Chapter 16: Headache

For whatever reason, they zoned me to a high school that’s a good city block west and two blocks north of my house. You have to cross a four-lane highway on the bike.

I was almost home when it happened. I was waiting at the crosswalk on said four-lane highway. The storm was whipping up, grey piles rising like walls of celestial stone. Thunder rumbled in the distance. I heard a small scraping noise.

Then it was too late.

Have you ever been anesthetized?

It’s like you’re falling, but you don’t hit the floor.

It’s like all the colors lose a little brightness. It’s like you’re falling away from your eyes—the picture is still there, but you are retreating away from it.

I got the impression of spidery limbs and metallic, liquid green eyes.

It got me.

There wasn’t any pain.

And then I woke up, and my head hurt.

----------------------------------------

I was back at school, around back by the loading docks.

I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but waking up in a strange location is not normal. I don’t care if you’re high or not—this is not normal. These two things are not similar. As dramatic as it sounds, this was probably the most terrifying thing that had ever happened to me.

And I couldn’t remember anything. It was all gone. The intermediate steps between leaving school and arriving back were just...gone.

Did I forget a textbook? I checked. No. Did I get sick?

No fever.

Perfect.

I felt completely violated. Knowing where you’re going, making choices about it—that’s a pretty central part of autonomy. That’s why kidnapping is considered a bad thing.

The sun had moved. How long had it even been?

I looked at my phone. It was dead. I didn’t even know how long it had been.

I was scared.

So what do you do when life gets scary? Some people hide. I get mad. I’m not saying that’s smart. Running might not be smart either, though sometimes it is. But getting mad and fighting? Definitely not always smart.

But it’s what my first mom told me. “Given the choice,” she said, “do something rather than nothing. Because if you do something and it’s the wrong thing, you learn what not to do. If you do nothing, all you learn is how to be a victim. Life is something you do, not something that happens to you.”

She’d been a great foster mom, but she hadn’t taken the plunge and adopted me. None of them ever had. Or ever would, now. But I try to take the good with the bad.

Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

Sometimes.

And in her case, the good was grounded, reasonable, respectful advice. She didn’t coddle me. She tried to make me feel like there were things I could do differently that would make me happier. And I could tell she was right about everything she ever said. Maybe I idolized her a little bit. She was the first mom I remembered. Doesn’t everyone idolize their first mom?

Last time I’d needed help—well, had a question, really—Elsie had asked me to call first before coming over, which, okay, fine. People need privacy. But when I tried to reach her, I got her voicemail. She and her gravelly-voiced husband had recorded it together, instructing the caller that they were probably out “living their best life,” and to “do what you do at the beep.”

It was an extremely sad feeling. They were happy. They had each other. And I didn’t know if the teaching thing was going to last after all, now.

Still, if it did, I wondered if I would...fit in. I wondered if her husband was a nice guy.

I pictured an apprentice graduation barbecue, with a benign Mr. Pendergast handing me fresh-grilled salmon patties.

Ha, I thought.

For one, nobody but me ever seemed to like those. And beyond that—it was just a fantasy. Brought on by an empty stomach.

I hadn’t eaten. I wondered how long it had actually been.

I looked mistrustfully at the forested strip where I’d seen the…whatever, with my second sight. Nothing there now.

I shuddered. It was involuntary. Gooseflesh climbed my arms.

I felt eyes on me, but looking around me, I was alone.

With nothing better to do, I turned back the way I’d come, and I walked home. Again.

I’d made it to the top of the hill, but not even a whole city block, when a car pulled up next to me. Toby. The hair, and an unbuttoned button-up shirt over a graphic tee. His laconic grin was grounding.

“Maxine,” he greeted me. “I wanted to make sure that you’re okay.”

I must not have looked okay. Maybe he’d try to make me feel better. That would be okay.

“Maxine, do you want a ride?” he asked.

I piled gratefully into his car, tossing my bike on his rack. We cycled sometimes. It was familiar. His car smelled like artificial linen air freshener. He had, like, four of them in there, one in each vent. The AC was blowing, but I didn’t mind.

“Home, James,” I joked weakly.

“Mine or...?” he asked, apparently confused.

“I was thinking...yours,” I requested. “Please?”

He started driving without comment. “Have you eaten yet?”

“No.”

“How do you even live?” he complained, executing a quick U-turn. We were headed toby the school again.

“Where are we going?”

“Mickey D’s, where they sell fish,” he told me seriously. “Your diet is wack.”

And he always remembered it, too.

“Man,” he said. “Finals, huh?”

I nodded.

“You ever think, ‘I’m about to be out of high school, out there in the real world, got to get a job and make something of myself’?” he asked, in the tone of one who had, in fact, been thinking just that.

“Every day,” I told him. “How about you?”

“Yeah. It’s been a fun run,” he said. “But I figure I’ll go into marketing and sales. I can’t tell them I’ve got experience, but...”

“Hey, I’m happy for you,” I told him.

“Yeah. I was always going to get out of this business eventually.”

“You said,” I concurred.

“Just for the odd dollar, to build up book money for college.”

I had a thought. “I can’t afford McDonald’s, man.”

“No,” he said, holding up a hand. “See, I’m having McDonald’s. And I’m just accidentally buying a fish thing. So, since you don’t want it to go to waste, I figure you’ll eat it.”

I hesitated, then patted him on the shoulder.