Repossessed (13 page)

…and the evening and the
morning were the last day.

I
stayed awake, thinking, until the silvery light at the window began to take on a faintly golden tinge. Then I got up and took a shower, idly watching my hands run the soap over this body. Yesterday I would have enjoyed the soap's slickness and the way it left a trail of squeaky skin in its wake, but today I was edgy from little sleep, and miffed at the possibility of having been tricked into helping run Hell for all those ages.

I dried off and put on deodorant, clean khakis, a black T-shirt. I combed Shaun's hair.

In Shaun's room, I saw that Peanut had come in and was sitting on the dresser, looking at me. “Ah, Peanut,” I said. For some reason I was no longer afraid of him. A cat scratch didn't seem to amount to a hill of beans anymore.

We looked at each other for a moment: the imposter and the only being who cared that he was posing.

He watched me as I sat on the bed, and I watched him as I put on Shaun's oxfords. When I was done tying the laces, I stood, walked over to Shaun's cat, and held my hand out.

“Do you want to inflict a little more punishment?” I asked. “Go ahead, scratch me.” I held my hand steady, prepared to feel the razor slash of claws from the only creature in the universe who cared enough to stand up and protect the concept of one's rightful place.

Peanut had been looking at my face, but now he eyed my hand. He didn't hiss, but stretched his neck out slowly, slowly, till his nose touched my fingertip.

I barely felt it: a faint, cool dot, almost not even there, and then it was gone as Peanut settled back.

“What was
that
?” I asked him.

Of course he didn't answer.

“You know I'm not Shaun, and you don't like it. Isn't that right?”

Peanut shut his eyes, as if he'd forgotten about both me
and
Shaun.

“Isn't that right?”

Peanut didn't budge. His sides moved slowly in and out.

“Hey!” I said. “Are you falling
asleep
?”

He was.

I left him there and went to get some Froot Loops.

Shaun's mom had already left for work. I was glad, because I had fallen into gloom. Everything seemed annoying, even though none of it had to do with Anius's visit, which is why I had fallen into gloom in the first place.

Jason came in as I was eating my cereal—I had not poured him any—and as usual, he didn't notice that his brother was no longer here.

Nobody did.

I'll bet I could stay here being human for as long as I want
, I thought.
Find out what it's like to age and grow old
.

Jason got his own cereal and sat down with it. He began eating each spoonful in slurps.

I could be his brother for real. If I wanted.

I was surprised to find that I
didn't
want. I liked the kid well enough, and wished him well. I just wasn't interested in a long-term attachment. To me, it sounded dull.

Already some of the novelty of this existence was wearing off—I hadn't even done Shaun's homework last night—and my own actions now seemed to me to be almost pathetic. All alone and unnoticed, playing a little game of dress-up using the clothes of a dead human.

I watched Jason eat and made a decision: I'd give myself one more chance with Lane this afternoon—because I'd really been looking forward to that denouement—and in
the meantime, I'd put some final touches on my other projects here.

Then I would exit Shaun. I'd go wherever I felt like going, do whatever struck my fancy.

Hmm…maybe body-hopping? I could skip in and out of people as they were going about their business.

What if I picked bodies with a higher profile than Shaun's—ooh, like the presidents of various countries! Then maybe I'd find out exactly what it took to
get a little notice around here
!

“Are you going to Bailey's today?” I heard Jason ask.

“I don't know,” I told him. He didn't look at me, but kept his eyes on his bowl as he ate.

If he wants to go,
I thought,
why doesn't he just
ask
? Why does he have to make everything hard for himself?

“Yeah, sure, I guess I'm going,” I said. “Want to come?”

Jason shrugged. “I guess,” he said.

My spoon clanked against the bottom of my bowl. I realized I had eaten all the cereal without even noticing. I'd been too busy glooming to experience my Froot Loops.

I was getting entirely too human.

 

When I got on the school bus, I trudged back to the usual seat by Bailey.

He scooted over to make room. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I replied, sitting down.

“You get that World History assignment done?”

“No.”

“I didn't either. It was hard.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, although it hadn't been hard at all. Or wouldn't have been, if I'd tried to do it.

As the bus began to move, I caught a glimpse of the driver's eyes in the mirror and realized something was odd about them. In fact, something was odd about the whole driver. She was thinner, for one thing. And her hair was combed in a different style.

Hey
, I thought,
that's not my bus driver at all!

“Who is that?” I asked Bailey, pointing.

“Huh? Oh. A sub, I guess.”

“But where's
our
bus driver?”

“I don't know. Sick, maybe. What difference does it make?”

“What difference does it make when
anybody's
not where they're supposed to be?” I asked bitterly. “No difference,” I answered myself, slumping back against the seat. “None whatsoever.”

“O
kay
. Jeez,” Bailey said. “Whatever.”

I watched the houses go by. They blurred and ran together like Cinnamon Toast Crunch being poured into a bowl.

“So,” I heard Bailey ask. “Are you going to try to get Lane to come over again?”

“I don't know. I guess. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious,” he said casually, “since it's my house and all.”

Too casually. I turned to study his profile. He seemed to have lost interest in the conversation, and appeared to be looking out the window.

But I remembered how he'd watched Lane yesterday, how he'd let her borrow his books.

As soon as I'm gone
, I thought,
he's going to try to steal my woman.

The bus swayed a little, the engine a low rumble through the open windows. Bailey's face was bland, but his eyes had that far-off gaze I'd already learned to associate with humans in deep thought.

Well, why not? Bailey and Lane were actually rather suited, now that I considered the matter. They had many things in common, and would have plenty of time to get acquainted with each other. Neither had any other prospects at the moment.

After I've finished with Lane
, I thought,
Bailey can have her. I hope they bring each other a little happiness
.

Then I turned away and watched the world going by the windows. When we passed the church, I felt an odd bitterness rise up, as if something was clutching at my insides.

I won't take the bus after school today
, I decided suddenly.
I'll walk home. And on the way I—one of the Fallen, one of the rejected—will step inside that “holy” place.

We'd just see if anybody notices
that
.

 

At lunch I sat with Bailey for the last time. On my tray was lettuce in a rectangular bowl made of paper. On top of the lettuce were crumbles of a grayish meat. On top of that was shredded orange cheese. Next to the bowl was a pile of crispy-looking beige triangles.

In summary: no ketchup. No last taste of the ambrosial nectar.

I poked at the lettuce with my fork, feeling slightly depressed that this would be my last meal as Shaun; I fully intended to be gone before dinner. Bailey didn't seem to mind the food; he downed his chips first and then dug into the salad.

As I lifted some limp lettuce shreds to my mouth, I saw Reed McGowan coming out of the lunch line with his tray.

I'd forgotten about him.

I wasn't feeling too hopeful about having any kind of lasting effect on Jason. There was no telling whether I'd be able to squeeze in sexual intercourse with Lane today.

Perhaps, in the end, I'd have to take comfort in my interactions with Reed. There
was
hope that I had made
a tiny mark on Reed's life—a mark that, though small, would remain after I was gone. After all, hadn't I planted the seed of a thought in Reed's head? A seed that might grow, and in the process affect not only Reed, but those he came in contact with?

It wasn't splashy or particularly satisfying. But if everything else went bust, I could cling to the memory of this ex–sower of pain, seeing in him the actual results of
something
I'd done.

I chewed my lettuce and gray meat and watched Reed as he headed in my general direction, bound for the table where his friends were gathered. He picked his way quietly among the occupied tables and chairs, working his way toward his usual spot. When he stood silent and patient, waiting for some girls to move out of his way, I felt my facial muscles relax. I hadn't realized they were tense.

He moved on again, and was coming down the aisle next to me when he had to pause once more for a boy in a wheelchair who was partially blocking the way. That's when he smiled and spoke.

“Move your gimpy ass, you stupid little turd.”

I felt as if something actually dropped inside me. As if a weight plummeted behind my breastbone.

The boy, whose leg was propped up in a cast, tried to maneuver his wheelchair out of the way. It would have been quicker for Reed to walk around, but instead he
stood there, looming over the boy, whose mouth was drawn tight, whether with embarrassment or anger, I couldn't tell.

The weight seemed to swell up against my lungs.

The Reeds of the world—why did they always feel sorry
later
? Why couldn't they be sorry while there was still something to do about it? All this guy had to do was to keep his mouth shut—just shut up and be still!—right
now
. All Reed had to do was
nothing
.

That was all. And yet he wouldn't do it.

The muscles of my face now felt as if they had gone rigid. And with hardly a thought, as the boy finally got clear and Reed tried to step past me, I turned slightly and put one foot out.

It caught him mid-stride. For a split second Reed's body seemed to stutter in midair—and then it dropped. His tray flew out into a little arc of its own and he landed on top of it, his hands spread on the floor in a belated effort to break his own fall.

“Whoa,” I heard Bailey say.

I sat stunned at my own action, looking down at Reed, who was sprawled full length among the chair legs.

I'd always heard of Wrath secondhand. I'd thought of it as a breaking point that comes when a weak container is forced to hold too much. I hadn't realized it rose to tidal-wave proportions in an instant. Or that it squeezed
out rational thought in the process.

On the floor, Reed lifted his head. His eyes locked onto me.

I froze.

But as he started to get up, rising to hands and knees, the kid with the broken leg gave one quick glance downward, then backed up just enough to run over Reed's right hand. “Oh,” he said to Reed in a tone of surprise. “Sorry.”

But then his eyes met mine in a look of sheer triumph.

A wave of laughter began at the tables around me, and grew.

Reed let out a string of curse words—typical American curse words involving the boy's parentage, mental capacity, sexual proclivities, and the inevitable bodily functions.

But that was the extent of his retribution. He rose, kneeling, his face tense, holding his hand nestled close to his body.

I wondered if it was broken.

When he got to his feet, nobody helped him. It was true, what I'd said to him about his friends not liking him. There were a few more scattered giggles in the vicinity, but nobody said anything to him as he stood looking down at the remains of his lunch, on the floor and on his shirt.

Everyone—his friends included—turned back to their food and conversations, and Reed stood alone over his tray as if he couldn't decide whether to try to pick it up.

He didn't. He turned and left, the injured hand still cradled against him.

I sat there as he left the cafeteria. Bailey rose and picked up the tray and silverware from the floor. He didn't attempt to clean up the food, and didn't take the tray to the window. He just stacked it on a corner of the nearest table, came back, sat down, and resumed eating.

That was the only thing anybody did.

I didn't want to eat anymore. I didn't feel one bit better after giving Reed a taste of victimhood. None of the bad feelings in me had been released.

I was weak. I had broken, and without a thought had hurt another being.

I was disgusted with myself.

Was this what being human did to you? Warped you so that all you could think about was the tiny points at which other people's lives intersected yours? Made you forget that every one of these points has not only a history, but an infinite number of possible futures that can be spun out or stunted—or even unraveled to make more possibilities?

All you can think, when you're human, is that Reed McGowan bugs the crap out of you.

 

I skipped the bus that afternoon, and went to church.

I trudged up red-tiled steps with thin black railings.
There were several heavy-looking dark wooden doors all in a line, and I chose the nearest one.

Inside was a room spreading sideways the width of the building—an entry of some kind, I realized, not the church proper, because before me stood another line of doors. There were windows on each side of this wide hall, and the sun came through so that the white walls, although as featureless in here as they had been from the outside, seemed to radiate a peaceful warmth.