Holding Up the Universe Page 10

  And now she’s talking about her, not me. I feel the rubber band compressing my cold, dead heart snap in two, and without a word, I’m outta there.

  I escape outside into the fresh air and let out all the breath I’ve been holding for the past hour. You returned to the crime scene and you survived. Now that I can breathe again, it’s coming in a rush, and I feel dizzy from so much oxygen in my chest and in my brain. It’s important I keep my blood pressure low and steady. It’s a matter of life and death. I am serious. Life. And. Death. Because this could be how it starts—soaring blood pressure followed by dizziness followed by goodbye, Libby.

  It can run in families.

  Like that, the time machine that lives in my head teleports me back to that day. I’m standing beside my mom’s bed and wondering how something like this—her, unconscious in that bed—could happen.

  “She looks peaceful,” my dad said on the ride to the hospital. “Like she’s sleeping.”

  In the ICU, my mom was connected to all these tubes and wires, and a machine was breathing for her. I didn’t know what to do, so I sat by her and then I took her hand, and she was still warm, but not as warm as usual. I squeezed her fingers, but not too hard because I didn’t want to hurt her. Her head was back, her eyes open, like she was just waking up. She didn’t look peaceful. She looked empty.

  I said, “I’m here. Please don’t go. Please stay. Wake up. Please wake up. Please don’t leave me. Please please please. If anyone can come back, it’s you. Please come back. Please don’t go. Please don’t leave me alone.” Because if she went away, that’s what I would be.

  Outside the school, the sky is a mix of white and blue, but the cool air feels like a kiss against my hot, hot skin.

  I dig a marker out of my bag. I find a blank space on one sneaker. I write: You just hold your head high and keep those fists down. (Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird) I tell my brain to focus on the good—the fact that no one tried to ride me like a bull in the cafeteria today, the fact that I seem to have three actual friends, and the fact that Terri Collins is moving to Minnesota. The Damsels will need to replace her. Yet I can’t seem to shake the feeling that everyone belongs here but me.

  I think about Mary Katherine Blackwood from We Have Always Lived in the Castle. I’ve always loved her and felt sorry for her because she’s quirky and weird, just like me, and—I’ve told myself—misunderstood. But right now I have this unsettling, someone’s-hiding-in-the-closet feeling, like maybe I was wrong. Maybe it’s better that she’s locked away from the rest of the world. Maybe she’s not cut out to live like other people with other people. Maybe she belongs in that house forever.

  In the ocean of people, I see this very large girl coming toward me, and it’s her—Libby Strout. A group of girls elbows each other, and even though they’re whispering, I can hear them say something about Fat Girl Rodeo. They stare at Libby, and that’s the moment it hits me, square in the face. This is what I’ve done to her—painted a giant red target on her back.

  As they’re gawking, she stops in front of me and hands me a note. “Here.” This sends the girls into a giggling fit, and I can already hear the gossip mill churning.

  After school, I walk down a flight of stairs off the main hall to the creepy basement, which is where the old basketball court is, the one they used years ago before they built a million-dollar sports complex that seats ten thousand people. Jack Masselin leans back on the bleachers, legs stretched in front of him, elbows propped on the riser behind him, chatting with Travis Kearns from driver’s ed, a smiling girl with long brown hair, and a boy with a smooth, shaved head who I think is Keshawn Price, basketball star. They’re hanging on Jack Masselin’s every word, and he looks up, sees me, and keeps right on talking.

  Or maybe he doesn’t see me. Although I am the largest girl in here.

  I sit apart from them, on the front row. This gym can fit probably six hundred, and there’s something about it that feels sad and neglected, which, of course, it is. With every laugh coming from the group above me, I feel more and more invisible. Two other kids wander in, but I don’t know their names. The girl sits next to me, about a foot away, and the boy takes a seat one row up. The girl leans over and goes, “I’m Maddy.”

  “Libby.”

  “Is this the Conversation Circle?”

  But right then Mr. Levine moseys in. “Hello, hello. Thank you all for being here today.” He stops in front of the bleachers, hands on hips. He’s wearing an orange bow tie and matching orange sneakers, and except for the gray hair, he looks like he could be one of us.

  He says, “Let’s get this out of the way. I’m not going to talk to you about the importance of tolerance, equality, and realizing that we’re all in this together because I don’t think you’re stupid and completely lacking moral fiber. I think you’re smart individuals who did really stupid things. Who wants to start?”

  We all sit there. Even Jack Masselin goes silent. Mr. Levine keeps on. “How about ‘Why are you here?’ The real reason, not ‘Principal Wasserman made me do this.’ ”

  I’m waiting for someone to say something. When no one does, I say, “I’m here because of him.” And point at Jack.

  Mr. Levine shakes his head. “Actually, you’re here because you vandalized school property, and because you punched him.”

  One of the guys goes, “Nice.”

  Jack says, “Shut up.”

  “Gentlemen. And I use that term loosely.” Mr. Levine says to me, “You could have walked away.”

  “Would you have walked away?”

  “I’m not the one he grabbed.”

  “Okay.” I take a breath. “How about I’m here because I lost my temper. Because when someone grabs you out of the blue and won’t let go, you panic, especially when everyone’s watching you and no one’s doing anything to help you, and everybody but you seems to think it’s funny. I’m here because I didn’t know if it stopped there or if he was going to do something more than just hold on.”

  Everyone is staring at Jack, at me. Mr. Levine is nodding. “Jack, buddy, feel free to jump in.”

  “I’m good.”

  That’s what he says. I’m good. Lounging there with his bored expression, and that giant explosion of hair, too full of himself to participate.

  “If he doesn’t have anything to say, I’ll go again.” If there’s anything I’m good at in this world it’s being counseled. I’ve had years of it, and I know how to talk about myself and the Whys of things. Even in front of a room of strangers.

  Mr. Levine says, “Great. The floor is apparently all yours, Libby.”

  “After they cut me out of my house, I was in the hospital for a while, and even when I was strong enough to go home, the doctor kept me there because he said I couldn’t leave till I understood the Why. Why was I there. Why did I gain all that weight.”

  Mr. Levine doesn’t interrupt, but you can tell he’s really, truly listening. So is everybody else, even Travis Kearns. I keep talking because I’ve been over this a hundred times, so much that it’s barely a part of me anymore. It’s just a truth that lives outside me in the world. Libby got too big. Libby was cut out of her house. Libby got help. Libby got better. If there’s anything I’ve learned from counseling and losing my mom, it’s that it’s best to just say what’s on your mind. If you try to carry everything around all the time, pretty soon you end up flat on your back in bed, too big to get up or even turn over.

  “So the Why was a lot of things. It was inheriting my dad’s Hulk-size thighs and slow metabolism. It was being bullied on the playground. It was my mom dying and the way she died, and me being afraid and me feeling alone and worrying, always worrying, and Dad being sad, and Dad loving food and loving to cook, and me wanting him to feel better and also wanting me to feel better.”

  I hear a “Damn, girl,” from Keshawn before Mr. Levine says, “Well done, Libby.”

  A couple of the kids applaud.

  “Thank you.” For some reason, this mea
ns something, not the applause, but Mr. Levine. What he thinks of me matters. “I was housebound for a while, so I had a lot of time to think about it. And I’ve had a lot of time to think about it since.”

  We all look at Jack, but he says nothing.

  Mr. Levine turns back to me. “So why did you punch him?”

  I want to go Look at him. He’s perfect. He’s never had a bad day. Okay, he has this strange disorder that keeps him from recognizing people, but no one’s ever called him fat or ugly or disgusting. No one’s sent him hate mail or told him he would have been better off killing himself. His parents never received hate mail just for having him. Also, he has parents. I doubt he knows what it’s like to lose someone he loves. People like us, we can’t touch him because he’s too good for you and me and the rest of these kids and this punishment. Not to mention his friends utterly suck.

  I want to say Why wouldn’t I punch him?

  But I don’t really have an answer other than “I was mad.”

  And I know it’s not enough because of the look on Mr. Levine’s face. I’ve seen it before. It’s the look counselors get when they analyze you, when they know the answer before you do, but they’re not going to tell you because you have to think of it yourself.

  When it’s my turn, I say, “The real reason I’m here is because I’m king douchelord of the universe.”

  The guy with the bow tie who must be Mr. Levine goes, “In English, please, Jack.”

  I hunch forward and stare at the floor. I look like I’m trying to come up with just the right words, which I am. But the main reason is so I can avoid eye contact. Sometimes I want to close my eyes and forget that I can see. Because sometimes being face-blind feels a lot like being regular blind.

  Mr. Levine says, “What’s your Why?”

  “I don’t have a Why, only an Oh Shit and a What Was I Thinking.” I crack a grin at him, and then I catch Libby’s eye. I stare at her and she stares back. She’s read my letter. She can out me right here. I wait for her to say something. When she doesn’t, I clear my throat. “For what it’s worth, I wish I hadn’t done it.” It’s the first honest thing I’ve said all day.

  —

  Afterward, she finds me in the parking lot, half in the Land Rover, phone to my face.

  “So when did you put it in there?”

  “What?”

  “The letter.”

  I say into the phone, “I’m going to have to call you back,” and hang up on Caroline just as she goes, Who are you talking to? I say to Libby, “When I grabbed you.”

  “Did you think a letter was going to magically make everything okay?”

  “Did it?”

  “What do you think?”

  “You can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  I flash her a smile, but she shakes her head and waves a finger at my face. “Don’t do that.”

  “All right. Let’s be real, then. You said you’ve got questions. Ask me anything.” My phone buzzes in my pocket.

  “How long have you known about the face blindness?”

  “I figured it out around fourteen. It wasn’t this kind of overnight revelation, though. It was more like this process. I had to put the clues together, so it took a while.”

  “So you can see my face, but you can’t remember it.”

  “Something like that. It’s not like faces are a blank. I see eyes, noses, mouths. I just can’t associate them with specific people. Not like how you, as in Libby, can take a mental snapshot of someone and store it away in your mind for next time. I take a snapshot, and it immediately goes in the trash. If it takes you one or two meetings to be able to remember someone, it can take me a hundred. Or never. It’s kind of like amnesia or like trying to tell everyone apart by their hands.”

  She glances down at her hands and then at mine. “So when you turn away and then you turn back, you’re not sure who I am?”

  “Intellectually, I get that it’s you. But I don’t believe it, if that makes sense. I have to convince myself all over again This is Libby. I know that sounds crazy.” What’s crazy is standing here talking about this to someone other than myself.

  “Is it true it’s hard to watch TV or movies because you can’t keep the characters straight?”

  “Like people, some shows and movies are harder than others. Monster movies and cartoons are easy. Crime shows aren’t so much. I’m always wondering, Where’s the bad guy? And Who the hell is that?”

  I’m looking at her, and I’m charged with all this crazy, heart-pounding adrenaline. It’s almost as if she’s interviewing me, but I don’t mind because it’s the first time I’ve talked about this with anyone, and it’s kind of feeling a lot like freedom, like Here’s a person who might actually be able to get who I am.

  “How is it, you know, to have it?”

  “It’s like having a circus in my mind and always jumping through hoops. It’s like being in a crowded room where at first you don’t know anyone. Always.”

  Her eyes go bright and kind of intense. “Like coming back to school five years later and you’re trying to figure out if you knew him or her or them, but everyone looks different, and so the people you knew before are just…people.”

  “Right. You don’t know their histories and details, all the things that make them who they are now. And you’re the only one who feels that way.”

  “While the rest of them go to class and go to lunch like, Oh, look at me, I’ve been doing this forever. I know you and I know you and time never stopped, and here I am.”

  “Yeah.”

  Her eyes are large and the lashes are long. The color of her eyes is this very clear light brown. Like amber or whiskey. I’m having a hard time seeing the girl in the crane in this girl here. Even though the girl in front of me is big, she’s much more delicate in person.

  She goes, “Do you ever wonder if it’s everyone else who sees the world differently? Like, maybe you see people the way they’re supposed to be seen?”

  “Identifiers. That’s what I call it. Everyone has at least one thing that stands out.”

  “Is that why your hair’s so big?”

  “My hair’s big because it’s so damn awesome, baby.”

  She makes this hmm sound as if she doesn’t quite believe it, and then she tilts her head to one side, scrunches up her forehead, and says, “I feel like I know you. You know, from way back when.”

  My pulse speeds up. It starts buzzing the way my phone is buzzing. I’m thinking, You don’t know me, you don’t know me, like I have some power over her mind and, whatever happens, she cannot find out I was there that day she was rescued from her house. If she does find out, she might think I’m making fun of her because I saw her being rescued from her house, that this is why I grabbed her.

  She says, “Did you go to Westview Elementary?”

  “No, ma’am.” Before I can say anything else, my phone buzzes again.

  “Do you need to get that? Someone really wants to talk to you.”

  “They can wait.”

  She’s still studying me, but finally she shakes her head as if she’s clearing the slate. “I’m having that ‘I feel like I know you’ feeling a lot these days.”

  “You’re in good company. Or maybe shitty company, depending on how you look at it.” I smile. She almost does, but stops herself. “With face blindness, I seem to constantly lose the people I love.”

  She goes quiet for a second. “I know what that’s like.” And walks away.

  —

  I drive home and collect my little brother, and we scavenge the garage for robot materials. This is where I store the wreckage from all the creations I’ve built and later taken apart.

  I say, “Hey, little man, how was school today?”

  “Okay.”

  “Real okay or fake okay?”

  “Somewhere in between.”

  I meet Rachel in the park. We sit on our usual bench and she says, “So why did you punch him?”

  Because I’m ready for my no
rmal life. I just want to move forward like everyone else without being grabbed in cafeterias as if I’m some sort of prize heifer at a rodeo.

  I tell myself, This is the person you can say anything to, the person who knows you better than anyone. But all I come up with is “I was mad.”

  And then I think of three more questions I want to ask Jack.

  —

  The next afternoon, Mr. Levine is practicing free throws when we all walk into the gym. He says, “You’re here. Excellent. Keshawn, Travis, Jack, and Libby, you’ll be playing Natasha, Andy, Maddy, and me.”

  “Playing what?”

  “Basketball, Mr. Thornburg.” And he throws the ball to Keshawn, who catches it one-handed.

  “Shouldn’t it be all of us against Keshawn? You know, just to make it more even.”

  “Quiet up, Mass.” Keshawn sinks a basket from the door, which is no surprise. During the time Rip Van Libby was sleeping, he’s become Mr. Basketball three years running.

  “This isn’t about winning or losing. It’s not a competition. This is about teamwork.” We all stare at Mr. Levine, who’s doing this crazy back-and-forth shuffle-dance, like he’s in a boxing ring. “Everyone in this room needs to learn how to play well—or at least better—with others.”

  —

  Of course Keshawn wins the tip-off. We run up and down the court, and except for him, we all suck, even the athletes among us. It’s sad and embarrassing really, and the only thing we’re learning is how to humiliate ourselves in front of our peers.

  Every single time Keshawn makes a basket, he acts like he’s just won the state championship. He’s barking orders at his team and dribbling behind his back and through his legs and making these impossible jump shots, and honestly it’s like playing with LeBron James, if he were a six-foot-six-inch baby. At some point, Mr. Levine grabs the ball from him and says, “This is not Keshawn hour. It’s about helping out your teammates. It’s about we’re all equal. It’s about pulling together.” He sinks a perfect three-pointer. “Take a time-out, Mr. Basketball.”