What Z Sees Read online

  Maybe.

  Anyway, Axel promised Gigi that he’d take her to the lake tonight. A bunch of kids were going to row over to the island, have a bonfire. Normal stuff. Fun stuff. The stuff he had to do, as her boyfriend, like it was his job or something. The stuff he wants to do. Sort of. At least, he wants to go to the lake, wants to have some drinks around a fire with his friends, goof around and not worry about all this other merde.

  Detritus huffs and stumbles and Axel pulls him up. Lays a hand on his neck. Shh, he says. It’s okay.

  The horse flicks his head around. Jerks at the reins. He’s overworked, foaming. Axel continues to stroke him, hunched low over his neck. This, he decides, just this is when he feels most like himself. Alone in the ring. Detritus and him. The jumps. Nothing but blue sky. The sound of hoofs on the cushioned cedar chip ground. His head hot under his helmet. His hair damp with sweat. The muscles in his legs aching. The feel of the sun on his skin. Nothing complicated.

  Reluctantly, he turns the horse and walks hiirf slowly back toward the barn. I’ll get him cleaned up, he thinks. Cooled off, watered and then put him out in the paddock to cool off in the shade. That’s the plan. The smell of the cedar chips rises in the heat as he walks along the short driveway to the large barn. It’s looking a little dilapidated, needs painting. Maybe when Dad’s here, he can do it.

  Make himself useful for a change.

  From inside, he hears voices. He looks around. A couple of cars are parked crookedly in the parking area. Looks like Des and Wick are here. Good. He’ll see if they’re coming to the lake later. He hasn’t felt happy for a long time, but for a second he feels relaxed. He dismounts, leads Detritus the rest of the way in. Tries not to notice the horse’s limp. Is it a limp? Did his lie come true?

  He’s thinking of maybe taking old Cake out for a quick ride after he’s cleaned up Detritus. Or even Pudding Pop, who doesn’t care for the heat at all and is currently flat out in the shade. He’s about to whistle for him when he sees • • •

  When he sees ...

  Well.

  He doesn’t know how to react or what to do. Suddenly he has no idea where to put his hands, how to stand, how to speak. How to breathe. Finally it’s Detritus’s whinny that makes the two boys separate. Separate. From each other. Wrongly (when Axel thinks about this later, he’ll think, Why did I do that?), he bursts out laughing. A ragged kind of one-step-short-of-hysterical laughing that he couldn’t stop for anything. The kind of laugh that comes over you when you catch your two best friends — your two best male friends — making out in your barn.

  Oh my God, he says when he can finally stop. Shit. What are you doing?

  Like there’s going to be an answer, a punchline to the joke.

  They don’t answer, because they’re laughing, too. Axel isn’t sure ... doesn’t exactly know anymore what’s funny.

  The guffaws still hanging there in the air, Axel starts to blush furiously like it’s going to take him over. He feels so embarrassed. But why should he feel embarrassed? He hasn’t done anything. Wick and Des start laughing again, laughing because he was laughing. Laughing for too long almost as if they know that by laughing they don’t have to say anything.

  Axel forces himself to turn away. He meticulously finishes up with Detritus, careful not to look back at his friends. Only after he has turned the horse out to paddock does he go back to where they are and say, I guess you guys aren’t coming to the lake later.

  Probably we will, says Des. His face dares Axel to say more and suddenly Axel isn’t up for it. He shrugs instead.

  Yeah, says Wick. Probably we’ll be there.

  So, see you then, says Axel.

  Axel feels the bad thing at the pit of his stomach start to grow. He wants to drop everything, go find Zara. Tell her.

  But he can’t.

  Well, shit, he says.

  He grinds his heel into the chip trail like he’s putting out a cigarette. He wants to kick something. He’s lost Zara. He hates his girlfriend. His best friends are fucking, or if not, then close enough. So what? So he is completely alone.

  He feels so stupidly betrayed, something inside of him snapping and crackling and alive with ... fury. He wants to fight. Wants to hurt. Himself. Something. Someone else. Wants to feel some kind of hard pain. Wants to do something like his dad would do. Kick down a wall or some dumb thing. Break his own knuckles on a door, a window, a brick wall.

  He takes a breath. Forces it out his nose. He goes and stands at the paddock for a while, watches Detritus scratching himself on the rough-hewn fence. Rubs his own hand on the rail, getting a handful of splinters in the process. Then, suddenly chilled by the sweat cooling on his skin, he goes up to the house and showers. Digs around in the kitchen until he finds the wine that’s always there, takes a bottle all for himself up into the attic. Maman is still out back with her buyer. He sees her out the window at the top of the stairs, talking animatedly in her chair, the buyer — an older guy with grey hair — tipping back his head and laughing.

  A long time ago, Dad would talk about finishing the attic, turning it into a bedroom for one of the twins. Then they’d fight about who would get it and Dad would storm out, his face closed and his jaw locked. Sometimes he wouldn’t come home for days. Now that he thinks of it, he thinks, What the fuck ? What kind of parent does that? Eventually, slowly, Dad just started leaving for longer and longer. And really, there’s never been an explanation. Work, sure, but is that a reason? Is that normal? Or was it because the twins just kept making him madder and madder? Was it somehow actually Axel’s fault?

  Anyway, the attic was never done.

  Instead, it’s a big empty hollow where he and Z used to hide when they were kids. Hide from Dad, mostly. Or at least from the noise of Dad’s anger.

  There’s nothing up here now. Cobwebs by the hundreds, thick ones woven so tight they look like fabric. The floor isn’t even finished. Axel knows that, if he stands in the wrong spot, he’ll just fall right through the plaster ceiling into one of the bedrooms or the bathroom, smashing through and scaring to death whoever is in there.

  Axel unscrews the cap to the wine and takes a small sip. He cradles the bottle like a newborn puppy. He likes wine. A lot. It must be the Frenchman in him, he figures. He is perched on a beam; it’s not comfortable. Balancing like this has never been comfortable, but it’s so familiar to him, he feels nostalgic for it even though he’s right there. If you lean back, the cobwebs will stick to you. If you don’t, you’re just straight up uncomfortable. Oh well. He has good posture. All that riding, all those years of his dad shouting at him across the ring, Straighter, straighter, don’t slouch, straighten up. It’s like Dad’s voice inserted a steel rod in his back and now he can’t slouch even when he wants to. He takes another sip, looks out the filthy window. In the backyard, which is divided into a dozen dog runs, he sees Maman and her buyer coming back toward the house. Axel never really fell in love with the dogs, not like Maman. Not like Zara. He likes them enough but they always seem untrustworthy to him, not like the horses. The horses are solid. Unless they don’t mean to lie, like Detritus and his sore leg. Is it sore?

  Or is he imagining it?

  He has to get it together and get the vet over here, find out what’s wrong. But if he does that, he’s afraid the vet will say that Detritus is down for the count. That there’s nothing he can do.

  Axel takes another gulp, rolls the wine over his tongue. It’s bitten, not very good, and he feels a bit of smug satisfaction that he knows the difference between good wine and bad, that he can tell. And he’s only seventeen. It makes him feel proud, mature. What other kid could do that? Probably not a lot. They’re too busy showing off with their girlfriends or whatever everyone else does. Making out with each other like Des and Wick, Des and Wick. Wick and Des. Together. Kissing. He laughs again. He can no longer exactly picture it; it’s like he can imagine it but it’s blurred through a lens smeared with Vaseline. Nor can he unpicture it. It’s locked into his
mind’s eye, out of focus and strange. A juxtaposition that’s becoming more ludicrous with each mental rendering. And because it’s such a strange composition, he can’t do anything but laugh. Wick isn’t even good-looking, that was part of it. Not that he notices that kind of thing. He can’t think of either of them that way, which makes figuring them out together impossible. Bile rises in his throat. Well, he won’t think about that either: He wishes he could lie down but if he does he’ll fall into the toilet if he’s about where he thinks he is, relative to the bathroom below. Which would be kind of symbolic in a way because falling into a toilet seems to be what his life is doing somehow.

  He misses his life from before, even though he can’t go back to it; he feels nostalgic for stuff that happened last month. Like he remembers the night after their birthday when he and Zara and Sin (without Hamster for a change) camped out in the paddocks in tents, like they’d done on the first day after their birthday since they were little kids. It was different now, sure. Not quite like when they were young. They did roast marshmallows, though. Zara sang and he remembers that her voice was so incredible it made him shiver. And Sin made him laugh until he thought he’d pee his pants. Then they all crawled into their own pup tents and slept until so late the next morning they were woken up by the horses whinnying in protest in the barn.

  They used to do that all the time. Camp out on the lawn. They could never really go camping for real, leaving the horses behind. Someone always had to take care of them, so this was their substitute. Sue would come over with Sin and hang out in the house with Maman and the kids would prop the tents up on the lawn and do ... whatever.

  That was fun. That was before Gigi. Before Zara fell. Before Sin got so distracted. Before he himself started to feel so pissed off. He swallows a few more times for good measure, healthy gulps, even though he knows better than to gulp wine. He has to steady himself to go back downstairs, to start getting ready for the evening, to pull it together. He’s almost at the door walking the tightrope of beams when the door opens and Zara appears, almost like he sent for her, which — if he’s being honest — he sort of did. He wanted her to come up and find him. He wanted to talk to her. He wanted ...

  Oh, he says. Hey.

  Hey, she says, not looking at him. Practically twitching.

  I’m here, he says.

  Huh, she says. I see that.

  Her hand is quivering. She pushes her hair back from her face. She looks so thin. How much weight has she lost?

  Are you sick? he blurts. It’s the wine that makes it okay to say that. It’s the wine that prompts him to finally ask.

  Give me that wine, Zara says. I hate it but I want some, okay?

  Okay, he says.

  She drinks thirstily, then chokes. Ugh, she says. Gross. I don’t know how you drink that.

  He shrugs. It’s an acquired taste.

  Sounding like her old self, almost, she says, You’re seventeen! You don’t have acquired tastes.

  Do so, he says.

  Do not, she says.

  She laughs for real. She hasn’t laughed for so long that it seems strange.

  I saw Des and Wick making out in the barn, he says.

  Oh my God, she says. You’re kidding.

  No, he says. I wish.

  I kind of knew, she says. I think I knew. I thought I saw ... I knew you didn’t know.

  She grabs the bottle and drinks more. She gets up and wobbles across a beam, pirouettes. Far enough away that he can’t see her face in the dark.

  Don’t go too far, he says. I didn’t bring a flashlight.

  So? she asks. Our eyes will adjust.

  Whatever, he says, taking another drink. I have to go soon anyway, I’m taking Gigi to the lake.

  Ooh, she says in the darkness. Romantic.

  Whatever, he says again. I promised.

  I bet you did, she says. Gigi Gigi Gigi. She hums a little song then adds the word Gigi into it.

  Hey, he says. Why do you hate her?

  I don’t hate her, says Zara. I just think she’s boring and neurotic and dumb and irritating and bitchy and manipulative. And I don’t like her. What’s the point of her? That’s what I don’t get. I guess. I wouldn’t bother hating her. She’s not worth the energy. She’s ... well, she’s mean.

  She is a bit bitchy, he admits. All girls are bitchy.

  No, they aren’t, says Zara. That’s ridiculous. And it isn’t just that she’s bitchy, she’s ... well, what are her good points?

  I don’t know, he says. She’s pretty. And I like that she’s not exactly full of surprises. Sometimes boring isn’t so bad. It’s like, I don’t know. It’s like being around her is sort of soothing.

  No, says Zara after a pause. I guess that’s not bad. It’s just ... I don’t know. It’s your thing. I guess as long as you’re happy, it’s good enough.

  Is it? he asks, like he doesn’t expect an answer.

  She looks at him. Hard.

  I think we should talk about you and your... thing, he says.

  What thing? she asks, shrugging.

  Sin thinks you’re on drugs, he says. Are you?

  Right now? she asks. No.

  I mean, in general.

  She laughs. No, idiot, I’m not on drugs. Even this wine is making me feel sick. It’s awful.

  Whatever, he shrugs. I just thought I’d ask. You’ve been ... different.

  I know, she says. It’s not drugs, it’s something else. Can I tell you?

  Yeah, he says, but he’s suddenly not sure he wants to know. His heart beats high in his throat, like he’s about to gag. He doesn’t want to know. Does he? His stomach drops like a fast-falling elevator.

  You know I can tell what you’re thinking, she says. And you don’t want to know what else.

  Oh, that again, he says. It’s called intuition. We’re twins. You can guess what I’m thinking. Making it such a big deal is ... well, whatever. It’s your thing. You’re not reading my mind, you’re guessing. Relief floods through him. It’s not something weird, or not weirder than usual. It’s just her ... thing. The same thing as always.

  I can’t believe you won’t believe me, she says. It’s not intuition. Not really. It’s like ...

  For a second, he thinks about the wasps. Then he forces himself to laugh. Yeah, he says. Read my mind. Like, literally. So what am I thinking now?

  He closes his eyes and pictures a pink elephant, adds purple dots for fun, makes the elephant dance. He adds the wasps for good measure.

  Dancing elephant, she says. Dots. Wasps. Wasps that mean something more. The elephant is a joke, right? The wasps freak you out.

  Oh, he says. Shit. I mean, merde. His skin prickles.

  You’re thinking about Gigi. You’re thinking you’re late for the lake. You keep flashing a picture of Des and Wick. You’re feeling weird about it. Not even just weird. But you’re freaking out. You’re ...

  Stop it, he says. That’s enough. Shut up. He has to fight the urge to jump up and clamp his hand over her mouth to make her stop.

  Sorry, she says. But it isn’t just you now. Like it always was. You’re ... clearer. That’s for sure. Before it was more vague. But the scary thing — it is scary, you know, it’s so freaking scary — is that it’s everyone. I can see through everyone. It’s not just thoughts, it’s everything.

  That’s, he starts. That’s ...

  It’s freaking me out, she says. I can’t stop it. I have no control over it. I’ve totally lost... I feel like I... It’s stuff I don’t want to see.

  God, he says.That’s just fucking ... I don’t know, Zara. It can’t be real.

  I know, she says. Don’t think I don’t know. I thought that, too. But it is. It really is. It’s not made up. I couldn’t make that up. I couldn’t...

  I’m not saying you’re making it up, he says. His palms are sweating. I’m just...

  I want it to stop, she says. I need it to stop. I need to stop.

  How can I... what can I do? Do you think? he tries.
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  I don’t know, she says. I don’t.

  We could tell Maman, he says. She could ...

  NO, Zara says so loudly that her voice echoes. No. It would scare her. She’d think I was crazy. Schizophrenic or something. And I’m not, she pleads. I’m not.

  You’re not crazy, he says.

  I’m not, she repeats.

  So maybe you’re like a superhero, he says, trying to make light of it. Maybe you can use your powers for good.

  You’re making fun of me now, she says quietly. I’m serious, I can’t get it to stop and I hate it. I really hate it. You have no idea how creepy it is.

  I guess I could guess, he says. I do sort of know. I mean, I wouldn’t want to know what everyone was thinking.

  No, you wouldn’t, she agrees. You really wouldn’t.

  Well, he says, do you think it’s because you hit your head? Is it, like, a head injury thing?

  I don’t know, she says. Maybe. But I could always do it with you.

  He squeezes his eyes tight shut, seeing the webby pattern of light through his eyelids. He can’t deal. Not really. What is this? It’s so surreal. The wine makes him feel off-balance. Confused. Well, more confused. It’s like a dream.

  Maybe you should come with us tonight, he says. You can tell me what Gigi is thinking and maybe help me out.

  Don’t be an asshole, she says. It’s not like that. It’s not for that. At least, it couldn’t be. I don’t want it to be. I don’t know what it’s for. Maybe it’s not for anything. Maybe it just is.

  He takes another long drink but for some reason the bottle is empty. Did he drink all that? He does feel fuzzy. Loose. Zara is a shadow against the far wall, looks creepy in silhouette, like a ghost.

  I have to go to the lake, he says. I promised Gigi. Suddenly, all he needs is to get out of there. To get out. To go. Run away.

  Yeah, I know, she says. Go. Don’t let me keep you back if there’s something more important you have to do.