Authors: Pat White
I still can’t figure that one out. J.D. attacked Greg? He’s too smart to risk jail time over a fight at school. When I asked Greg what happened he shrugged and said, “The guy’s a loser.”
For half a second I was tempted to use my secret skills and gaze into Greg’s eyes to see what really happened.
I didn’t mean that, nope. I’m not looking for that kind of trouble, but I wonder if J.D. is self-destructing. He’d better not be. I need his notes.
As I head downstairs I hesitate at the landing. Don’t I sound like a bitch? I’m not thinking about J.D.’s life, his pathetic existence at a school where everyone hates him, where he’s forced to be my school slave.
Or at home where his father beats him.
I think. If my HULU’s are real.
No, can’t go there.
The doorbell rings just as I step into the front hallway. Awesome. All this thinking is giving me a headache.
“Is it Greg?” Mom says, getting up from the couch. She’s reading another mystery novel, the kind where everything is wrapped up neatly by the end.
“Probably,” I answer.
Mom clasps her hands together. Is it possible that she’s more excited about me getting my life back than I am?
She’s coming in for another hug but I put up my hand. “Mom, I’m seventeen.”
“Okay, well it goes without saying that you can call me anytime if you need a ride home, you know, if Greg wants to stay and you get tired.”
We both know that’s code for “if he’s drinking and you don’t trust him to drive.”
“I won’t, but thanks.” I open the front door.
Greg looks hot in tight jeans, a gray T-shirt and leather jacket. I can tell he just got out of the shower. He smells…clean.
“Hey, you look great.” His eyes linger on my chest a little longer than necessary.
“Thanks, you too.”
“Greg, it’s nice to see you,” Mom says.
“You too, Mrs. Westfield.” They shake hands.
“Bye, Mom.”
She kisses my forehead and I’m sure I turn five shades of red.
I breeze down the walkway and shove the sunglasses in place. If Mom sees me wearing them at night she’ll interrogate me about headaches, mini seizures and who knows what.
Greg catches up to me and opens the door to the front seat of his six-year-old BMW.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Sunglasses at night, huh?” he asks.
“Headlights can trigger a migraine. Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
He leans forward and kisses my cheek. I close my eyes, breathe in his clean scent and enjoy the tender moment. A true gentleman. Yep, that’s Greg.
I get into the front seat and touch my cheek where he kissed me. My skin itches. Great. I’m allergic to the guy of my dreams?
Focus, Catherine. Don’t lose it. You’re almost back!
Greg gets behind the wheel and smiles. “Ready?”
“Absolutely.”
As we pull away from the house, I glance up at J.D.’s window. It’s closed.
I settle against the leather seat and smile to myself. I’m getting my life back tonight. Thank you, God.
* * *
Two hours into the party I start to wonder if this was such a great idea. Everyone’s drinking like crazy and of course I can’t drink or risk further brain injury. I’m okay with that. At least I thought I was.
Taylor and Andrea are giggling and tripping over themselves, and Greg went off to smoke cigars in the back yard with his football buddies.
So much for my “She’s back!” celebration.
I’m invisible, blending in with the rest of the kids, only I’m not wasted. It sucks being sober around a bunch of drunk people.
“Hey, you.” I feel a hand on my shoulder. Greg. I can tell because it has its own sensation, its own vibration.
“I’m sorry I abandoned you,” he apologizes.
“No problem.”
He leans forward and kisses me on the lips. He tastes of cigars and beer. When we break the kiss I realize he’s a little stoned or drunk, or both.
“I was so worried about you when you were in the hospital. I still can’t believe you’re here with me.”
With his arm around my shoulder he leads me through the crowd. A few of his friends high-five him and bark like dogs as we pass. They’ve obviously had one twelve-pack too many.
Greg guides me upstairs to a den and closes the door. Loud music vibrates against the floorboards.
“I wanted to talk to you alone,” he says.
Holding my hand, he guides me to the sofa. As we sit down my heart pounds with excitement.
“I wanted to ask you…” he hesitates.
I wait.
Lick my lips. Will he kiss me again? Should I find him a breath mint?
Don’t be a jerk, Catherine.
“Hang on a second.” Greg gets up, flips on a desk lamp and turns off the overhead light. The room is bathed in a soft orange glow.
He sits down and takes my hand again. “Before the accident I was going to ask you something and then that bastard Pratt,” he trails off, his voice filled with hatred.
“Don’t think about him,” I say.
I wish I could follow my own advice. My shadow has invaded my thoughts more than once tonight.
“Anyway,” he smiles.
I’m close, massively close.
“Will you…?” He reaches over and removes my sunglasses. “Just for a second, okay?”
I automatically nod. In his blue-gray eyes I see my life being resurrected as Catherine the perfect student, cheerleader, college-bound business major.
With the most perfect boyfriend in the world.
“Will you go out with me?” he says.
In a flash the perfection crashes into a major HULU. This time I’m falling fast and hard, hitting the pavement with a thud.
I open my eyes.
I’m sitting on a cold floor. I look up and see Greg fumbling with something in his gym locker. A pungent smell pinches my nose. It reminds me of when Dad stripped the wood trim in our house.
I stand up, step closer and see Greg stuff a rag into a glass bottle.
“What the hell?” I say, stumbling backward.
He can’t hear me or see me. This isn’t real.
“No one messes with the destroyer,” Greg whispers.
Pete Striden wanders into the locker room. “What are you blowing up this time?”
“My enemies.”
“You mean, Cooper?”
Greg shrugs. “Let’s see how he likes being benched.”
“If you get caught—”
“I won’t,” Greg pins him with steely black eyes, “unless someone narcs on me.”
Striden puts up his hands. “I’m on your side, dude.”
Greg smiles. “A good place to be.”
He flicks a lighter and glances down at a white laundry bag, the kind they use for dirty towels at school. Only this one is moving. There’s a person inside, thrashing around, his voice muffled against what I assume is a gag.
Greg kneels beside it. Flicks his lighter. “But first I’ll start with him.”
He lights the edge of the sack and it bursts into five-foot flames.
I scream—
I’m jerked back to reality. I’m in the upstairs den of the party house. The orange glow of the room looks more like the fires of hell than romantic atmosphere.
“Catherine? What happened?” Greg grips my arm.
I want to believe he’s concerned about me but there’s an edge to his voice, an edge that makes me want to run.
“I’m sorry.” I slip my arm from his grasp and scan the room for my sunglasses.
Get a grip, Catherine
.
I spot my glasses on the couch where we’d been sitting. Somehow I’d moved during the HULU and was halfway to the door.
I shove the sunglasses to the bridge of my nose.
Adrenaline whips through me. The HULU’s have to stop, damn it. They’re messing with my recovery, my future.
I ignore Greg’s demanding expression, the fact he’s twice my size.
And he’s blocking the door.
There’s no reason to be afraid of him. The HULU’s are misfires of my imagination, that’s all. They’re not real.
“I’m sorry. I have these spells, kind of like seizures but not. It sucks.”
I want out of here, away from the pounding bass line vibrating up through the floor, away from the muffled laughter of a house full of partying kids.
Away from Greg.
“Do you need medicine or something?” He steps toward me.
I try not to visibly recoil.
“No, just fresh air.”
He steps closer and wraps his arms around me, pulling me into a hug. I can’t breathe.
“I’m so sorry,” he says.
So am I. I’m sorry that this doesn’t feel like I’d imagined it would, that my skin is on fire and my throat is closing up.
I break the hold and avoid eye contact. “I am so embarrassed. I need to go outside for a few minutes.”
I grab my purse and brush past him.
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, stay.” I have to lay it on thick. I squeeze his upper arm. He’s proud of his biceps. “It’s bad enough I ruined this moment.” I motion to the couch. “I do not want to ruin your night.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
But I won’t be back. Not tonight. I need out of here like a crab needs out of a pot of boiling water.
I open the door.
“Wait.” He looks deeply into my eyes.
I focus on his forehead. He can’t tell since I’m wearing my sunglasses.
“If you’re not back in ten minutes I’ll come looking for you.”
“You’re sweet.” I kiss his cheek. “I’ll be fine.” I know once he gets drinking with his friends he’ll forget all about me.
I make my way down the stairs but the front door is blocked by partying kids. Anxiety floods my chest. The loud music and cheering over a beer pong game is suffocating me. I push through the crowd toward the back of the house.
Taylor grabs my arm. “Well?”
“Be right back!” I shout.
She squeezes my arm. “Did he ask you?”
I nod and shoot her the brightest smile in my repertoire. She lets go to clap her hands and I whip around to escape. I make my way through the mass of people between me and my freedom. By the time I get to the kitchen I’m no longer polite about it, forget the “excuse me’s.” I’m struggling to breathe and feel like I’m going to pass out.
But I’m still smiling, beaming a confident grin at my classmates.
Being two people is exhausting.
Sweet Clarisse is blocking the door, a plastic beer cup in her hand. She tries to talk to me over the loud music, but I wave her off and grab the doorknob.
Fling open the door.
I can breathe again.
Marching down the back porch toward the greenbelt, I try to shake it off, the loud music, the smell of beer…
The image of Greg lighting someone on fire.
A choke-gasp catches in my throat. Wrapping my arms around my stomach, I fight back tears. I’m so tired of crying at the smallest things.
Small? You just hallucinated Greg planning revenge with a Molotov cocktail
. A HULU, that’s all it was. Not real.
Yet Goth girl was really mugged after I saw it happen.
“A coincidence!” I rip off the sunglasses and shove them into my purse so I can see a path leading into the greenbelt.
It’s so green, lush and quiet. I aim for the mass of evergreen trees, desperate for peace.
Instead, reality smacks me hard across the face. I’ll never be my old self again, never get back on Cheer or get into the University of Washington.
I surely won’t be going to senior prom with Greg.
I’ll never have my life back because of my broken brain. I’m an aberration. End of story.
“Damn it!” At the edge of the greenbelt I lose it and swing my purse against a tree. Two, three times. With a guttural moan, I lean against the cold, damp bark. Defeat blankets my skin with the chill of fresh rain.
Sirens echo in the distance. Someone must have called the cops about the party.
“Come on.”
I jump at the sound of J.D.’s voice. He appears out of nowhere, grabs my hand and leads me into the forest.
I consider pulling away from J.D. and heading back to the house, but I don’t want to get busted at a drinking party, complicating my already messed up life. I’d probably be grounded for the rest of high school.
What was I thinking wandering into the greenbelt alone? With my challenged sense of direction I could have been lost for days.
I didn’t know what else to do. I had to get away from the party, the screaming kids, and a HULU that scared the crap out of me.
J.D. walks with purpose, pulling me deeper into the woods. Once we’re out of sight of the house he turns and gently places his hands on my shoulders. “What did he do to you?”
“What are you talking about? And why are you here?” I accuse.
“Hoffman, what did he do?” he asks again.
“He didn’t do anything.” I wrench away from him and start walking. “You did.” My last grasp on my old life.
“It was an accident. Get over it already.”
I turn on him, rage stinging my words. “Get over it? How do I do that? I’m a brain-damaged, messed up loser. I’ll never be right again.”
“You’ll never be the way you were before. That doesn’t make you wrong.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” Careful not to look into his eyes, I open my purse and dig for my sunglasses. “I’m messed up, worse than anyone knows.” I can’t find the glasses.
“Catherine—”
I glare at him. “Because of you driving like a maniac. What was the hurry, anyway?”
He looks at me with concern in his blue-green eyes. “What did Hoffman do? Did he try to get into your pants?”
“Why would he want to? I’m a barely functioning, messed up freak.”
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Come on, I’ll walk you home.”
He touches my arm. There’s no burn, no itch, just a slight hum.
“Who says I want to go home?” I jerk away from him. “Maybe I want to party, do some shots or smoke a joint. You got anything?”
“Stop it. That’s not you.”
“You don’t know me.” I step closer, so close I can see specs of gold in his blue-green eyes. “You don’t know my hell whenever I look into someone’s eyes.”
Which I’m doing right now. I start to slip.
“No,” I whisper, gripping his arm.