Until It Hurts to Stop (13 page)

“I guess this does help you remember how everything works,” Adriana says as we take apart our models at the end of class. “When you have to put it all together with your own hands, it sticks in your mind.”

“Yeah,” I say, tearing apart my simulated frame-shift mutation. For a minute, the whole room takes on a strangeness: the double helices mimicking what’s going on in my cells this very minute, which I would never even know about if it weren’t for bio class. It’s like a glimpse of something miraculous, mysterious, important: a piece of the blueprints for life itself.

Adriana says, “Did you ever look at your hand and think: ‘Wow, there are all these cells dividing right now’? I mean, do you ever think how this stuff we’re reading about is happening in our bodies, not just in the textbook?”

I stare at Adriana, unable to believe she has channeled my thoughts. When I don’t say anything, she flushes and turns away, dumping her blocks and pegs into the storage box.

Ethan Crannick waits at the door. His eyes are blank, gliding past me to settle on Adriana. Her voice gets even higher than usual, more animated, as she takes his hand. I slip away, putting distance between them and me. I can’t forget that Adriana is still Adriana. She and Raleigh used to trick me sometimes, tempt me to think the punishment might be over with. They would back off for a while, maybe even hold open a door for me or say something nice. Which made it all the more vicious when they started up again, never letting me have more than a day or two of rest.

Adriana and I may get along all right while we’re sitting at a lab bench, but it would be stupid to let down my guard.

eighteen

Vanessa is eating lunch with Nick and me.

It had to happen sooner or later. In the three days since I overheard her describe Nick’s kisses, I’ve seen her with him in the halls. Her name has flashed across his cell-phone screen.

Last weekend wasn’t a one-time thing. She really is his girlfriend.
She freshens her lip gloss, and the fluorescent cafeteria light bounces off it. I tried wearing lip gloss back in eighth grade, but I hated the way it felt on my mouth, the stickiness of it. Does Nick enjoy kissing lip gloss, I wonder? Does any guy? Or maybe some do and some don’t?
“
Bonjour,
Marguerite,” Vanessa says through shining lips.
“
Bonjour.
” I sigh.
“Are you going to join the French club? I’m president this year.”
“French club? Oh—no—I don’t think so.”
“I hear you and Nick have been trying to climb Crystal Mountain.”
“That’s right.” Has he told her about my panic attack? If he has, she doesn’t bring it up.
Nick plucks a French fry off Vanessa’s plate. I hate that, the casualness of it. The intimacy of his reaching over to her tray without asking, and the way she smiles and welcomes it. Especially since Nick has always been almost as closed off as I am, almost as shy, almost as slow to trust people. He mostly interacts with people by passing them a basketball. How can he be so relaxed with her?
It makes me feel so
extra.
Even though they’re including me in the conversation. The heat between them is impossible to ignore. Next thing you know, they’ll be heading up the homecoming committee and hosting joint beach parties, and doing whatever else class-couple types do.
I choke down my sandwich and tell myself not to be ridiculous. I know Nick, and he’s not about to fall into lockstep with Vanessa, exchanging cutesy nicknames, matching his clothes to hers.
And he’ll still be my hiking partner. Even if we can’t (okay, if
I
can’t) tackle the Cinnamon Range, we’ll still do the Cannon Lake and Hemlock Brook hikes, visit the county parks and wildlife preserves, the way we always have. We’ll still go to the woods.
I think.

Vanessa doesn’t ride home with us, maybe because she has her own car and lives in the opposite direction. Luis cranks up the music on the ride to his place, saying, “Listen to that guitar. Just
listen
to that!”

“Why?” Nick says. “Is it going to reveal a secret code?”

Luis grimaces at him. “You should hear these guys in concert! It’ll change your life.” In desperation, he turns to me. “Maggie, you know music. Isn’t that guitar incredible?”

“Piano’s my instrument.”

Luis rolls his eyes toward the car roof, groaning. But the truth is that I probably could appreciate the guitar more if I weren’t thinking so much about Vanessa, still feeling her presence at Nick’s side.

When we pull up at Luis’s and he’s getting out of the car, Nick stops him by saying, “Hey, Morales.”
“What?”
Nick gazes at him so seriously I start to wonder what’s wrong. Apparently, Luis does, too; his face takes on a waiting, even fearful, look.
“I wanted to let you know,” Nick says. “After hearing the rest of that song on the way over here . . .
my life is changed
.”
Luis swats him, but they’re both laughing as Luis climbs out of the car. “Hell, Cleary, I try to give your sad little life some meaning, and this is what I get.”
“Well, thanks for trying,” Nick says. Luis trudges up the driveway, shaking his head.
I get in the front, as usual. Maybe it would make sense for me to ride in the front the whole time, but we’ve always done it this way, with me switching seats halfway through the ride. I don’t mind. Luis has more of a front-seat personality than I do.
As Nick backs out of the driveway, I ask him, “Should I come over?”
“Better not. I’ve got a ton of homework to get through if I want to go out tonight.”
“Out—with Vanessa?”
“Uh-huh.”
I can’t stop thinking of them together, Nick kissing her shiny mouth.
The thing is, it’s none of my business anymore.
Besides, there’s nothing wrong with Vanessa. It’s not like Nick is hooking up with Raleigh Barringer. He deserves some happiness, right? Good for him.
I try to change my mental channel, but the same image keeps playing.
“What do you guys talk about, anyway?” I ask. “I know she’s not into hiking. Or basketball.”
“Well, last night we talked about how she wants to work in Africa.”
“Africa?”
“Yeah—that’s why she’s taking French. She wants to work for a relief organization.”
“She does? Wow. I didn’t know that.”
“Now you do.”
“Yes . . .” I try to imagine Vanessa doing relief work in Africa. I’ve never seen her with a spot on her shirt or a wrinkle in her pants. Her nails are never even chipped.
“And sometimes we talk about movies,” Nick continues.
“Oh.”
“Should I record our next conversation for you?”
“Nick!” I force a casual tone. “Yeah, do that. Might as well get a video clip, too.”
He laughs.
“When’s our next hike?” I ask.
“I haven’t thought about it. Why, when do you want to go?”
“This weekend?”
“I can’t—it’s my weekend to see my father.” He says “see my father” in the same tone of voice most people would use to say “get a tetanus shot.”
“Oh.”
“I’d rather hike with you, Maggie, believe me,” he says while I’m gathering my stuff. “Dad never knows what to do with me.”
I adopt an infomercial-announcer voice. “But you’re a multipurpose son, handy for a wide variety of household activities.”
“Ha-ha. He thinks I’m useless.”
“Why do you say that?”
“His whole life is proteins. What do I know about proteins? Once he told me I couldn’t tell an amino terminus from a carboxy terminus. I’m guessing that’s a great insult among biochemists.” He glances at his pile of homework in the back seat. “I’ll probably bring
Julius Caesar
with me. I have to finish reading it sometime.”

“Yeah, I can see you and your dad sitting around reading

Shakespeare. Maybe you can act out the parts.”
“Not unless I get to be Brutus.”
“Nick, I’m sensing a little hostility toward your father.” “Only a little?” Before I can answer, he says, “I should get going. I’ll call you later.” And I open the car door.

On Friday night, while Nick is with his dad and Sylvie’s with Wendy, I go to the local library to work on my history paper. I’m outlining an essay about unions and the labor movement when Darci Esposito passes my table with Raleigh Barringer at her heels.

My blood freezes in my veins. The girls don’t seem to see me, but head for the reference room at the back of the library. “Find your glasses and then let’s
go
,” Raleigh tells Darci. “How’d you manage to leave them here in the first place? Didn’t you notice that you couldn’t see?”

Every time I think I’ve gotten used to Raleigh being back in town, one glimpse sends me into fight-or-flight mode. I start typing again, but enough adrenaline floods my system to power the town for a week. Dad should hook me up to the grid. My fingers tremble on the keyboard as the junior high memories crowd my brain.
Messages would sweep through the neighborhood:
_everyone 
kick maggie tomorrow
.
maggie is the ugliest girl in seventh grade
.
tomorrow is trip maggie day
.
I knew about them because Virginia Loughlin, a pale, skinny girl who sat behind me in history, forwarded them to me. She was on the fringes herself, escaping their wrath only because I was the main target.
_i
’
_{m so sorry}
. . .
she would text me when she sent on the messages.
_i 
just want you to be prepared
. . . .
i
’
m sorry i can
’
t talk to you at school because they would get me
,
too
. . . .

I sit motionless as Darci and Raleigh come out of the reference room and pass me again. I might be a statue:
Girl Doing Homework
. They ignore me and I exhale, but my fingers still have trouble finding the right keys.

What if I had stuck out my foot when Raleigh passed my table? I could pretend it was an accident. Or I could look at her as she lay on the floor and say, “It must be Trip Raleigh Day.”

With my luck, she’d step right over my foot. Or
on
it, crushing my toes.
I don’t have the nerve to trip her, anyway. 

My phone vibrates in the quiet library. I check it and find a message from Nick: help! i’m stuck with a mad scientist

I type back: is this mad scientist by any chance related to you?

He replies: you guessed it. where are you?

restaurant
 
.
 
really on the sidewalk outside
—
supposed to be in the men
’
s room
.
 
he spent the last hour telling me what an idiot i am
.
 
i
’
m thinking of walking home
.

he
’
d come after you
.
true
.
 
the only way i can get through this weekend is to think about next weekend
.
 
i need a hike
.

so do i
.
crystal
?
ha
-
ha
.
i
’
m serious
.
 
get right back on the horse
,
 
and all that
.

I stare at my phone. I know I need to go back. The hiking trails are the one place I’ve felt like my real self, the one place I’ve belonged, and I can’t accept the defeat on Crystal. Once you give fear a toehold, it pushes for more. The thought of not going back—of letting my cringing failure stand forever— starts to creep under my skin. I don’t want to feel limited on the trails. Inadequate, the way I feel in the school halls.

But I had hoped to have a little more breathing room before trying again; I want to prepare. It’s only been a week. I type:

what
 
,
 
you have mountain fever now
?
i need to get away from here and forget about everything
else
.

Why should he want to forget about “everything?” What about Vanessa?
I don’t ask. I’m actually glad that he still wants to hike, that he won’t spend all his free time glued to her side. If only I felt more secure about tackling Crystal.

I answer: 
i don
’
t know if i can do it
.
think about it
,
 his message says. 
while i try to survive this weekend
.
you
’
ll survive
.
 
feel free to text the maggie lifeline anytime
.
 
thanks
,
 
lifeline
.

Back at home, I call Sylvie. “You busy?”
“Just trying to turn an old tennis racket into a banjo for my brother’s school talent show,” she says. “I was waiting for Wendy to call, but now I don’t think she’s going to.” “How is your brother going to strum a tennis racket?” “He doesn’t really have to play music. Just sing. ‘Oh! Susanna.’
Except he doesn’t sing it so much as yell it. What are you up to?” “Having a crisis. You know that mountain where I had a panic attack? Nick wants to go back.”
“Well, he can go back. You don’t have to.” That’s true, of course. But the thought of Nick going while I stay home staring at my idle boots and backpack is too much. Would he really go back alone? Or even with Vanessa? Maybe not with Vanessa. Nick has said that Crystal isn’t for beginners, and he’s right. “I want to go,” I tell Sylvie. “I’m just scared. But I want to prove I can do it.”
“Well, maybe you should. The first time I had to give a speech in class, when I was eight, I ran and hid behind the teacher’s desk. But after that, it got easier.”
I can’t imagine Sylvie hiding, Sylvie scared. Is she making up that story so I’ll feel better? Do you think I can do it?” I ask, fishing for a pep talk. “Sure, why not? You climbed that other mountain, right?” “But that was easier.”
“If I can make a banjo out of a tennis racket, which I’ve never done before, you can hike a trail, which you 
have
 done before.”
Her tone is light, joking, but I would swear there’s an edge of impatience to it. Or maybe she’s just tired.
I stop myself from begging for more reassurance, more guarantees. Instead, I tell her, “You’ve inspired me.” “Good.”
“Yes, I now believe I can make a fake banjo.”
She laughs, the edge dissolving from her voice.
After I hang up with her, I flip through my mushroom book, losing myself in the names. Saffron parasol, poison powder puff, velvet foot. Tawny milkcap, orange peel, gem-studded
puff ball. Honeycomb morel, mica cap, destroying angel. Maybe most people wouldn’t see this as a fun Friday night,
but I’ve never found a book as fascinating as my mushroom book. There’s so much power here: food or poison, life or death. In my guide, they’re mixed together, the edible ones and
the ones that kill. On the trail I never touch a mushroom, even if I think it’s safe.
You never know.
I reread the guide to the Crystal hike, picturing myself tackling it again. I try to mentally shepherd myself past the place where I froze last time: the ledges where the exposure, the sheer sense of height, made me dizzy. The spot where my legs locked, where every drop of confidence drained out the bottoms of my feet.