going to work, and the thing is…”

He takes the Bell Road exit and I realize where we're headed. The car sails through the green light and makes such a sharp left turn that my hand instinctively grips the door. Sid accelerates again, the needle hovering at ten over. I swallow and continue.

“The thing is, I realized I don't want to leave. I mean, I miss my family, of course. But if I go back, if I leave…”

Even in the dark of the car I can see the tightness in Sid's face.

“I don't want to leave her. I don't want to leave Eevee.”

He swings a left onto 39th and barrels south. Slows into the final turn and eases the car to a stop. The foster home is dark. Sid stretches his fingers, keeping his palms on the wheel. The air is thick with anger. His voice holds no uncertainty.

“You stay away from her.”

He doesn't look at me. Doesn't see me nod. As soon as the car door closes behind me, he's gone. Two red-eye taillights glaring, threatening.

Like hell I'm staying here.

When I'm sure Sid's car is gone, I skirt the front yard of the foster house to get at the garage without being seen. I'm sure I saw an old bike there. The light from the television flickers through the window. There are voices, but I can't tell if it's Brent and Sooz talking or the people on TV. They've got to know what happened. Whatever authority monitors Danny's life must have called by now.

Or maybe not. Maybe they don't track what happens here. Maybe these kids have slipped through the system. Until I reported it, no one seemed to notice they were being bullied by that disgusting excuse for a man, and who knows whether they've done anything about it since then.

The garage door sticks when I try to lift it, and rumbles ominously when it comes unstuck. I'm trying to slide it open as slowly and softly as possible, but pressure builds in my chest and my eyes blur. No. Not now. I crouch down to keep from falling. Try to relax, to keep breathing. It feels like a car is parked on my lungs. A female voice slithers through the static.

He's one of them.

Her perfume colors blue across the haze.

Can't be caught here. I struggle to stave off the sounds and images, but it's no good. Through the haze, I hear Eevee's voice.

All the proof you need is right here.

Shapes move through a blinding light. Whatever's happening, it's bad. Real bad. I can't let this happen. Can't let it take me. Where is the other Danny? Why isn't he fighting back?

There's something hard and cold in my hand. I slam it down, feel the jolt rocket through my arm.

Lock him up.

I slam my fist down again and again until the pulsing eases and my empty fist hits the solid floor beneath me. It's dark. The smell of her perfume is gone, replaced by dirt and gasoline.

What is she doing there? Where was I?

I cough the tightness from my chest. Pull myself up using the bumper of Brent's truck. My body feels heavy, exhausted. I wait for my eyes to adjust to the dark, then reach along the wall for the light switch.

Near the shelves against the wall is a pink ten-speed. A girl's bike. Well, at least it's wheels. It'll get me where I need to go, which is anywhere far from here.

I fumble over the lawn mower, the cobwebbed high chair and rusted toolboxes. Slip the bike out of its place. Press my thumb into the wheels. They're soft but they'll get the job done.

The gears chatter as I push off. Maybe if I pedal hard enough, this bubblegum ten-speed can outrun what's chasing me.