Somebody Up There Hates You (9 page)

He waves a hand and takes off, swinging the door almost all the way closed on his way out.

So that Kelly-Marie and I can sit there and drink our Cokes and talk and laugh and flirt. Just like any other teenagers, anywhere in the whole wide world.

10

I
T'S GOING FINE—TURNS OUT
Kelly-Marie is a freshman at Hudson High and she's heard of me because I'm a senior—or I would be if I ever went to school. And I'm sort of famous, in a lousy way: the boy that's always sick. She doesn't say it, so I do: “Yep, that's me. The Incredible Dying Boy.” And then I feel like a real jerk because her blue eyes get so sad. I laugh. “Not really,” I say, trying not to sound totally lame.

She brightens up. “Really? You're not?”

I look at her and I say the stuff I usually say to my mom when she's down. “Hell, no. Listen, right now, right this minute, there's a whole bunch of science geeks, right? I mean, like, all of these super-smart research dudes, and they're working away like madmen, day and night and fucking day again. I mean, these guys, they're at Harvard and MIT and Columbia and shit. And they're up to their asses in test tubes and gene therapies and all kinds of secret stuff. They're on it, believe me. Coming up with the cure. I totally trust those guys. We expect a breakthrough any day now.” In my head, to myself, I go, Yeah, right. But she's buying it, I can tell. Just like my mom does; people believe what they want to believe, I guess.

Kelly-Marie is nodding, smiling. I'm feeling better that I made her feel better. Then the door swings open and there's this skinny, fuzz-headed, brown-eyed girl standing there: Sylvie. Wearing a black tank top and black—I don't know what you call them, like leggings or tights or something, with her feet bare. She's just, like, hovering there, all in black, like the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, you know? She's got this scary smile on her face, and I notice how she inherited her father's sharp teeth. “Yeah,” she says, all cool and snarky. “Those science guys, they're working on it, for sure. No doubt they'll figure it all out, in, say, another couple of years. May be just a tad late for us, but what the hell. I'm sure
somebody
will be cured. That's what counts. The good of the human race. Not some puny little individuals. Right, Richard?”

Sylvie walks into the room—walks, mind you. And she's pretty steady, too. She's not even holding on to anything, that's how determined—and mad, I think—she is. She goes right over to Kelly-Marie and looks her over, sort of like she's a pile of dog shit someone left on the carpet. “Hey,” she says. She holds out a bony white hand. She's completely elegant and looks like that actress in the old movies. Audrey Hepburn, that's it, in the movie where she's the princess trying to be normal. Except Sylvie's totally in control, directing the whole scene. “I'm Sylvia,” she says. “Richard's girlfriend.”

Kelly-Marie kind of slumps. Suddenly, she's just plain Kelly, a fat freshman girl in a weird outfit, trying way too hard to look cool. She stands up and takes hold of Sylvie's hand for one millisecond. “Hey,” she says. “I—um—just came over to return Richard's blanket.” She gestures toward my starry cape. “I'm going now.” And she scoots out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Sylvie stands there with her hands on her hips, glaring first at the door, then at me. “So. How'd you misplace your precious blankie, Richard? Would you care to explain that to me?”

“Not sure,” I say. And, really, I'm not sure, right? I mean, there are a few possibilities, like when Kelly-Marie was touching me or when . . . I think it wisest not to mention the possibilities. “Sometime Halloween night.”

“You were with that girl Halloween night? That stupid fat, trashy, pathetic wannabe Goth?”

I should defend Kelly-Marie. I really should. Because she's a nice girl, kind and generous. With great breasts. But I'm withering under the heat of Sylvie's eyes. “I wasn't
with
her with her. Just a girl I met at a bar.” That sounds, I have to admit, sort of cool actually, so I take it one bit further. “She was dressed as Marie Antoinette. Really creative costume. Carrying her head.”

“Uh-huh. I'm sure her costume was an absolute scream.” Sylvie presses the button to slide my bed rails down and then she slithers in next to me. She throws one leg over my hips and moves one hand across my belly. She whispers into my ear, lips touching my skin. “Carrying her head, huh? And giving head, too, I imagine. Right?”

“Um. I really can't reveal—”

“Bullshit,” she says. Those cool, thin fingers reach my crotch and her tongue circles my ear. “You know what? There's something very attractive about a sexually experienced man, Richard. Very much a turn-on. And, as it happens, my mom and the boys went home early this afternoon; one of the twins is sick. And my dad's coming in late. So. . . .” Her fingers start to stroke.

I think I might die right then and there, happy, with her hand moving on me. I think I might skip right over death and go straight to heaven. The hand moves faster, and Sylvie's teeth close on my earlobe. And then, sooner than I'd like to admit, I do go to heaven, or something like it, right there in my cowboy nightgown. Yippee ki o, ki ay.

For the first time in my life, I get to experience afterglow. Sylvie's all curled up and I'm rubbing her back, slipping my hand under her shirt, pulling it up around her neck and cupping her breasts in my hands. Her butt is pressed right up against me. I got to say that I'm feeling so tired that it's hard to just be there, in the moment, you know? Like, I want so much to
be here,
knowing that I've got my hands on a girl's breasts, like this is something I have to take in, just totally absorb, so it'll be a sweet memory forever. But I'm fading. In and out. And I think Sylvie is, too, she's so quiet. But her breathing, it's raspy and quick. I can feel every breath she takes, her little ribs like sticks under my fingers, barely moving up and down. I can feel every bone in her back, too, sharp against my chest. I tuck my head over hers and feel myself letting go, sliding into sleep. But she turns over all of a sudden and jostles me awake. She lies on her side and scoots up on the pillows so we're eye to eye. I notice that her eyelashes and eyebrows are just starting to come back, soft black bits of haze. Her eyes are really bright.

“Are you scared, Richard?” she asks.

I want to look away. I feel my eyes move away from hers. “Of your dad? Shit, yes.”

She grabs my face with both hands. “Look at me,” she says, her voice rough. “And don't be an ass. I asked you a real question and I want a real answer. Are you afraid, Richard?”

I look into her eyes. They look hot, like two coals. Maybe she's got a fever. More like she
is
a fever. “Okay, yeah,” I say. “I'm scared to death.” I try to chuckle on the last word, show her it's a kind of sick joke, but I can't. I feel my own eyes get wet. Serious she wants, serious she gets. “Yes, Sylvia,” I say. “I am most definitely scared.”

She nods and lets go of my face. “I thought so.” She scootches back a bit and turns on her back, putting her hands under her head. “Well, I'm not.”

I lean up on an elbow, looking down at her. “No? Really? Come on, you got to be serious, too, Sylvia. I was.”

She smiles. “It's true. I'm not scared, Richard. Because it's not going to happen, not yet. I'm going to get better.” She closes her eyes and her voice gets sleepy, but she keeps going. “Not because of some scientific miracle, either. Just because I will not allow it. It is not acceptable.” There's a long sigh, and then she's sound asleep.

For a while, I stay there, just looking at her face. With her eyes closed, all the life goes out of it. All the fierceness disappears, and what's left is the tiniest, most fragile little face you ever saw. You can see the skull under her skin, her jawbone and the dips of her temples, deep blue. Her skin is dry, like thin paper. She hasn't got the strength, I think. She's just too little. I put both my arms around her and wrap her up in my legs. I try to make a cave for her, like I can keep her totally protected somehow. I pull her in and fall asleep.

***

Sometime, who knows how long later, the lights in the room blast on and grab me out of sleep. I look up, all blind and confused. And Br'er Bertrand steps in. “Richard,” he booms, in his heartiest Br'er voice, “I've got something for you.”

Now, I'd like to say, for the record, that Sylvie is so tiny that she could have simply remained still and silent under the sheet and probably been invisible. She really could have. We could have gotten away with it, totally. But you got to know by now that discretion is not one of Sylvie's strong points. No indeed. Sylvie is what my grandma calls a pisser. So the girl sits straight up, tosses off the sheet and stretches her arms over her head, letting her naked breasts point toward the sky. Between them, there's that huge railroad track scar, all exposed, red and shiny in the bright light. And she does not seem to give a shit. Slowly, she pulls her tank top into place and then, slowly, slowly, slowly, swings her legs over the side of the bed. She smiles at the Br'er and says, “Good evening. Richard and I were just celebrating evensong. We like to join in prayer, every evening. Really, really join. The couple that prays together, stays together.” She walks out of the room like a tiny queen, hips swinging.

To say that the good Br'er is speechless is like saying the Grand Canyon is a hole in the ground. The man's jaw actually falls to his chest, and he sits down, hard, on the bedside chair.

I sit up, tuck my rumpled and still-damp cowboy gown neatly under the sheet and pull my blanket around my shoulders. “What have you got for me that's so important you woke me up in the middle of the night?” I say.

His red hair is greasy, and his black shirt has mustard—or something yellow—dripped down the front. He shakes his head. “Richard,” he says. “I cannot condone—”

I lean forward and push the call button on my bed. Then I point a finger in his fat face. “Who asked you? Who asked you to condone anything? I want you out of my room, now.” I'm yelling and losing my breath, but I keep on yelling. “Whatever happened to privacy, man? That's a basic human right, and you violate it every time you come in here, don't even knock, and start preaching your crap. I have rights, man. I do not have to be subjected to this—”

“Richard, what is it?” Jeannette is in the doorway.

“It's him,” I yell. “He comes in here, without even knocking, and he forces me to listen to his bullshit. Make him get out. I want to be left alone.”

Br'er Bertrand stands up. He's shaking, and if anyone ever wanted to smack a sick kid, it's him. His face is purple. “You were hardly alone, were you?” Spit flies in my direction. He flings himself around, spitting toward Jeannette. “She was naked!” he says. “In this boy's bed!”

Jeannette comes in and puts a hand on the Br'er's chest. “Just leave,” she says. “You're upsetting my patient.”

The man sort of deflates, then he points at a big envelope that he dropped on the floor. “I was simply delivering this,” he says. “A package from the boy's uncle. That is all. And this is the thanks I get.” And he turns and walks out, his butt held so tight that even his pants are clenched.

Jeannette puts her hands over her face and rubs, hard. “She was naked?” she says. “Let me get this straight. You had a naked girl in your bed with you? Now I wonder. Who might that little Lady Godiva be?” She comes over and lifts my hand, feeling my pulse. “God, boy, you're going to have a heart attack. Lean back, now. You got to relax, Richard. Calm down, now. Breathe.”

I lean back and take some breaths. I'm dizzy as all hell, it's true.

She waits until my heartbeat slows down and then she sighs. “Okay, now you want to tell me what's going on here? And, please Lord, say it's not something that's going to get me fired. You came real close last time, with your little tricks.” She sits down on the chair. “I'm tired, son. I really am. So just spit it out.”

I nod. “I don't know why that guy makes me so mad, but he does. Like, he just barges in, middle of the night and—”

“Richard, it's seven thirty
P.M
., that's all. I know that because it means I'm only four and a half hours into my shift, with three and a half to go.”

“Huh,” I say. “Thought it was much later.” How, I think, could all of that happen in a few hours? Kelly-Marie and Sylvie and everything? Like my whole life changed in, what, a flash? Like time is getting compressed or something? Like I've gone into warp speed? Entirely possible. Even makes a kind of strange sense, time altering its flow in this place.

“Yeah, well, that's not important. I repeat,
who
was naked in here? What
she
was in here, anyway?”

I close my eyes and say, with dignity, “I cannot reveal that. My mama raised a gentleman.”

She actually starts to laugh and she stands up. “Right. But let me say one thing, Mr. Prince-Among-Men. If you happen to be fooling around with that Sylvie girl, her daddy is going to skin you like a rabbit. And put you in a stew. Although,” she kind of mutters to herself, “how much harm you two can do, in your state, well . . .” She clicks her tongue. “Just don't do it on my shift, okay? Please, please, please.”

I open my eyes, and her brown face is soft. “Sylvie says she's going to get better,” I say, real quiet. “She totally believes it. You think that's possible?”

Her lips go still and she shakes her head. “Oh, honey. I don't know.”

“What are the odds?”

She sighs. “Odds? I don't go by odds. Not anymore. I've seen too much.” She bends over my bed, straightening the sheets.

“Jeannette, do you ever, you know, pray?”

“Huh. Pray? That's a good question. I guess I might, but I don't assume I got God's ear, you know, like some people do. I mean, look where I work. How the heck would I know who to pray
for
around here?”