What Z Sees Page 16

  A bumblebee flies by near my head, and then a large black fly. My knee starts to buckle, Mallomar filling. Where am I?

  I feel so confused. Am I falling?

  Again?

  I think maybe I’ll throw up instead of fainting, but that doesn’t happen either. Then I’m overcome with an overwhelming desire to go grab Dad, drag him in here and shove him into the pile of manure I’ve just created. But I’m not as strong as he is, can’t even really stay upright, and besides, he’s gone, his heavy footfalls exiting the barn after he hangs up. He has no idea what he’s just done, but it all falls together for me perfectly, I can see it in the air, colours and shapes smacking down into the perfectly ordered, ugly mosaic of his lie. The colours are brown and grey and red and visceral, like raw meat spun through with metal. Sharp and glistening like a weapon being hurled through the air, shining in the sun, slicing me apart.

  My next thought is that I could run away. I should. Run somewhere where I never have to see him or hear him or know him. Run somewhere like those crazy loons who live in cabins in the woods, away from everyone else. The woods appeal to me. All those tree shadows and greenery, more beautiful than any art I can think of imagining. Run someplace where the only thoughts I know are mine. Run someplace where no one can enter my head and feed me information I can’t handle.

  That’s my main thought: uh oh, I can’t handle this. I can’t handle this.

  But I can’t run away. It would break Maman’s heart. I would never do that to her. She’s lost enough already. She’s lost more than she knows. I sit down in the hay and it prickles my bare, stubbly legs. I press my flesh into it. It’s leaving its mark all over me. When I finally get up, I’ll be imprinted with it.

  I close my eyes.

  When is enough information too much already? When will it stop?

  When will I remember to look away before it’s too late?

  AXEL

  Chapter14

  HE IS DRUNK.

  Dizzy drunk. Bad drunk. The kind of drunk where you aren’t high but merely feel detached from yourself, like your body is a puppet that you can’t remember how to control.

  Zara — even though she doesn’t drink — would get it. It’s almost like what she’s described to him about being overly connected. Like her body is somehow falling away. Except when she says it, it sounds almost pretty. What he is feeling isn’t pretty. It’s floppy, loose, messy.

  He wishes Zara were here. He wants her to be here. He thinks it as loud as he can as though she could see his thoughts even from miles and miles away, which she can’t. He knows she can’t. She’s explained. Still, he’s calling her.

  This is bad, he thinks, squinting in the sun. Detritus feels unstable under him but he knows it’s him and not the horse. Obviously it’s him. Horses don’t get drunk. Horses aren’t that stupid. Detritus heaves a huge sigh and steadies himself. Like he’s agreeing to carry the load.

  The crowd is noisy. What was Axel thinking? He never drinks during the day, never before he rides.

  Never and never and never.

  It was the stress of the trip, that’s all. The stress of making like Des and Wick are just A-okay being gay and flaunting it. Being flirty. Skeeving him out, if he’s being honest. Then pretending to be un-gay, which was worse, making them seem like androids or actors playing his best friends on TV.

  Normally, for example, at the hotel last night they might have snuck some alcohol in, had a little party. Probably they would have goofed around in the swimming pool; the one at the hotel where they were staying had a waterslide, which was dumb. Kid stuff. But they would usually have used it anyway. Instead, they went out for dinner and Des and Wick kept touching each others’ hands. It made his stomach lurch. He felt like he was tagging along on someone else’s date. It was too awful. He couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t handle anything.

  Zara, he repeats in his head. Zara Zara Zara. Save me.

  Not like she could. She still has this huge thing she’s dealing with; the fact that Axel can’t deal with the gayness of his friends is totally trivial.

  Sin, he thinks suddenly. Sin.

  But she’s not there either. Of course she isn’t. She only comes out when Zara is riding. She’s Zara’s friend. More so than his. Zara’s. It’s like he has to remind himself. He wants her to be his friend. He wants her to hug him like she hugged Zara, both of them laughing and crying. Maybe he’s gay, too. That seems like a gay thing to want.

  He isn’t gay.

  Is he? He’d know, wouldn’t he? The ground shifts beneath him or Detritus tilts; either way, he almost falls, the near-miss grounding him back in the saddle again. He breathes. Sharply. The air hurts.

  He’s so mad at Des and Wick right now for making him need to drink like that, for making this happen. He really blames them. For shutting him out of the equation, for making him feel like the reject, even though it’s hardly a club he wanted to belong to. He’s so confused. So utterly, completely, stupidly confused.

  Fuck, he says. Fuck. Shit. Damn.

  Detritus whinnies. Shakes his head like a fly is buzzing his eyes.

  The ring wobbles around him. It’s huge, yawning wide open like a football field. The pristine white fences swim in his vision. Already he’s forgotten the route he’s supposed to take through the jumps. Squinting at them, he can’t make out any logic to their arrangement. He’s going to go wrong, he can feel it. He’ll take the wrong jump and the terrible hush in the crowd will alert him to that and he’ll have no idea how to correct himself.

  None.

  He’s lost now. Really lost. And he hasn’t even started.

  He’ll fail. He’ll fail horribly. Everyone will laugh. He’ll be a joke. How will he explain it to Maman and to Dad and to Zara and to ... everyone? What will they think? They’ll think he’s a loser. Well, he is. Maybe that’s been the problem all along.

  He’ll try to explain it to Sin. How he got confused. How it was somehow about Wick and Des, but also about Zara and how he couldn’t help. But she might not get it.

  She might write him off as a drunk idiot. Her own dad was a drunk, she told him once. She’ll hate him. Well, he doesn’t deserve her anyway. He should be with someone more vapid. Someone less alive. Like himself. Like Gigi. Why is he thinking about Sin like that? That’s all wrong. He’s just drunk, that’s all. It doesn’t mean shit.

  He tastes vomit at the back of his throat. Oh God, he groans. No throwing up. Swallows hard. He won’t let that happen. Not that. Not now.

  He can see Maman sitting over near the stands. Waving. What is she going to think? Like father, like son? Only his father’s addiction wasn’t alcohol, it was gambling. Taking all those chances. Willing to throw everything away. Different, but maybe not as different as he’d previously thought. He’s his father’s son. Only okay on horseback. The rest of the time just a completely worthless jerk.

  He pretends he can’t see her. It seems like too much effort to lift his hand off the reins and wave back. He’s scared he’ll fall off.

  In the worst case scenario, he’ll slip off going over the first oxer, a terribly daunting triple bar that seems to stretch and wobble of its own volition and he’s not even near it yet. Maybe he’ll be yet another family member hurt somehow permanently by a horse: the family curse. Dad’s stupid dream injuring each of them in turn, like some kind of horrible fairy tale.

  Great. That’s just great. Terrific. If Zara were here, what would she make of his thoughts now? He can guess that they aren’t pretty colours and butterflies, that’s for damn sure.

  It’s taking forever for the bell to go to indicate he should start. Sweat trickles into his eyes and stings. Detritus is getting nervy, pulling at the reins, trying to get his head.

  It’s his dad’s fault, that’s what it boils down to, isn’t it? If it weren’t for Dad, he’d never have learned to ride to begin with. Never would have had a horse. Never would have fallen in love with it. And does he love it? Or is there something even more messed up t
here? Does he believe, deep down, that if he wins, gets on the team, that Dad will just come back? He’ll be so proud, he’ll be one of the family again?

  Maybe he does. Maybe he’s just stupid enough to think that. Maybe that’s not even what he wants anymore. He wants ... he wants ...

  He has no idea what he wants.

  He wants to stop drinking. He wants to feel okay. He wants his world to wobble back into place. Good friends, good relationship with his sister, a normal, fun girlfriend. What’s so wrong with that? Isn’t that what everyone wants? Dad should have stopped him from drinking. Or Maman. Why doesn’t she ever care that he’s wasted? That’s not right. Or Zara, where was she? Or even Gigi, who was too busy to bother to come this weekend. Busy with who knows what. She’s been shifty lately, since the night in the attic. She’s avoided his calls. He must have touched her wrong. Too much or in the wrong place. He must have made a mistake.

  He’s so stupid. He’s going to fall. He knows it. Or pass out. He’s so dizzy. He’s so dizzy, it’s ridiculous. How hot is it out here? Under his dress jacket, sweat rolls out of his skin in a torrent. A stinky torrent. He absolutely reeks of alcohol.

  Why is this happening?

  Finally, the bell goes to signify that he should begin. It takes him a second to get his bearings.

  Come on, baby, he whispers to the horse. Help me out here, dude.

  Detritus hesitates and waits for him to make a move. Axel gives him a kick and says, Here goes nothing.

  He can barely stay on. Every jump looks Herculean, but Detritus soldiers on. He’s not helping the horse at all. He’s more like a sack of dead weight slung over the saddle. At one point, over the low oxer before the water hazard, his foot comes out of the stirrups and he slips sideways. He must look ridiculous, he thinks, as he struggles to regain his posture.

  He stays on.

  Rails come down, but Detritus is doing his best. Each time a piece of the jump clanks to the ground behind him, he can literally feel all hope that he had of making the junior nationals disappearing. He’s blown it.

  It’s everyone else’s fault.

  Well, fuck them. He doesn’t need anyone.

  Finally, he escapes from the ring, slides off the horse and vomits into a water bucket. He doesn’t care who sees. He leaves Detritus in the paddock, still all tacked up, not caring, and goes and slumps down beside Maman1s chair. She reaches out and puts her hand in his hair. It feels so good, it reminds him of when he was a baby and she’d run her fingers through his curls and inhale them, like his hair was the most amazing flower.

  It’s okay, she says. It’s okay.

  But it isn’t. He knows that. It’s all fallen apart. How can she say it’s okay?

  Nothing is okay.

  Nothing can be okay until he is sober. Until Zara is okay. Until...

  He doesn’t know exactly. It’s just all out of sync. It’s just all messed up.

  SIN

  Chapter 15

  YOU CALL ZARA early in the morning when you know she’s probably awake, even if she’s not already working in the barn. You set your alarm to do this. It seems important enough to do that. It seems serious enough that early morning is the only time to talk about it.

  You say, I want to help. What can I do? I can’t stop thinking about it.

  I want you to help, too, she says. I don’t know what you can do.

  It’s hard, you say. Can you tell what I’m thinking now?

  No, she says. Not over the phone.

  It’s so weird. It must be so weird. It’s weird to be me, too, though. To know that you know ... well, everything.

  It’s not like that, she says. I only know what you’re thinking about when I’m looking at you and, even then, I can turn it off.

  I’ve been thinking about that part, you say. I’ve been thinking you have to stop. You can’t just hurt yourself. Not for me, anyway, okay? I’d rather you saw my thoughts.

  I don’t want to, though, she says. It’s ...

  What? you ask.

  I don’t know, she says. It’s too much. It’s your private thoughts! I’m spying. Like I don’t mean to, but then I do, and I can’t... it’s not fair. It feels gross.

  Gross! you say, trying to laugh it off. Thanks a lot.

  Come on, she says. That’s not what I mean.

  Sorry, you say.

  Hey, she says. It’s not all so serious, right? I mean, it’s okay.

  I know, you say. Of course it is. I mean, maybe you just need to get used to it somehow. Right? Like maybe there’s something other than, well, hurting yourself that makes it okay.

  Singing works, she admits. Singing.

  Well, you can’t sing all the time, though, you say.

  I know, she says.

  What else? you ask.

  Being around certain people is better, she says. Like I can’t be around my dad at all. But I can be around ... John. Not that I want to. I mean, I’m sure he’s not going to call. I just... he ...

  You giggle. You have a crush on him!

  Do not, she says. And for a second she sounds like the old Zara.

  Do, too! you say, to keep it going.

  Not! she says.

  It’s like old times. Just like that. You don’t want to say anything else, in case it goes back to being so heavy. You want it to be light, just for now. Just for another minute. Then you’ll save her. Somehow. You have to. Someone has to. You want it to be you.

  You’ll fix everything. You just don’t quite know how.

  ZARA

  Chapter 16

  I AM HIDING from my dad. And from John.

  He called. Twice. But I didn’t answer.

  Hiding from John is a different kind of hiding. It’s hiding from the phone. It’s hiding that makes less sense — I like him. I don’t even understand myself why I don’t just pick up the call.

  With Dad, it’s more literally hiding. I’m creeping around the house like Anne Frank in her attic. I haven’t had a shower for two days.

  Maman and Axel come home tonight.

  I hide from my dad all over the house because, if I see him, I’ll look further than I want to, past all the images hovering around him, into what he’s feeling. I can’t see that again. I mean, I can, obviously. But I won’t. I don’t want it. Like, is he just doing his duty by coming to visit us? Is he fulfilling some kind of obligation? Does he think we need him to do that?

  We don’t.

  Sometimes I hide in plain sight: that’s easier than it sounds. It involves making no eye contact. Keeping my iPod earplugs in. Singing along to music that isn’t playing.

  I know he’s looking for me, looking at me, but I don’t care. He can twinkle those eyes at whoever he wants, it won’t work on me. He’s my father, not someone who can flirt his way into my heart. And I realize that’s what he does. I realize that’s what he’s trying to do.

  He has no idea how to be a parent.

  Or a husband. Although he should. Apparently he has a lot of practice. More than anyone would have guessed.

  Sometimes I literally hide. I lie in my bedroom closet or the crawlspace between my room and Axel’s room with a flashlight and read my books. I try to ignore the desiccated spider corpses, the strange sounds. I listen to him moving around the hollow house. Listen to the phone ringing from downstairs. Listen for him to leave. I eat my meals at all the wrong times so that our paths don’t cross. I take care of the dogs early or late, the horses in between when I hear him driving away in his truck. It’s hard to avoid him. It’s complicated. And I’m so pissed off with him for making me go through this stupid charade, I can’t even believe it. How can he do this to me?

  When he sees me in the distance, he yells my name and I pretend not to hear him.

  I go to the club all sweaty and dirty, wearing clothes I’ve been running in and I sing badly, off-key, two nights in a row. Once because I think I see John. Once because I’m looking for him and he isn’t there.

  So dumb, I know. And it’s like that,
my stupid crush-like feeling disconnects me. It’s like it makes everything not quite work. It makes me feel like I’m not okay, after all.

  Sin’s uncle tells me that I have to share the spot with other people. Maybe he’ll let me sing once a week, he says. He says he’s sorry, but other people need a chance, too. Of course, I can see that he’s lying. His lie is translucent spiders spinning vertical webs up and down the length of his body. I can see that I just sucked and he wants to be rid of me but he’s being nice because of Sin. I can see that he is sorry, but he’-s mostly sorry that I blew it. That people are complaining. About me. I’m not used to that. I’m used to praise. It’s startling, like having the hot water run out in the middle of shampooing your hair: I nearly jump from the shock.

  While he’s talking, the webby tendrils of his lie weave silkily through his hair and beard. It would almost be pretty if it weren’t so upsetting. I’m sorry, he says. But I did give you lots of time up there.

  Yeah, I say. Thanks.

  But what can I do? Nothing. I can’t sing. I can’t sing because of Dad.

  I can’t sing because my throat is all full of a lump that I can’t seem to cry out.

  The whole time it seems like my heart is beating as if I’m about to jump from another plane only it won’t slow down and it’s been going on for two days. I call Sin from the phone in the tack room. I use a dumb accent, even though I can’t do them at all. I try for East Indian and I come off sounding more Jamaican.

  Hello, I say. How are you this very fine day?

  I’m okay, she says. Her voice is weird. Is she mad? Why do I always think she’ll never really be mad? Like our friendship is too important to her to abandon? It’s not. She could leave me. She could go, like Dad, and stop speaking to me for longer and longer periods of time and gradually I’d realize she’d left for real.