Bold Page 3

  Now he thinks I’m weird, so I’m going to use it, my thing, my secret weapon that always makes people want to talk to me for at least two minutes.

  “I died. For ten seconds. But I died.”

  It worked, he turned his whole body toward me. Part of me hates that this works, that me alone is invisible until I say those words “I died” and suddenly I glow neon and attract everyone’s attention. But he doesn't look crushed anymore. He’s interested. I know he’s not interested in me but in my story, so I have to make the most of my time and get out of my brain for a second here.

  “I was in a car accident.”

  “Was anyone killed?”

  “No.”

  “What did it feel like? A bright light, peace... were you afraid?”

  “No one’s ever asked me this many questions before. Usually people only want to know how long I was officially dead."

  “Well, that too, I guess. But were you scared?"

  “Yes.”

  Clearly not the answer he wanted. Now he looks scared. Why? It’s not like he’s planning on dying tomorrow. Stupid, stupid. He was sitting here crying, maybe he found out he has three days to live because of cancer or a flesh-eating disease or poison.

  “I can’t help thinking about what it is was like, when he knew he was dying. I wake up thinking he's calling out to me.”

  “Who?”

  He suddenly seems aware he was talking to a person and not to himself. Guess my minute is up and I’m back to invisible.

  “Oh, no one. Well… my best friend from home.”

  “Is that why you moved here?”

  “Partly. Everything back home reminded me of him, so my mom thought it’d be healthier to start fresh. Like moving would make me forget.”

  “I’m really sorry about what I said about using it, him, I mean –”

  “You were right. I should use him more, to motivate me, to make him proud. He’s not here, but I am.”

  “Yes, that’s totally what I meant. It’s like you’re living double. I was living half a life before, so for me I'm just up to one full life.”

  He laughs. Really laughs. Not at me, but with me. I think.

  8

  Will

  She’s gone. One minute she’s describing what it was like when she died, and then I’m telling her this big lie. The next thing I know, Amber is back to let me know we’re going to be late for homeroom, and I don’t see the formerly dead girl anywhere. Now that I’m staring at Amber, I can’t help but compare them. Amber is dateable, but the other girl, she’s sexy in that intense kind of way.

  “This could be a really good story, depending.”

  “Depending? You said if I do this, I’m in.”

  “If you do this well, you’re in. You haven’t written a word yet.”

  “Don’t worry, it’ll be good, front page good.”

  Amber doesn’t say anything as she rides toward school. By the time my eyes finally stop tearing and I make it to class, as predicted, the two girls in the Prius who saw me crying at the mini-mart have already texted two people, who texted four people, who then blogged to everyone else in school. People gossip about me more in the next seven hours than they have since I moved here. In study hall, it’s hard to ignore the rumors about me: I was crying because I got some girl pregnant. I failed my drivers test. I was kicked off the team for using steroids. My favorite came when I was pulling my books out of my locker at the end of the day.

  “So I hear the new kid totally found out he has an inoperable brain tumor.”

  “I wonder if he’s gonna get a transplant. Hey, maybe I could organize something, you know, like hold a benefit or an auction. I’d fulfill my community service requirement and all the girls would think I was so sensitive.”

  “Dude, you can’t do a transplant for a brain tumor.”

  “Man, what a loser, can’t even get sick enough to get a good service project.”

  High school, no, make that life, really sucks sometimes. I could try and explain what happened, but that would ruin the story I’m writing because everyone would know what happened before it was printed. It’s not worth blowing my chance to get on the paper. Once the article is published, people will know the truth. The truth is important. Dad would’ve understood that.

  9

  Sasha

  I needed school today. A break from having to take action as the new me. Eight hours of safety to dream about Will. But talking about the accident this morning pulled at me all day. I kept flashing to the moments before the crash. The wind blowing through the open windows. The metal frame of the pick-up closing in on me.

  I’m walking on the road my brother and I were driving. Each car that rushes past now makes my blood run cold, deep into the marrow. Once that happens, once the cold latches deep into me, it takes days to get warm again. Even after I’m home, in bed, under a wool blanket and down comforter, I can't shake the chill. I hide my face under the cover halfway so I can still sneak a few gasps of fresh air. I have to be able to breathe, but if I’m halfway under, my exhales of warm breath melt the frost in my fingers. I can’t keep my head under, even halfway, for too long. When I was lying on the street, I couldn’t breathe. I felt the blood gushing out of my neck, but no air. I kept thinking about how on television when someone desperately needs air, doctors perform a tracheotomy, shoving a knife or pen or whatever is close into the neck so the patient can breathe. The patients never seem to feel the knife puncturing the skin. But I felt the pain.

  When the paramedic finally arrived, I got ready for him to shove a blade into my throat, and I knew it would hurt because everything hurt. I wanted to tell those T.V. people they lied. They obviously never had anything shoved into their neck because it hurts. It kills. I thought that and it scared me. Would it kill me? I heard him tell the other paramedic that he couldn’t find a pulse. I wanted to scream at him that I was alive, but my breath wasn’t coming so he didn’t hear anything. I tried to tell him with my eyes, but he wouldn’t look at me. I was trying to say I have to be alive because it hurts so much I’m going to die. Help.

  His hands were on my wrist, but he was looking at the other paramedic. Finally, the other guy saw me, or at least my tears.

  “She's crying.”

  And every cell in my body rose up and danced. I’ve never been so happy. So relieved. It reminded me of one day when I was really tired and I fell into bed and the clean, white sheets and gushy pillow ate me up and I knew soon I would be asleep. This was the opposite, waking up, coming alive, but the joy was the same. The simple joy. And I promised I would savor every time I got in bed and hugged my pillow as the most glorious thing in the world, making everything bad disappear –

  Disappointing everyone, gone.

  Guy not liking me, gone.

  Saying the wrong thing, gone.

  Just the pillow and white sheets and happiness.

  But I’m not in bed. I’m on the street and the cars passing make me so cold I’ll never get warm. But I have to go back there. Whenever I talk about it, especially if I use it, I have to go honor it, me, the old me, the new me, the moment, the crash. I’m afraid if I don’t, whatever power or magic or luck allowed me to be okay will decide I’m not worthy and come take it all away. Take me away.

  I wonder what the people in the cars passing by think of me. The crazy girl walking on the street with no sidewalk.

  There are those trees that grow across each other, like they’re leaning on each other. I remember looking up at those trees. Seeing them now, straight on, they seem so separate. They aren’t really even touching. But this is it. I’m here.

  I should feel more. A military convoy rumbles past. I don’t look up, but I’ve seen enough of them around here to know they’re filled with young guys staring at me. And I don’t know how to hold my arms. Crossed, too shut off. On my hips, too much attitude. I know it’s just a place, not a person. But those trees know me and the cars are watching. I think I’m forgetting to breathe, so I’ll breathe
. Not too deeply or I’ll hyperventilate. This is ridiculous. I’m supposed to be paying honor to the place, but I can’t get out of my head. Maybe I’ll come back another time, and I’ll really be here. You know how everyone always talks about being in the moment? I’ve never been in the moment. Not even when I was dying. I was worrying about who would come to my funeral. What I’d wear in my casket. I know it’s sick, but it’s true. I can’t just be without all this argument in my head. I’ve tried meditating, but I end up disappointing myself. I tried yoga, but I was sure everyone could hear every word I wasn’t supposed to be thinking.

  I’m working on being silent in my head. They call it practicing yoga someone told me once because no one can shut out the noise, we all practice toward it. But I know it’s not possible for me to be in the moment, so I decided not to try and instead try not to be shy.

  There he is. Will.

  Wow. I might actually have been in the moment for a second there. Or was it just shock that shut up my head? Is there a difference?

  What’s he doing here? How did he even know where here was?

  He must really be into this school paper investigative journalist thing. I didn’t imagine him being committed to anything. I thought he was one of those guys who coasts through life without all the noise in their head. Happy.

  Maybe he went to the hospital to find this place. He could have tried my parents. No way. If a boy showed up at my door, my parents would assume he was my boyfriend and get so excited, he would run.

  He could have Googled me on his phone. He probably asked some kids at school. They all know. Anything gory is instantly transmitted to everyone. People love gory news.

  Love. I hate it when I use love like that. Loving gore may mean something to kids at school, but I should know better. I know what love is. I’m sure I do, even though I’ve never felt it. There should be a different word for really liking something, like pizza or roller coasters or the beach. And a totally different word for how you feel about your parents... and your dog.

  When I do love, really love, that guy is going to be so lucky because I’m going to be the best ever. I’m not talking about sex, I mean real love. All-consuming, intense. For life. Not that I expect to be with my high school boyfriend for life. If I ever find one. But I can love him for life. We can be together now and then decide we love each other enough to want to give each other the freedom to go out and experience all of life. We’ll check in every few years. Maybe we’ll be jealous of each other’s lovers, but we’ll go to each other’s weddings and cry, out of happiness. Then, when we’re old, we can meet again and smile at each other and it will mean more than anything. Because we are connected. Because we knew each other like no one else. Because we still love each other. First, I need to find him. Then he’ll see.

  Just to be perfectly clear, I’m not saying it’s Will. He’s just here. He’s not into me, I can tell. But he needs me, or someone, and it can be me. I’m good when people need me. Then they notice me.

  Will is definitely noticing me. He’s staring at me like he’s afraid to talk to me. Sometimes this world can turn upside down for a moment and it feels... right. But I know it won’t last.

  “Did you see your life flash before your eyes?”

  “Yes.”

  I did, really. And in that moment, my life seemed very long and very full. I remember being surprised at how many people I knew. And the people I thought I didn’t care about, like my cousin I barely ever see, and the old woman who smiles at me whenever I walk by her house even though we never talk and the guy I kissed at camp, who promised to write and did but I got bored because if he’s not here, what’s the point? They flashed by and made me feel so much better. Not only not so scared, but really full of feeling and the world and the two trees leaning against each other. But now I can see they really weren’t even touching.

  “So you knew what was coming?”

  “No. Seeing the pictures, they made me warm and calm. I didn’t feel the pain for as long as the pictures were there.”

  “So you felt pain. It didn’t stop when it got too much to bear, like they say it does?”

  I know I should lie. I know he wants me to lie. But what are we really doing here? He’s not my friend. It’s not like he’ll wave to me in the bleachers at his next game. Not that I would ever go to a game. And if some girl at school who always seems effortlessly put together notices my backpack is hiking up my skirt in back and points it out for everyone to see, he wouldn’t come to my rescue. He wouldn’t protect me, so why should I protect him? And anyway, my only pull on him seems to be my secret information on dying. If I lie, he might know and go away. Even if we’re not friends, I don’t want this, whatever it is, to stop.

  “The pain only stopped when the pictures were there. Or sometimes, if I turned a little bit, it would stop, then I’d be slammed with even worse pain, like it was saving up.”

  I can see him flinch. He’s not crying, but he’s not really breathing either.

  “But when I was watching the flashes, it wasn’t just no pain, it was a pure moment of feeling... good. At peace like you said before.”

  “At peace to die?”

  “No, but I didn’t stay dead. Maybe it’s different when people really die. The flashes made me feel closer to my life than I thought I actually was.”

  Why’s he staring at my feet? He doesn’t get it.

  “I always thought no one got me, and I didn’t really understand anyone else. But for that moment, everyone I saw in the flashes knew at least a part of me, and I was really glad to see them and thankful they were in my life.”

  “What about when you see them now?”

  Oh, crap. I’m crying. Crap. Now I’m just some hysterical girl. Stop, breathe. Please stop. Okay, slowly so I don’t cry...

  “I try to keep that feeling. But it’s hard, the farther away I get. And sometimes, it’s so easy and it takes me over. I see someone, for real see them like run into them at the supermarket, and suddenly they look like they did in my flashes and I want to hug them and cry. But I don’t because then everyone would think I’m even weirder than they already do.”

  “I wasn’t always nice to him. But I feel him around sometimes, and what you said makes sense because I feel like he must see me how he saw me in the flashes.”

  “You must’ve been really good friends. I’m jealous.”

  What did I just say?

  “Not of him being close to you. I mean, I’m jealous you had such a good friend.”

  Which I will never have if I can’t figure out how to talk to people without being such an idiot.

  10

  Will

  Boys don't cry.

  Delete.

  Crybaby.

  Delete.

  Cry me a river.

  Delete, delete, delete. This story’s killing me. I’m racking my brain. I have stuff to say, but it’s coming out wrong. It’s like I caught cliché-mania. Maybe I need another break. Bed is made, already read my e-mail. I could use a refill of soda. That took two minutes, two and five seconds if you count having to put a new bottle of soda in the fridge. It’s not like Mom couldn’t do it, she’s vegging on the couch, watching television. That’s all she ever does anymore when she’s not at her job at the jewelry store in the mall. Drink soda, watch crime shows, the ones on every channel every night. I don’t see the appeal. They are always the same – murder, investigation, arrest, jail. Like we didn't see that coming. But she needs the reassurance. Good over bad. Light versus dark. Winning, not losing.

  Why is this assignment dogging me? I nailed the fake crying, all that’s left is writing. Prove you have a soul. I have a soul, it just doesn’t like to come out, show itself all the time. It’s like, shy. I have a shy soul sometimes. Not like that girl Sasha, who almost died. The one with the toe ring. Her soul is fierce, it knew it wasn’t time. Her time. She fought back.

  *

  I’m on my third lap, walking the halls that circle The Spectator. Every time I
arrive at the door to the room where Amber is reading what I wrote, I stop. Turn around. Go the other way.

  Amber must be the slowest reader in the world. How does she expect to work in journalism?

  I turn the corner again, thank goodness Amber’s talking to another girl on the paper. She must’ve stuck her head out into the hall, couldn’t find me. Amber says good-bye to her friend. I hold the door open for Amber, ready to hear what she thinks. Spread out on the table are photos of me fake crying. I spot a couple of with Sasha. I like the one where she’s making me laugh. My favorite is the one where she looks really worried about me. I can’t stop staring at the picture. At her.

  “So I read what you wrote.”

  Amber looks different today, her hair is not pulled back, her lips are shiny. Maybe it’s because for the first time she’s looking at me, not the jock stereotype of me. She covers the picture of me and Sasha with one of the trucker who threw me away like garbage. I can tell Amber’s checking me out, giving my photo the glance.

  “There’s good stuff in here, but I have some concerns.”

  You never want to hear the word “concern” when someone's talking about you. It’s fancy for “you suck.” “I’m concerned about your grades.” “I’m concerned about how you’re feeling.” “I’m concerned about how much T.V. you watch.” How can Amber have a concern – she came up with the idea. I see my article half underneath a photo of me wiping my eyes on my sleeve as the guy spits near my shoe. The paper is covered with question marks and red lines. I promised myself no matter what, I wouldn’t bolt.

  “I missed hearing the thoughts of some of the people who saw you crying.”

  “What was I supposed to do? Wipe off my tears and chase them down the street? That would’ve made for a really good story.”

  “Most people have schedules, they probably go to the mart every day. Did you go back there the next day, see if you could track them down?”

  No.