Not Otherwise Specified (25 page)

So I give infinite, enormous thank-yous to Leah Goodreau, who draws me beautiful pictures; to Seth Keating, my rock; and Abby, Kim, and Saul, my beautiful family. I know reading this one might not have been the easiest for you, and your support and bravery mean the world to me.

My agent, John Cusick, continues to be everything I need and more, and Liesa Abrams, Michael Strother, the immortal Bethany Buck, and the entire Pulse team sparkles with their enthusiasm and their indulgence of my wild stubbornness. A special shout-out to Karina Granda, the magician behind what might be my favorite of all of my book covers.

To the incredible writers who continue to support me every day: my Musers, always; my
Supernatural
sister, Courtney Summers; my work wife, Kody Keplinger; and so many more: thank you for being the reassurance that people with so much talent think that I'm worth their time.

To anyone who has ever dealt with any sort of eating disorder, thank you for making me want to write a book about us
with your passion and your courage for sharing your stories, and please know that there is so much hope, and that I am always here for you if you want to reach out, to either offer whatever support I can or to refer you to someone much more competent.

And to some miscellaneous humans who fill up my world: my lovely aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents; Anica Rissi; Jeff Gasikowski; the good people who deliver food to my apartment; and some generally acceptable cats.

And to my gorgeous, incredible, perfect readers, who give me the ability to have food delivered to my apartment. You fucking incredible citizens of my heart.

Turn the page for a peek at

GONE, GONE, GONE.

I WAKE UP TO A QUIET WORLD.

There's this stillness so strong that I can feel it in the hairs on the backs of my arms, and I can right away tell that this quiet is the sound of a million things and fourteen bodies not here and one boy breathing alone.

I open my eyes.

I can't believe I slept.

I sit up and swing my feet to the floor. I'm wearing my shoes, and I'm staring at them like I don't recognize them, but they're the shoes I wear all the time, these black canvas high-tops from Target. My mom bought them for me. I have that kind of mom.

I can feel how cold the tile is. I can feel it through my shoes.

I make kissing noises with my mouth. Nothing answers. My brain is telling me, my brain has been telling me for every single second since I woke up, exactly what is different, but I am not going to think it, I won't think it, because they're all just hiding or upstairs. They're not gone. The only thing in the whole world I am looking at is my shoes, because everything else is exactly how it's supposed to be, because they're not gone.

But this, this is wrong. That I'm wearing shoes. That I slept in my shoes. I think it says something about you when you don't even untie your shoes to try to go to bed. I think it's a dead giveaway that you are a zombie. If there is a line between zombie and garden-variety insomniac, that line is a shoelace.

I got the word “zombie” from my brother Todd. He calls me “zombie,” sometimes, when he comes home from work at three in the morning—Todd is so old, old enough to work night shifts and drink coffee without sugar—and comes down to the basement to check on me. He walks slowly, one hand on the banister, a page of the newspaper crinkling in his hand. He won't flick on the light, just in case I'm asleep, and there I am, I'm on the couch, a cat on each of my shoulders and a man with a small penis on the TV telling me how he became a man with a big penis, and I can too. “Zombie,” Todd will say softly, a hand on top of my head. “Go to sleep.”

Todd has this way of being affectionate that I see but usually don't feel.

I say, “Someday I might need this.”

“The penis product?”

“Yes.” Maybe not. I think my glory days are behind me. I am fifteen years old, and all I have is the vague hope that, someday, someone somewhere will once again care about my penis and whether it is big or small.

The cats don't care. Neither do my four dogs, my three rabbits, my guinea pig, or even the bird I call Flamingo because he stands on one leg when he drinks, even though that isn't his real name, which is Fernando.

They don't care. And even if they did, they're not here. I can't avoid that fact any longer.

I am the vaguest of vague hopes of a deflated heart.

I look around the basement, where I sleep now. My alarm goes off, even though I'm already up. The animals should be scuffling around now that they hear I'm awake, mewing, rubbing against my legs, and whining for food. This morning, the alarm is set for five thirty for school, and my bedroom is a silent, frozen meat locker because the animals are gone.

•  •  •

Here's what happened, my parents explain, weary over cups of coffee, cops come and gone, all while I was asleep.

What happened is that I slept.

I slept through a break-in and a break-out, but I couldn't sleep through the quiet afterward. This has to be a metaphor for something, but I can't think, it's too quiet.

Broken window, jimmied locks. They took the upstairs TV and parts of the stereo. They left all the doors open. The house is as cold as October. The animals are gone.

It was a freak accident. Freak things happen. I should be used to that by now. Freaks freaks freaks.

Todd was the one to come home and discover the damage. My parents slept through it too. This house is too big.

I say, “But the break-in must have been hours ago.”

My mother nods a bit.

I say, “Why didn't I wake up as soon as the animals escaped?”

My mom doesn't understand what I'm talking about, but this isn't making sense to me. None of it is. Break-ins aren't supposed to happen to us. We live in a nice neighborhood in a nice suburb. They're supposed to happen to other people. I am supposed to be so tied to the happiness and the comfort of those animals that I can't sleep until every single one is fed, cleaned, hugged. Maybe if I find enough flaws in this, I can make it so it never happened.

This couldn't have happened.

At night, Sandwich and Carolina and Zebra sleep down at my feet. Flamingo goes quiet as soon as I put a sheet over his cage. Peggy snuggles in between my arm and
my body. Caramel won't settle down until he's tried and failed, at least four or five times, to fall asleep right on my face. Shamrock always sleeps on the couch downstairs, no matter how many times I try to settle him on the bed with me, and Marigold has a spot under the window that she really likes, but sometimes she sleeps in her kennel instead, and I can never find Michelangelo in the morning and it always scares me, but he always turns up in my laundry basket or in the box with my tapes or under the bed, or sometimes he sneaks upstairs and sleeps with Todd, and the five others sleep all on top of each other in the corner on top of the extra comforter, but I checked all of those places this morning—every single one—and they're all gone, gone, gone.

Mom always tried to open windows because of the smell, but I'd stop her because I was afraid they would escape. Every day I breathe in feathers and dander and urine so they will not escape.

My mother sometimes curls her hand into a loose fist and presses her knuckles against my cheek. When she does, I smell her lotion, always lemongrass. Todd will do something similar, but it feels different, more urgent, when he does.

The animals. They were with me when I fell asleep last night. I didn't notice I was sleeping in my shoes, and I didn't notice when they left.

This is why I need more sleep. This is how things slip through my fingers.

My head is spinning with fourteen names I didn't protect.

“We'll find them, Craig,” Mom says, with a hand on the back of my head. “They were probably just scared from the noise. They'll come back.”

“They should have stayed in the basement,” I whisper. “Why did they run away?”

Why were a few open doors enough incentive for them to leave?

I shouldn't have fallen asleep. I suck.

“We'll put up posters, Craig, okay?” Mom says. Like she doesn't have enough to worry about and people to call—insurance companies, someone to fix the window, and her mother to assure her that being this close to D.C. really doesn't mean we're going to die. It's been thirteen months, almost, since the terrorist attacks, and we're still convinced that any mishap means someone will steer a plane into one of our buildings.

We don't say that out loud.

Usually this time in the morning, I take all the different kinds of food and I fill all the bowls. They come running, tripping over themselves, rubbing against me, nipping my face and my hands like I am the food, like I just poured myself into a bowl and offered myself to them. Then I clean the litter boxes and the cages and take the dogs out for a walk.
I can do this all really, really quickly, after a year of practice.

Mom helps, usually, and sometimes I hear her counting under her breath, or staring at one of the animals, trying to figure out if one is new—sometimes yes, sometimes no.

The deal Mom and I have is no new animals. The deal is I don't have to give them away, I don't have to see a therapist, but I can't have any more animals. I don't want a therapist because therapists are stupid, and I am not crazy.

And the truth is it's not my fault. The animals find me. A kitten behind a Dumpster, a rabbit the girl at school can't keep. A dog too old for anyone to want. I just hope they find me again now that they're gone.

Part of the deal was also that Mom got to name a few of the newer ones, which is how I ended up with a few with really girly names.

But I love them. I tell them all the time. I'll pick Hail up and cuddle him to my face in that way that makes his ears get all twitchy. I'll make loose fists and hold them up to Marigold and Jupiter's cheeks. They'll lick my knuckles. “I love you,” I tell them. It's always been really easy for me to say. I've never been one of those people who can't say it.

It's October 4th. Just starting to get cold, but it gets cold fast around here.

God, I hope they're okay.

I'm up way too early now that I don't have to feed the animals, but I don't know what else to do but get dressed and get ready for school. It takes like two minutes, and now what?

•  •  •

A year ago, back when it was still 2001 . . .

Back when we still clung . . .

Back when I slept upstairs . . .

There was a boy.

A very, very, very important boy.

Now . . .

There's Lio.

Lio. I knew how it was spelled before I ever heard it out loud. It sounds normal, like Leo, but it looks so special. I love that.

•  •  •

I started talking to Lio back in June. I'm this thing for my school called an ambassador, which basically means I get good grades and I don't smoke, so they give out my email and a little bit about me to incoming students so I can gush about how cool this place is or something like that.

He sent me a message. He said he's about to move here, he's going to be at my school, we're the same age, and this is so creepy stalker, but you like Jefferson Airplane and I like Jefferson Airplane too, so cool, do you think we could IM sometime?

So he did and we are and I do and we did.

Lio is, to sum him up quickly, a koala. I realized that pretty early on.

He gets good grades, but he smokes, so he could never be an ambassador. There are a few reasons it's really, really stupid for Lio to smoke, but that doesn't seem to stop him. I don't know him well enough to admit that it scares me to death. And really, it seems like everything scares me to death now, so I've learned to shut up about it.

He's not a
boy
to me, not yet, because
boy
implies some kind of intimacy, but Lio is a boy in the natural sense of the word, at least I assume so, since I've never seen him with his clothes off and barely with his coat off, to be honest. Though I can imagine. And sometimes I do. Oh, God.

He wears a lot of hats. That's how we met for real, once his family moved here. I thought he'd come looking for me as soon as school started, but I couldn't find him anywhere, which was immediately a shame, because I was beginning to get sick of eating my lunch alone every day.

Then Ms. Hoole made both of us take our hats off in honors precalculus last month, on the third day of school.

“Lio, Craig,” she said. “Your hats, present them here.” And of course I didn't give a shit about my hat, because I had found Lio.

Lio didn't say anything, but his eyes said,
bitch,
and when
he took his hat off I could see his hair was a chopped-up mess of four different colors, all of them muted and faded and fraying. Lio has a head like an old couch.

After class, he didn't go up to collect his hat, so I got both and brought his to him. He was rushing down the hallway, unlit cigarette between his fingers.