Untethered (4 page)

Thing about Tori is she’s toxic. She actually hung around me and Cassie for, oh, about three days freshman year. But I guess she didn’t like how well Cassie and I clicked. How we finished each other’s sentences, how we shared everything. Cassie wasn’t gorgeous back then, but she was still the more confident, the more with it, of the two of us. And of course she didn’t have strange collapsing spells. So Tori cornered her one day and forced her to choose: Tori or me. Cassie chose me. The next day Tori decided to make my life miserable. She hasn’t let up on me ever since.

Now Tori grins her venomous grin. “Should have known he wasn’t your boyfriend. Because, Psycho, with a boyfriend? Not likely.”

I don’t need this. Not on the first day. So I ignore her and shove my books into the locker. I know from experience that she’ll go away if I don’t take the bait. I don’t need the whole school seeing her make fun of me.

But Cassie, apparently, doesn’t care about the whole school. “Just shut up, Tori. Leave Sylvie alone.”

“Make me.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Leave it, Cass. She’s not worth it.”

“Oh, I’ll make it worth your time, Psycho.” Tori moves closer to us, swinging her hips.

Kevin comes up to us then and there. For a second, my stomach flutters and I remember the fifth grade. He’s still a hero. He’s here to save me. All that’s missing are the braces.

“What’s going on?” he demands.

Bite her
, I think.

But the only thing that bites is the situation. Because Cassie glares at Tori, then Kevin. “Absolutely nothing’s going on,” she says and pushes me and Sam down the hall. “Come on.”

My face is on fire. Once we’re far enough away from Tori, I whisper, “Don’t do that again.”

Cassie looks surprised. “What?”

“Treat me like I’m a kid. Talk for me.”

“Sorry. I was only trying to help.”

“Don’t.” Now that Cassie has curves, she’s acting like my mother. I’m sure she sees me differently than she used to. Now I’m Psycho Skinny Sylvie Sydell, her little friend who has to wear two pairs of jeans, one on top of the other, so as not to seem so disgustingly frail. Her little friend who can’t be trusted to drive a car or ride a bike because her sinews might soften all of a sudden and cause an accident.

“Just don’t,” I say again, angrier than I know I should be.

The morning drags on forever. I check my cell between classes and Cassie’s texted me an apology. By lunchtime we’re friends again.

Sam catches up to us as we’re walking into the cafeteria. “Can I sit with you?”

I stop and let the wave of people pass in front of us through the double doors. “God, Sam. Don’t you have
anyone
to sit with?”

My brother looks down at his shoes – some sneakers Mom got at Target for $11.99. He’s small and skinny like me —a little too fragile looking. It’s only day one at high school, but I can already tell the next four years aren’t going to be good to him. I mean, he barely got through orientation without crying.

So, while I really don’t want him to sit with me (I see enough of him at home, okay?), I still want to keep an eye on him. Make sure he’s doing okay. Plus, today is extra tough: I know Dad’s leaving is killing him because it’s killing me. “Fine, you can sit with us,” I say. “Just for a few days.”

Behind his glasses, his eyes close in relief. Then he nods and smiles and follows Cassie and me through the lunch line.

“I can’t believe Mr. Crawford is doing it again.” Cassie takes a cup and pours herself a Suicide Mix, every couple seconds moving the cup down the line on the soda fountain to put in a new flavor until it’s full. The end result smells something like cat pee. “It was great and all the last couple of years, him giving out Twix bars for geezer rock trivia questions. But don’t you think at some point the guy should teach Geography instead of the Rolling Stones?”

Moving my tray down the line, I wrinkle my nose. What
is
that — refried beans or vomit? “Really, Cass, you don’t think knowing the length of Mick Jagger’s tongue is as important as knowing where the Rocky Mountains are?”

Sam leans over, his eyebrows knotted. “What’s a McJagger?”

I ignore him and keep talking to Cassie. “Yeah, well, you haven’t had Trig yet. Mrs. Zimmer already gave us homework. Lots of it.”

When we finally find enough stuff that resembles food, we head to the cash register. Kevin and his friends are right ahead of us.

“It’s great that he’s got
A
lunch,” I whisper to Cassie, feeling my stomach roll at the sight of his back. “I thought for sure he’d change his lunch to
B
, to be with Samantha his beloved.”

Cassie shrugs.

“Unless they broke up since this morning and we just didn’t hear about it yet.” I slide my tray onto the counter. “But why would they do that? They’re inseparable.”

Cassie shakes her head and pulls her wallet out of her purse.

I look over at Kevin, heading to the table with his friends. He glances back, eyes on Cassie.

Oh, God.
He doesn’t want to be with Samantha. He wants to be with Cassie.

I must be standing there with my mouth open, because the lady with the hairnet behind the cash register snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Three dollars!”

I pay. But it doesn’t matter. I no longer have an appetite.

Five

August: An In-School Out-of-Body Experience

Last hour of the day, I have my elective. Art. The familiar smell of turpentine pricks my nose as I take a spot behind one of the beat-up tables. Both Mrs. Stilke and my fellow art-freak, Nelson Strange (yes, that’s his name, poor kid) smile at me.

Nelson gives me a thumbs up as I slide onto the stool next to his. His thumbnail is painted black. As are the rest of his nails, though somehow the overall effect is actually masculine. There’s a hole in his nose where a ring should be. School policy doesn’t allow obvious body piercing. However, there’s apparently no policy against Nelson’s electric blue hair. Go figure.

“Hey,” I whisper, and nudge him with my elbow. “Looks like she’s still got a thing for you.” I’m talking about Melissa Scott, the center on the girls’ basketball team, who’s sitting on his other side. She sits next to him every year and flashes her long legs in his direction. She likes to play up her assets.

Nelson blushes and hooks a combat boot onto the rung of his stool. He narrows his eyes at me. “You okay, Sylvie?” Leave it to Nelson. Haven’t seen the guy in almost three months and right away he knows something’s up with me. Like every time I’m upset I have a tattoo on my forehead announcing it. Today it could read:
Shadows Sucked Me Pale
or
Dad Moved Out.
I don’t talk about the shadows, but eventually I’ll end up telling Nelson about my dad. After Cassie, he’s really the only friend I’ve got. We sat next to each other in Mrs. Stilke’s Art class freshmen year and hit it off from day one. He’s got blue hair; I’ve got a blue outlook on life. Makes us buddies, I guess. Plus he’s never called me
Psycho
, despite witnessing a couple of my “incidents.”

Nelson’s about to say something else when Mrs. Stilke stands up and demands our attention.

“Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen. I hope your summer was nice.” She pushes a strand of jet-black hair from her face. “We’ll be starting off simply today. Just a charcoal sketch.” We all go to the back of the room and gather our materials together. When we’re at our places again, Mrs. Stilke continues. “I’m going to need a model.” Several hands shoot up like rockets – it’s a chance to get out of actually doing the assignment and to just sit still for the next couple of classes.

I stare down at the table, my hands tucked between my legs. No way do I want my classmates to study my features, draw them on paper. I’d rather die first.

“Sylvie? I’d like you to do it,” Mrs. Stilke says in a firm voice.

I whip my head up and let out a little squeak. All the blood drains out of my face, maybe my body, too. I’m sure if I get up, there’ll be a puddle of it on the floor. “No ... I ... uh ... can’t, Mrs. Stilke.”

“Yes, you can and you will. You’re the one in this class who needs the least amount of practice sketching faces.” She waves for me to come forward out of my seat. “Come on.”

“But—”

“No buts. Come on. You’ve got an interesting face. Great for sketching.”

Interesting.
A nice way of saying aesthetically challenged. I swallow.
Mrs. Stilke motions again for me to come to the middle of the room. Unless I commit suicide right here and now with the sharp point of my charcoal pencil, there’s no way out of it.

The second I get up, all the blood I thought I’d lost comes rushing into my face. I walk stiffly around the semi-circle of tables towards the center of the room and the tall stool Mrs. Stilke has put there. I don’t look around, just keep my eyes locked onto a point on the back wall. Big mistake. Because somebody put their foot out. On purpose or I just didn’t see it. Either way, my foot hooks theirs and all of a sudden I’m kissing the floor. There’s a loud thud as my forehead smacks the concrete.

Ooof.
The pain. It’s piercing and it squeezes, squeezes, squeezes my head. My body tingles and shivers.
Oh, no. No, no. Here it comes. Again.
There’s a shifting at the base of my skull. And then smooth as butter, I slide out of my body and hover in the air right over a paint-splattered table. Mrs. Stilke is helping my skin and bones off the floor. Already there’s a large, red lump on my body’s forehead.

Real attractive there, Sylvie
.

I float upward, through the ceiling and into Mrs. Zimmer’s Trig class. I stop just above her desk. Her book, the teacher’s edition, is open. And smack in line with my vision is page 3, number 13. I see the answer in red,
x = 30° and x = 150°.
I’m about to commit the rest of the page to memory, when suddenly I feel a tug. I zip back down through the floor and with jolt I’m me again. The physical me.

“Are you okay, Sylvie?” Mrs. Stilke’s eyes are concerned behind her purple glasses. “We should get you to the nurse.”

I feel woozy for a second and kind of weave around as I stand up, almost toppling over. Mrs. Stilke grabs me before I fall.
There are a few giggles and some gasps. This is where I know someone will sing-song, “Psy-cho!”, but Mrs. Stilke whips around and the room is quiet. “Nelson, take Sylvie to the nurse. Now.”

My head hurts like a son-of-a-bitch, so I’m actually glad to go to the nurse’s office. Nelson gently helps me out of the room and we walk together upstairs. He’s holding my arm, like I’m some old lady.

“Looks ... uh ... painful,” he says.

“Yeah.” I put my hand to my forehead. It’s already swollen to the size of a Big Mac. “Geesh, the size of this thing. There goes my modeling career.”

Nelson’s blue eyes go wide. They’re a shade lighter than his hair. “You never told me you’re a model.”

“Yeah. The Before pictures for plastic surgery.”

His brow wrinkles up like an accordion.

“It’s a joke, Nelson.”

“Oh. Not very funny,” he says and smiles at me. He has dimples when he smiles. “But you could be. You’re pretty enough. Or you will be when the swelling goes down.” He nudges me gently with his elbow.

“Yeah, right.” I give a sharp laugh.

“Hey.” He slows down. His combat boots make dull thuds in the hallway. His voice is unsure, questioning. “Are you okay? I mean, really?”

“What, now you’re gonna start calling me Psycho like everyone else?”

He blanches. “No! No, hell, no. Besides, nobody calls you Psycho. ”

“Everybody calls me Psycho, Nelson.”

“Tori Thompson’s not everybody. She doesn’t even count as—”

We reach the nurse’s office. “Here’s my stop,” I say, cutting him off.

“Want me to come in with you?”

I shake my head — a painful mistake. “No. But thanks.”

He nods his blue head at me but doesn’t let go of my arm.

“Uh, Nelson?” I say, looking down at his hand, and he finally loosens his grip. He blushes then turns back down the hall.

“That’s quite a knot,” Nurse Carey says as I come in. She asks me questions about the fall. I tell her everything. Well, everything that is except the leaving my body part.

I’ve got a good rap sheet here in the nurse’s office. For all the times my soul’s gone AWOL. Since freshman year, it’s happened a lot. Any pain or strong emotion can send my spirit flying. Luckily, most of the time I go out and back in before anyone notices. But sometimes ... sometimes the cataplexy kicks in and my body collapses. That gets noticed.

Not exactly the kind of thing that wins a popularity contest.

Nurse Carey pokes and prods and says, “Hmmm” a lot, but in the end she decides to believe me that it’s just a plain old bump from a plain old fall and takes care of it.

She lets me stay in the office until the hour is over. When the final bell rings, she summons Sam to come and accompany me, then shoos us out. “Go home and get some rest in a stress-free environment,” she says.

Sam and I almost burst out laughing. Stress-free? Our house?

As if.

Six

August: Monday, Funday

Despite Nurse Carey’s order to go home and rest, I don’t. Sam and I head to our usual Monday extracurricular activities at the community center. Sam is part of Science for Scouts, a program that basically teaches five-year-olds about nature, like bugs and stuff. He has terrariums in his room with stick bugs, a praying mantis and other creepy things. They’re illegal in most places, but since Sam teaches with them he’s been alllowed to keep them as pets.

Luckily, no one at St. Anthony’s knows. Because, can you say
loser
?

My thing is art class. For the after school program designed to keep little kids off the street. Last year I got paid. Just minimum wage and materials, but I made some cash. Then the program lost part of their funding and my job was cut. I was furious. Not because of the pay thing. But, because in my experience, adults don’t want to help kids, not really. They just want to shut them up. Especially if it involves paying for a program to benefit kids who aren’t even their own.