Authors: Katie Hayoz
What the hell?
I whip my hand back and focus on deepening the lines of my design. I don’t look back at Nelson the rest of the hour.
I just listen to my pulse pounding in my ears.
We make ‘stained glass’ in the after school program out of colored tissue paper and black cardboard. All the kids cut their own design and glue tissue paper to it. Then Angie and I tape them up to the large window in the snack room.
The window faces west, and the sun is shining in just as we hang the mosaic of designs. The room is bathed in purple, blue, yellow and red.
“Wow.” Seven-year-old Selena sucks in her breath as the colors dance on her skin. “Look. I’m pretty.”
I tug on one of her braids. “You already were, kiddo.”
But she’s right, the colors make everything appealing. It feels other-worldly. Like the far side of the rainbow.
I stand with her in the middle of the room, laughing at the collage of colors on our arms.
We pretend we are caterpillars, turned into butterflies.
At night I read the how-to sections in the books on astral projection. It’s all about deep relaxation. About keeping control while letting go. I figure it shouldn’t be too hard for me since I’ve done it before – accidentally, but still. So I try it. And try it. And try it.
No matter what the websites say, this isn’t something that can be learned in fifteen minutes.
At 2:00 a.m., I’m wiped. Relaxing is hard work. Frustration crawls under my skin, but I’m just too tired to keep trying. I close my eyes and let my body melt into the mattress, all the tension from trying to project leaving me. And just when sleep is about to take me, I know I can do it. I think the words from the formula in one of the books: “Leave now. Sit up and leave your body behind.”
Inch by inch I imagine pulling a rope, hand over hand, the ethereal part of me creeping upward while my body stays flat on the bed. It’s slow, but with every little movement I feel myself getting closer to success. Finally, when I feel I’m sitting straight up, my body tingles like I’ve just stepped into an overly hot bath.
It sounds like a melon splitting when it happens. And it’s like I’m free of a heavy shell.
Yes!
This time the shadows stay back. I can sense them. But I don’t hear or see them.
Screw you
, I think.
I’m doing this
.
I bob near the ceiling, looking over the sleeping body of a girl. Me. My hair makes long, dark lines on the pillow. The faint bruise on my forehead shines in the moonlight. Everything around me looks brighter — the blue of my bedspread, the white of the walls. A hushed glow emanates from it all.
I look down at my astral self. My arms and legs and fingers kind of glow from within, like a low-wattage light bulb, a bit fuzzy around the edges. There’s a faint sort of silvery cord connecting me to my body, like a tether.
I move outside and watch the moonlight lick the grass. It’s beautiful. Everything seems clearer, more alive than it normally does. The bushes are laced with white, the edges of each tiny leaf visible and shining. The little patch of geraniums in the window box is a bright spot of red in the dim light. I stay outside, waiting to get yanked back into my body. When it doesn’t happen, I realize that for once, I’m in charge. I can go where I want.
Kevin’s house
. I want to go there. I’ve always wanted to go there.
I zip through town, unable to control my speed or my exact trajectory. I whip through telephone poles, tree branches, and chimneys. If anyone saw me they’d die laughing.
Slow down, Sylvie. Keep your cool.
I’m able to stop moving and then I concentrate on making my astral body go where I want it to.
I make it to Kevin’s bedroom.
Kevin’s room! I can’t believe it – I’m actually inside of Kevin’s room! Posters of women in bikinis, Brewers’ baseball pennants and postcards from around the world cover three walls. On the far wall, instead of posters, several shelves bend with the weight of all the medals and trophies stacked on them. And in front of those shelves is Kevin, on the bed. Sleeping.
Oh. My. God.
I move towards him. He’s in his clothes, a notebook face down on his chest. His bedside light is burning. I move closer to him, close as I dare, and take in the velvety curve of his lashes, the firm line of his chin.
I float around his room, swearing when my hand goes right through everything I want to touch. If only I could rummage through his drawers, check his e-mail ... But all I can do is look. His laptop is off and closed, a grey rectangle at the foot of his bed. Pairs of shoes surf on the waves of clothing strewn about his floor. There’s a box of baseball cards on his desk, next to a banana peel and a half empty can of Coke.
On the other side of the door, a baby wails. It spooks me and before I know it SNAP, like a rubber band, I’m back in my body. My limbs burn. I blink and stay on the bed. The burning feeling passes and my mind clicks in.
I did it. I went to Kevin’s house. I totally did it. I controlled it.
“YEEEEEEEEES!” I pound and kick my mattress with joy until I’m slick with sweat. Outside the window, the moon shines bright and round. I howl at it like some wild dog. It seems closer than usual, bigger.
Like reaching it is so very possible.
Twelve
September: On Top of Spaghetti
I’m hoping to get through Tuesday quickly and uneventfully, so that I can just run home and go astral. But the day doesn’t cooperate. It starts off ordinarily enough: in Trig I watch Mimi Wilder pop her zits between problems. In English, I’m forced to listen to a debate between Ashley Green and Kayla Conroy on real nails versus nail tips. By the look on Mrs. Huggan’s face when they start talking, I’m sure they didn’t get the subject approved by her ahead of time. But it’s lunch that makes the day unbearable. Enter Tori Thompson and life will always go downhill.
I’m swirling orange strings of spaghetti around on my plate, wondering how the school could even manage to ruin pasta, when it happens. Dwayne Fischer, linebacker on the football team, stops in front of our table. Michelle makes a little squeak (she does that near anyone with a Y chromosome), but Dwayne stands right in front of me blinking his blue eyes and running sausage fingers over his shaved head. I have time to exchange a quick, questioning glance with Cass when all of a sudden, Dwayne gets down on one knee. He grabs my right hand, making my fork skid across the table and onto the floor. My heart starts slamming around and for a split second I can’t believe someone like Dwayne is actually holding my hand. But when he looks back over his shoulder to his lunch table full of guys the size of water buffalo, fear burns through my insides: something bad is going to happen.
“Sylvie,” he says loudly. He looks down to his free hand, where he’s written something in pen on his palm. His voice is the monotone of someone who’s a bad reader. “I know it seems unbelievable, but I have a thing for you. Will you hook up with me?”
I stare down in confusion at his hand holding mine and can barely breathe. “Uh ...”
“Just kidding. ‘Cuz with the way you pass out all the time, you’ve got to be so dead in bed. And I’m not into” —here he squints at his palm— “necro ... necrophilia,” he says and drops my hand. Laughter erupts behind him at the water buffalo table. I can hear them hooting. Everyone at my table is dumbstruck. Then
snap, crackle
... I pop out of my body. I hover over Dwayne’s left shoulder. I can see the wax in his ear.
Tori Thompson comes from behind Dwayne, holding her phone up, taking a video. “What an actor! Looks like we know who to cast in the lead of this year’s
A Christmas Carol
.” She pulls five dollars out of her pocket and gives it to Dwayne. Then she looks at me. “What? You didn’t really think he was serious, Psycho? Did you?”
But, of course, my limbs have loosened without me in them. My body slides down my chair, my head hanging.
Tori points to me, her eyes glittering, a hyper laugh bubbling up. “Whoa! Psycho’s at it again!”
There’s a moment of silence when everyone near us seems to hold their breath. Then there’s some giggling and some gasping. I see Mimi Wilder run toward the cafeteria doors where Mr. Paige is engrossed on his iPhone. Cassie swears at Tori, who’s still laughing, and Sam gets to work at shaking me. Hard.
Sam holds me up for a second until I’m back inside myself. My limbs tingle. Nausea rolls over me. My body jerks back to attention .
Cassie lets out a long breath and turns to me. “Welcome back.”
I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be me.
Holding back tears, I say to Tori, “I’ll get you when you least expect it. I will.”
“Yeah. Keep dreaming, Psycho.” She spots Mr. Paige with Mimi and scurries back to her table of the week.
No one at my table says a word. They’re too shocked. They all pat my shoulder or reach for me, but I shake them off so I don’t start blubbering. I swallow back a raw feeling in my throat and stare at the cold pasta on my plate until the urge to cry passes.
Mr. Paige comes up with Mimi, looking annoyed. “Sylvie? Are you okay? Mimi told me you fainted.” Mr. Paige is anti-social and doesn’t like ‘teen energy’. He avoids unnecessary interaction with students at all costs. He’s the chemistry teacher but he’d much rather be working in a professional lab than at St. Anthony’s. We know this because he tells us. Actually, he tells us he’d rather work
anywhere
than St. Anthony’s.
“No, no fainting,” I say, trying to keep from panicking. “I’m good. See?” I lift my arms as if to show him I’m not being propped up or something. I look at Mimi with pleading eyes.
Come on. Back me up.
Mimi shrugs her shoulders. “Ooops?”
Mr. Paige glares at both of us and takes off, mumbling, “Damn kids” under his breath. Mimi apologizes, “Sorry. I got scared.”
“It’s okay.” I try to smile at her. I’m surprised anyone did anything.
The bell signaling the end of lunch rings. Mimi leaves and all of us start gathering our stuff. Sarah and Michelle take off like they’re being chased.
Kevin comes up to our table. He has something in his hand. “Hey,” he says, glancing at me. “What was so funny that whole football team cracked up? We couldn’t hear a thing back there.”
“Nothing,” I say before Sam or Cassie can answer.
“’Didn’t Dwayne do something?”
“Dwayne’s a—” Sam starts, at the same time Cassie says, “Pfft. He—”
But I put my hand out to stop them both from finishing. “Nothing worthwhile,” I murmur.
Kevin’s confused, but doesn’t push the issue. Sam takes off for class, and Cassie and I stand to go. But Kevin puts a package of Sugar Babies in front of Cassie. “For some reason, when I was at the store last night I saw these and thought of you.”
Sugar Babies?
Cassie’s cheeks turn pink. “Thanks. But why would they make you think of me?”
“Oh. You don’t like them? Sorry. I didn’t know, I just thought—” He puts his hand on the package, ready to take them back.
Cassie smacks her hand quickly over his. “No! I like them. A lot, actually.”
Kevin doesn’t move his hand away and neither does Cassie. They stay like that forever, like they’re paralyzed. So do I, watching them. It feels like someone has emptied all the air out of the room. Finally, Kevin smiles, takes his hand out from under Cassie’s and says, “In that case, keep ‘em.”
He goes off to his next class. Cassie catches my eye and shrugs. Then she seems to remember the whole Dwayne incident and gives me a pitying smile. “Tori and Dwayne are such a-holes. They’re perfect for each other. But I still can’t believe they did that.” I know she means it to be supportive, but it just makes me feel worse. She holds out the bag of candy. “Sugar Baby?”
“I don’t really feel much like eating now, thanks.” I hike my bag onto my shoulder and walk to class alone.
There’s giggling around me when Tori’s near. But amazingly, there’s not as much laughter as I expect.
Keri Nielsen leans towards me in Morality to whisper (quite loudly) that both Dwayne and Tori are pissheads. “Plus, Dwayne stuffs his pants with socks,” Keri says. “He’s really the size of a Lil’ Smokie.” Keri’s been around. She’d know.
In Art, Nelson comes out with, “Dwayne Fischer is a Neanderthal.”
I nod quickly and feel my throat closing up. Word’s around the whole school, then. Nelson doesn’t even have the same lunch hour as I do.
He hands me a sheet of paper. He’s drawn Dwayne as a cave-man. A really derpy, ugly caveman, with a sloping forehead, a drooling mouth and Dwayne’s buzz cut. It’s good. If I weren’t feeling so awful, I’d probably laugh.
“I thought we could decorate his locker in his likeness after school.” Nelson holds up a thick, black permanent marker and grins at me.
“What for?”
“Because he’s a complete dickwad, for starters.”
I stare at him. “You mean deface school property?”
Nelson grins even wider.
It almost makes me cry, knowing Nelson’s still okay with being my friend even after what the whole school thinks of me. I grab the table and look down at my legs. My skinny, skinny legs. Out the corner of my eye, I see Melissa Scott rub a shapely calf, accidentally on purpose bumping into Nelson as she does so. She apologizes with a flip of her hair and a tongue across her lips.
It’s stupid, but she looks sexy doing it. I think of Kevin. By now he knows. And for sure when he thinks of me he doesn’t think
sexy
. He thinks
spaghetti
.
“No. No locker art,” I say to Nelson. “I just want to forget the whole thing.”
I don’t wait for Cassie or Sam after school. I try to get out as fast as possible, without anyone seeing me. As I’m going out the back door, I hear Nelson’s voice behind me: “Sylvie! Wait!”
But I don’t wait. I sprint down the steps and across the street. Back at school, there’s shouting, a horn honking. Without breaking my stride, I look back and see Nelson pounding on the hood of Dwayne Fischer’s truck. Dwayne guns the engine and squeals out of the parking lot, leaving Nelson looking ticked off. As Dwayne’s truck comes down the road
I cross through someone’s yard, and take a different route than usual so I won’t bump into anyone.