side of my neck like a rash. But all in all, nothing that’ll scar my

face and put me on active duty in the school’s bell tower.

When I walk back into the room, Nurse Christine stops at the door

when she sees me. She smiles again, really smiles. Her teeth are a

little big for her tiny round face, but it’s still a pretty effect.

She ducks out of room without saying anything else but, “It was nice

to meet you.”

Layla rolls her eyes and takes a manila folder my mom hands her.

She’s stuck the mangled daisy behind her ear. She stuffs the folder in

a canvas bag so old that one of the straps has ripped and been

replaced with a red leather belt I got as a white-elephant gift a few

grades ago from a person who forgot to buy a unisex gift. I remember

Layla’s gift being a Han Solo action figure, and we traded.

“Are those my records?”

Mom and Layla shrug.

I shake my head. “So you’re in on this too?”

Layla looks at me with her honey hazel eyes and nods. The flower

is already drooping, missing its water bed. It isn’t staying in place,

so she takes it and throws it in the wastebasket by the door. “The

doctor was talking about keeping you here for ‘extended observation.’

There is no way you should’ve survived, but you did. So just shut up

and listen.” She pokes her finger on my chest where the scratches are.

“Stop hitting me. Mom .”

“You two stop that,” Mom says, holding on to a huge bouquet of

orchids and some strange wildflowers I’ve never seen before. She loves

orchids. “How do you feel?”

I know when I’m being overruled. “I feel good. Sore, obviously.

Nothing some Tylenol won’t fix.” Oh, and the giant black spot where a

memory of the last three days ought to be, but surely nothing to worry

about.

“Now, you listen to me. I don’t want you ending up in a government

lab experiment, because that’s what’s going to happen.” She looks

through the little glass window on the door and sticks her head out.

I’m used to my mom being- eccentric is what the other mothers call

her-but this is different. It’s like she’s actually scared for me. She

has to stop watching those conspiracy shows.

Layla leans in close to whisper, “Your mom’s been acting a little

crazy, but don’t argue. You don’t know what it’s been like for her.”

I pull a yellow petal from her hair. “Just for her?”

But she doesn’t answer me, because Mom goes, “Okay, just follow

me.” And she’s out the door, leaving us to follow her trail of red

hair.

The hospital is a mess of white and blue coats and stethoscopes.

Everyone walks like a windup toy, forward and side to side, but

never backward. Nurses push trays; doctors walk in and out of rooms. I

wonder if Nurse Christine will get in any trouble because of me.

My train of thought is broken when an old lady in a wheelchair

harrumphs loudly as she gets in the elevator with us, as if our

closeness offends her. She’s got a pink pamphlet in her hand, folded

like a little accordion. She’s fanning herself lightly with it. She’s

humming a melody that I’ve heard somewhere but can’t remember where.

When she looks up at me, she purses her lips and lifts her fan higher

to cover everything except her eyes.

I lean back against the elevator wall between my mom and Layla,

who hold their flower pots as they stare at the descending numbers

lighting up. A phone rings, and Layla reaches into her pocket. I

wonder who it is.

The old woman looks back up at me, but this time the face isn’t

her own. Her eyes are the color of pearl with dilated irises. Her skin

is translucent, like it’s pulled too tightly over bone.

I feel my heart jump in my throat. I stumble backward and hit the

wall. I close my eyes hard, the way I used to when I thought something

was hiding in my room behind the window curtains. I count to three,

just like I did back then, and when I open them, the old woman is the

old woman again. My mom and Layla stare at me as if to say, Have you

lost your mind?

The doors open and the woman rolls out onto the second floor.

I swallow hard. “Thought I saw a spider by her feet.” And the

medal for the manliest man in the hospital goes to… Tristan Hart!

When the doors close, Layla slaps my shoulder. “What is wrong with

you? She’s like one hundred.”

“Me? She was just kind of scary-looking-”

“You’re so-”

“Tristan, that was unkind,” my mom interjects, standing in front

of the door. Before I can respond, the door opens and we’re in the

lobby. We get out and a group of women holding shiny blue balloons

walks in. One of them stares at me so long that she trips on the girl

in front of her and a balloons floats up to the hospital ceiling.

“Is it just me, or does it smell like puke?”

Layla rolls her eyes. I can’t remember a time when she found me

this irritating. Usually she laughs at my stupid jokes or contributes

to them. “It’s a hospital . You’re being weirder than usual,” she

says.

How can I tell her that I’m going crazy without her freaking out?

Maybe I can drop it into normal dinner conversation. “Say, Mom and Dad

and other people present? I think I’m seeing a monstrous woman’s face

on the head of an old lady and hearing this incessant humming every

now and then. No, nothing to worry about. Just wanted to let you know

in case my heart suddenly stops from being scared shitless.”

“Hell- o? ” Layla snaps her fingers in front of my face. She

adjusts the weight of the bouquet against her chest. One of the

flowers keeps falling into her face.

“Sorry.” I grab the vase from her and follow her out. Mom is

already stepping through the revolving doors with her chin up like

we’re walking through the mall, and she’s glancing at the people

around us.

“What are you thinking about?” Layla asks when we step out into

the warm, sticky air.

I squint against the bright white-gray sky. “The weather, of

course.”

“It’s been like this since-you know. The Brooklyn Star is calling

it the Perfect Storm. So original, ugh. I’m pretty sure they have all

their reporters scavenging the beach, even though they’ve been told

not to.”

I struggle to laugh, but I can’t. Either something really wrong is

happening here, or I’m just imagining things. Either way, I’ve decided

I’m crazy.

My dad is parked down the block in his 1969 surf-green Mustang. He

bought it at the monthly Coney Island Community Auction. It’s the only

way to keep the buildings from being bought up by developers who want

to make Coney Island like Atlantic City. Dad got the car cheap because

so much work needed to be done to it. At that point it was the color

of rust, and the interior looked like it was a hostel for runaway

possums. With the help of my six-year-old self, Dad restored it. He

couldn’t have put this baby together if I hadn’t been his wrench and

sandwich gofer. Now it smells like eleven years of worn leather and

pine-tree air freshener.

I usually jump over the side of the car and hop into the backseat,

but now I have zero energy. I think they notice, but no one says

anything as they strap themselves into their seat belts. Maddy is

already sitting with the bouquet of daisies on her lap. She’s in the

middle seat, even though her legs are too long and she’d be better at

either window. I suspect she wants to sit next to me, even though I

don’t see how she can stand being in the same room as me. Why do some

girls put themselves in such painful situations?