Safety 180

[Anthony Kite]

Eventually I gave up on the paper and pushed the laptop away. I'm good at English generally--I'm smarter than I let on, I guess, and I've read a lot what with all the time I've spent in casts--but that doesn't make writing papers any more fun. Catcher in the Rye was a good read, even the second time around, but what exactly can you say about it?

I sat back, cross-legged on the bed, cradling the Handycam, the electrical tape slick and the plastic beneath sticky where it'd slipped away. We'd both had our share of spills.

The tape, though, wasn't another crash. A series of smooth cabalernos: a backflip with a 180, the beginning of a twister. Ty taped them on the vert ramp, and normally that thing makes me nervous, but this is my favorite flip--even over the McTwist--and they all look pretty good. At the end I tried one with a 360 late in the flip, and I stuck it, weight a little too forward, but I was most disappointed that it took my whole air time to get my feet around. For the twister, I'm going to have to fit in two flips, one before and one after the spin. Shit.

The tape cut to Ty doing some 180s and 360s, making faces, and bashing stairs, shaking the camera so badly you couldn't see what was going on. I recognized some T-shirts, though: Ves, Cody, and Matt showed up to hang out and skateboard a bit. Ty bought pizza. It was a good night.

The tape cut again: Sam setting up, game face on. She locked into a perfect pornstar, landed it like she does them in her sleep. She rolled over, beaming, and Ty caught me in the shot, and I had to laugh a bit. I looked like I'd swallowed a bug. All my nervous ticks came out and she was blushing and it's no wonder the new kids were thinking, mistaking, that we're more than friends.

I rewound the tape and watched the grind again and rubbed my forehead. I couldn't figure it out. I can't figure her out. No one is like that just because. She's a jawbreaker, alternating layers of sweetness and tank. First open, then harmless; nice, then tough; generous, then protective; sentimental, then proud; affectionate, then unavailable. After that? Well, it's not a boat I'm keen on rocking.

What the hell was wrong with the cabalernos? Parallel with the flip, it's not the wings holding me back this time.

My Messenger window dinged. It was Chris.

Rolling Stoned says: Hey.
Lollersk8r says: What's up?

He linked me to Rob's Facebook page. He'd cleaned it up a lot since I was last there, having dumped a ton of boxes in his extended profile (thank God). So it was pretty easy to notice the top item of his Mini-Feed: "Robert D'Arcey is listed as in a relationship with Meiying Tsao." What the fuck. In fact, that's what I said to Chris.

Rolling Stoned says: I know rite? Sorry dude.

Meiying was a no fly zone. Everyone knew that. It was crew rule. After she and I had broken up--it feels like forever ago now--we all, and Rob especially, vowed that crew was like family: no hooking up with crew, no hooking up with the siblings of crew. I leave the state and what happens? Rob, my best friend, takes everything for himself. My crew, my fame, my girl. But I can't be mad at just him. It takes two to tango and Meiying's page was updated, too, right next to her "Random Picture of Me": Mei teaching me to skateboard vert.

Chris the unapologetic gossip dinged again.

Rolling Stoned says: You alive? Do I need to call 911 to cut you from the ceiling or buy a flak jacket?
Lollersk8r says: Dick
Rolling Stoned says: Me or Rob?

I ignored him and opened a tab to Emilio.

Lollersk8r says: What the hell is going on over there?

I waited for him to respond and resisted chucking the cam across the room. I could see the little shards of plastic and my perfect goddamn cabalernos exploding over Miles' bed.

Emilio Magno says: What's Chris told you so far?

Emilio is a great guy. He always gives it to you straight. So I tried to calm down and typed:

Lollersk8r says: Rob broke his own rule.

There was another long pause and time for my stomach to work itself into an industrial diamond.

Emilio Magno says: No one told you? The crew's split.

What? How? Why? Crews don't just split unless we all decide we're not friends anymore. But we may be on our way there from the looks of things. I babbled at Emilio something to that effect.

Emilio Magno says: Yeah it's like the Rob and Ben show over here. XP

I realized then how important it is that I go to that demo and do well. I have to remake myself, and I can't be depending on Rob. But until then, we'll have to play nice. I'll have plenty opportunity later to kick his ass. He always used to beat me in fights since he's bigger, but, and I couldn't help smiling to myself, those days are over.

Lollersk8r says: Do me a favor?
Emilio Magno says: Anything man.
Lollersk8r says: If it comes up, I'm not that pissed at Rob.

Emilio would lie for me, I knew it. We'd been through feuds before. He knows I can handle things--when I'm thinking straight.

Lollersk8r says: Trust me, dude. Our big break is coming. We can't have bad blood now. Plus Mei's a big girl.
Emilio Magno says: You got it.

Patience, as well you know, is not a virtue of mine. It's got me into fights, killed friendships, and roped me into crap deals. In the end, that's what ruined me and Jenny. I'm already frustrated out of my mind, but even if it kills me, I can't let impatience get me now.

[Anthony Kite]

We were working on the quarter pipe at the top of the combi-bowl. The curvature was rough; I'd taken it at full speed before, and while I managed to gap into the bowl once, it sure wasn't designed for that. I'd seen a few kids trip out and take a nasty six-plus foot spill, but done right, wow, what a ride.

Sam's weight wasn't sitting right grinding through the curve, so I moved to the inside to figure out what was going wrong as she came across the coping above rather than taking the weak vantage point on the top of the pipe. Who really gives a damn about safety when you can heal a snapped bone in seconds flat? And I'd never seen her with so much as a bruise.

She approaches again, nice and fast, up the pipe and locking into a perfect unity grind. It's a thing of beauty. She doesn't chicken out and wobble, but I can see now: she's over-anticipating the curve--she's so strong she can actually overcome the centrifugal force to do that--and then suddenly the old, chipped H-blocks of her trailing foot (her front foot in this grind) bite the coping. Feet all crossed up from the unity, she trips down the transition. She stays standing, but there's a split second when we both realize the inevitable, only time to exchange a look of surprise. She crashes right into me, hits me like a goddamn truck.

Of course I'm on skates, so there's no way I can stop her. We stumble across the deck, windmill over the lip, and slide down the inside of the bowl, her weight and mine crushing my wings so hard I see white. We come to a stop on the small drain in the bottom, tangled and stunned.

She sits up fast, all apologies, and yanks me off my back. Yeah, I'm fine. It's nothing I can't fix, no worries. I ask if she's alright. Of course she's alright. But I worry just the same, and, like a reflex, I find my hand on the back of her tight, little tricep. I try to quickly take it back, but it just slides down her arm, skipping over the wrinkles of her long-sleeved T-shirt. What am I doing?

My vision blurs for a moment as my body resets itself from the fall. I feel drugged, like my brain can't keep up. Even the awkward pause isn't time enough to apologize, to get up. A canine presses into her lower lip. We're in bullet time. She moves in, kissing me once, experimentally.

It's like a dam breaks. I can't stop it. I don't want to stop it. As much as I'm shaking and unsure and worried, every bit of sense I have screaming, "No!" I feel like I've been starving. I'm pulling her into my lap, kissing her back, a hand in her hair now. She threads her arms though mine, around my back, her fingers working their way into the soft feathers under my shoulder blades. It tickles and shivers down my spine and...



I roll over in bed, groaning. Even though it's been months now, I'm so used to sleeping on my back, the whole thing is numb and achy. The sun's in my eyes. Late Saturday morning. Miles and Kyle are up and gone already. I squint against the light and watch the dust, feeling my pulse slow back to normal. Sighing, I haul myself out of bed and grab some tissues. Carpe diem.

[Anthony Kite]

I wish people would just leave me the hell alone about Sam.

It's true. I'm no saint. There was a time when I would have jumped at the chance to break up Sam and Eddie. But now I'm not so sure. She says she loves him. I know what that's like. I'm not going to fuck that up. Besides, we're close anyway, right? And I like that. In a way, it's...safe.

Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, champ. You've stolen girlfriends before. And worse.

"Son, someday, you're going to have to forgive yourself." So says Dad. Says he's proud of my strong conscience and I've learned my lesson and that's enough. How? I don't see the justice in that.

Still, he's got a point, and I'm sick of feeling dangerous.

Bottling it all up--it's the cause and the cure. Because I have a problem with boundaries. I'm impatient. I get pushy. I hurt someone. I hurt Jenny. I can't forgive myself for that. And now I can't trust myself.

"I trust you," Sam says.

No, not if she saw the inside of my head.

[Anthony Kite]

After lunch I ran by the office to grab my mail. I'd gotten a note saying a package was waiting. Sister Mary Constance reached behind the reception desk and slid over the box: a one-foot cardboard cube with the Starshot logo in black. I'd been forever since I'd gotten anything from them, and usually it all just goes to my parents' house anyway. But this. This I need for the demo.

Back in my room, I ripped open the box and lifted out the inner one, black laminated cardboard with red logos, as well as some packing slips and a few stray polystyrene peanuts.

I flipped open the tab, swung the lid up, threw out the foam padding and manufacturers' notes, and finally withdrew the smooth hemisphere in its shroud of clear plastic. My new competition helmet.

Black with the red Starshot stripes and stars, the logo on the front above the brow. The left half dominated by Red Bull silver and blue, the metallic paint catching the light. On the right, several smaller brands: eye wear, backpacks, bearings, etc. And on the back: High Voltage Tattoo.

I turned in over in my hands, leaving dull fingerprints on the black. New plastic smell. I felt a grin spreading.

Dropping the helmet on my bed, I grabbed my battered Handycam, dumped it in my backpack, and rushed back to class.

[Anthony Kite]

What a disaster.

I met a handful of kids from Bloodvine last week, made plans with two. My date with Trinity turned out to be some sort of game, and coffee with Drix turned out to be a date. Uhg, it's so embarrassing. It's the wings, isn't it? I never used to get hit on by guys.

It's been so long since I've had a girlfriend, I'm so frustrated, I almost... I don't even know what I'm thinking anymore. Plenty of people get along fine without relationships, why can't I?

What I wouldn't do for a normal girl. Not psychic or blue. Just pretty and uncomplicated.

[Anthony Kite]

Ty's a nosy retard, but he's an okay guy--he means well and he comes through in a pinch. He's been, like, obsessed with hooking me up with some girl and I've been humoring him, mostly since I had some free evenings. After a couple total flops (we seriously had absolutely nothing to even talk about), he suggested Elly on the basis that she puts out--though from Ty "What's second base again?" Cloud, that doesn't mean a goddamned thing.

He got me thinking, though, and I kept an eye on her. I never really talked to her before, although I think she's friends or something with the girl I've been getting weed from. I'd heard that Elly's actually that pink Sailor Moon-looking hero, which is weird, but it doesn't really bother me. I mean, she hates it and I can sympathize. So I asked her out. She's super feisty and a challenge to keep up with, plus she has a killer body. We've been going out for a couple weeks now and it's been pretty great so far.

I don't know if I'm ready for a relationship, though. I mean, after the whole thing with Jenny, it just wasn't something I wanted to deal with. So I thought Elly being dominant would be a good thing, but she's only okay as long as she's in control, which, you know, isn't really how I swing. Yeah, so we'll see how long this lasts. I hate to be pessimistic, but on top of that, we really don't have much in common, so any time I spend skating or running around for skate things, I don't get to spend it with her. At least she's cool with me hanging out with Sam all the time and she understands that I'm busy.

Oh, which reminds me: my birthday went well. Sam helped me throw the party, and even though we had to kick a bunch of Rikti off the beach, no one was hurt and we had a good time. Elly got me a thing of fancy wing cleaner (and complementary "massage"), and I also got a bunch of gift certificates and music from everybody else and a photo CD from Sam.

We took a ton of pictures and video on the Philly trip and they all turned out really well even though I was in a shit mood the whole week before the demo. I don't know if I'll ever be cool with Rob and Mei as a couple, but I'm really relieved to have stuff mostly worked out with them. Sam got along great with Mei especially, and it was fun to explore Philly and Chicago, skate a ton, and see a killer show. Being a super totally paid off: even all crushed on the rail, we got some great shots of the bands.

Since then, I've been pretty busy with skate stuff. A contest here and there, but being the only inline skater on Starshot's team, they've got me running around Paragon and NYC promoting. Normally I wouldn't even consider whoring myself out to a sponsor like that, but they're sort of setting me up to be an icon, and something in me just can't say, "No," to that. They're even talking about a clothing line. Hey, if Shaun White can do it...

Man, just when everything's looking up... The headaches are back. They usually kick in the morning after I fight a lot and they're starting to get unbearable. I've got all this oxcodone from broken bones, and that's great and all, but it doesn't help my skating any. And if that wasn't enough, Nova pointed out that my feathers are coming in darker and darker. I've got no clue what's going on there, but it's probably not good news whatever it is.

[Anthony Kite]

Elly had been driving me up the wall with these control issues, but now I know what's really going on. And, God, it just broke me. It's Jenny all over again and I'm freaking the fuck out here because (even though I've explained it) Elly doesn't understand why every time she hesitates or tenses up, even if she says she wants it, it makes my skin crawl. Even thinking about it now, I might be sick.

I really, really didn't want to be reminded of Jenny. I mean, I haven't been hooking up with random college girls since then for no reason, so of course I don't want to be Elly's goddamn therapist. But then...if I pussy out, what if some other asshat screws her up more? And she comes on so strong now--seriously, she's practically bullying me about this. Like, did I open some sort of Pandora's Box here? Jesus. All I want is some time and space to sort this out. Like summer? But no, I've got until tomorrow to give Elly some sort of decision as to whether or not we're over, and I can't even make myself talk to the girl right now.

So I'm sitting here with my phone in hand, thumb shaking over the send button. I breathe deep. It's ringing. I pray it goes to voicemail.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Jenny? It's Anthony."

She pauses and I can her her cover the phone for a moment, and I take the opportunity to try to swallow my cotton mouth. When she returns, her voice is lower, close to the reciever. "What's up?"

"Um, how're you doing?" I stall.

"I'm okay." She pauses again. "What do you want?"

I rub my face. I hadn't thought this far. "I guess... I never really apologized to you. Not properly."

She sighs, tension in her voice, and I feel even worse for pulling her down into my flashback nightmare, too. "Why this? Why now?"

"Well, what I did to you...it's unforgivable. Still I... There's not a day that I don't regret the kind of person I've become and what I put you through... I just--I need to know you're okay now."

"Anthony," she says, sounding exasperated, "you don't need my blessing to go on with your life. I sure didn't ask for yours. And I don't really appreciate being reminded like this."

"I'm sorry for springing this on you, I just wanted you to know that even if I do move past this whole thing, I don't think any less of it. Or you. You don't deserve to live with my fuck-up. And for what it's worth, I'm sincerely sorry."

She sighs again and I hear her skin brush across the receiver. "We both made mistakes that night. We were drunk. I'd lied to you about not being a virgin, and--"

I cut in. "That shouldn't even matter."

"No...but it does. Because I over-idealized everything. I had this perfect picture of what it would be like..."

"You didn't want your first time to be drunk in the back of a Toyota, that's fine. And I didn't respect that."

Though as much as I regret forcing myself on Jenny, I thank God I realized what was going on before we went all the way. That image of her, horrified, eyes wet, perfect skin painted in white and orange triangles from the moonlight and the street lamps, it's burned into my memory. It haunts me. Every time Elly's breath catches in her throat, it's there.

After another solemn pause, a note of bitterness enters her voice. "I almost wish it had been, though."

She catches me completely by surprise. "W-what are you talking about?"

"Well," Jenny sounds unsure, like she'd never been candid about this before, least of all to me. Even when we were going out, she was pretty mysterious. And we hadn't really spoken since that night. "I mean... At least I thought I loved you then. I felt safe with you. And given the alternative..." She trails off.

I'd heard about the couple of guys she dated after me. It's not such a great track record. I wonder if that's my fault.

"But that doesn't excuse--"

"No. It doesn't." The strength is returning to her voice. She doesn't sound upset, just disappointed. "I won't forgive you. But, you know, I think we've both suffered enough. I'm done with it."

I don't manage much more than a mumble in the affirmative, for the first time in a long time feeling a little bit hopeful. Maybe I won't be fucked up about this forever, knowing that Jenny's going to be alright.

"That's all the absolution you're going to get from me, Tony. Please don't call me about this again."

"Yeah, I won't. Thanks, Jenny. I--I'm really glad to hear you're doing okay. Take care."

Maybe Dad is right and I'm the only one making such a big deal out of this. That feels all wrong, though. But with both my current girlfriend and even the girl I assaulted asking me not to bother them with my overabundance of conscience...maybe it is time to stop being afraid of myself.

And now that I think about it, I guess I haven't given myself enough credit. I do trust myself with Elly, or I wouldn't be so cautious even though she frustrates the hell out of me sometimes and I start thinking with the wrong brain. But even then, to be perfectly honest, and maybe it's because I've seen first hand what a bad experience can do to someone, I really couldn't trust any other guy to take care of her.

[Anthony Kite]

Every year I forget how summer drags halfway through. The constant sunshine, all the good ideas used up already, the black cloud of the next school year on the horizon...it gets to you. Or maybe it was that two weeks ago I felt invincible and now it was like I'd noticed the SoCal sun was actually just a cheap halogen knock-off. It didn't, by itself, represent the freedom I'd run back here to find.

I was on my bed, paging through some magazine when Mei knocked on my open door.

"Hey."

She hovered in the doorway for a moment before wandering across the threshold. "You're mom let me in. She said you might need some cheering up."

"Mm." I grunted, focused on the page but not seeing it.

"You look lonely, Tony." She pulled out my desk chair and plopped in it, spinning once, watching me.

"Yeah?"

It'd been two weeks now since Sam went home. I was starting to get the feeling I've been friends-laddered forever. But more than that, I just plain missed her, hanging out, skating, going on adventures. I might as well get used to it, but moping sounded better for the time being.

"I wanna go out tonight. Do something. Will you come with me?"

I turned the page with a snap, Under Armour's new sneakers failing to excite me as I'd hoped. "Get Rob to take you."

Mei stopped swiveling, her face slack. "Rob and I... We sorta broke up."

It took a second for that to sink in and I dropped the magazine to my lap and finally looked at her. She'd been crying.

"...Really? Why?"

She shrugged weakly a few times. "I dunno... I guess... I didn't like him as much as I thought. He's kinda...clingy."

Cool-guy Rob? Clingy?

"Are we talking about the same Rob?"

She smiled a little then and shook her head, brushing the thought away. "Whatever. Never mind. It would've happened sooner or later anyway--I wasn't about to marry him. C'mon, let's go out. We could use it."

"Alright, alright." I tossed the magazine onto one of the piles on the floor. "For you, chica. What'd you have in mind?"

Mei grinned a little sheepishly. "CSA mixer?"

The Chinese Student Association. It's a joke. Everyone knows it's just a hedge fund for all the richy-rich immigrant kids to have huge parties and ski trips on the school's dime. But being a student org., they can't keep anyone from joining even if they aren't Chinese, so a lot of kids pay in dues just to get in on the parties. The only problem is if you don't know Chinese, you're up the creek since all the announcements and fliers are written in their secret language--they only way they're legally allowed to weed out the posers. But I have Mei, and Mei knows Mandarin; and she has me, and I play a mean wingman.

The CSA throws a good party, but I groaned anyway. "You're not gonna set me up again, are you?"

"Naw." She waved off my question. "I just wanna dance. C'mon, pleeease?"

I swung my feet to the floor. "Yeah, I already said I would. You're right, we could use it."

I'm in sunshine withdrawal. This is nice, but I need the real stuff.

[Anthony Kite]

I know I've been downplaying the fact that I've been working on a pitch for a fashion line. It just seemed weird to be proud of something I haven't even done yet. And I didn't want to spread more gay rumors around school. But really, aside from skating almost every day and doing a couple contests and the week of the 4th, it's all I've been doing.

I read all the magazines from every season. I took all of Mei's advice. I learned a lot about sewing, mostly by trial and error; now I feel like I know every quirk of Mom's old quilting Singer. I visited as many boutiques as I could to see if someone had already done better something I was trying to do. And I really think I found a niche, somewhere between designer and wearable, punk and sophisticated, and athletic and trendy. I never thought my one short trip to Japan two years ago would have been so important, but now I feel like I'm starting to get the kids out on the Harajuku Bridge and the secret to their ritualistic nonconformity. It's the same reason I still listen to the Ramones: it's history; it's relating to people. Without that, it's just clothes.

So I'm standing in front of the whole pitch laid out on a half-circle of twelve mismatched, Frankensteined mannequins, and I'm trying to understand what the hell I'm trying to say with this crap and where it fits in history.

There's some button-up shirts with grungy silk screening, some T-shirts Emilio had drawn tattoo art on in marker, a pair of baggy pants you can actually skate in (I tried), wine-red velvet coat that fits in the waist without looking--well, gay--and a black and tinsel knit scarf that Grandma Lucy whipped up for me in a weekend. Four of the mannequins I'd saved for girls' clothes. It had been a lot easier to do those--the hard part was deciding what to show in the first place. More silk screened tops, a shredded tulle skirt, flared thigh-high leggings, a mini-jumper in diagonal pinstripes, a coat made from a chunk of an ancient couch I found on the curb...

One thing is obvious: nothing really matches. Plaids, ink splatters, stripes, tapestry, faux fur, tattoo art, band patches, checkers, rivets, lace, and straps--it's all represented somewhere. I'd tried to pull things together with a reoccurring theme: a logo by way of a cartoony little wing. I know it's corny, but it kind of works. On a pair of plaid pants it's a frayed canvas patch, drawn on in Sharpie. On the coat, it's a zipper tag I'd cast in pewter with the summer school remedial Tech. Ed. class. And in a weird way, it fits. Nothing really sticks out as not belonging to the whole collection. I can't help smiling to myself. I've never done anything like this before, and the sense of accomplishment is kind of overwhelming.

I know they weren't expecting me to actually sew anything at all, but I couldn't help getting my hands on the materials and playing around, and at that point, it didn't make sense not to keep going. What better way to show the DIY aesthetic? Either way, I also have a huge binder full of ideas and stuff I didn't want to or couldn't make myself.

All that's left to do now is pack it all up and head to New York.

It feels weird to strip the stands and stack everything in giant Rubbermaid bins, like I'm undoing something. I'd already taken a ton of pictures since I figure the big wigs might get a kick out of my cast of scavenged models and the crappy basement backdrop, but mostly I wanted to e-mail them to Sam. It won't be long before I'm back in Paragon, but I can't wait. It's been almost two months since she visited and I miss her like crazy. I wonder if she'd actually wear anything I made. I get hit with a pang of nerves when I think about anyone wearing it. I'm not normally self-conscious, but this is different somehow.

I might be famous. In fact, Starshot is expecting it. I know it's something I've always wanted and the crew and I have been working for it almost all our lives, but for the first time, it's not just a childish dream or an idle what-if? scenario. It's a real possibility, and I'd been talking about it for so long I never realized I wasn't prepared for it. What'll I do if they like it?

...What'll I do if they don't?

[Anthony Kite]

• PATIENCE, n. A minor form of despair, disguised as a virtue.
  • - Ambrose Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary

As awesome as everything was going back home, it's good to be back at school. I did miss it. It's nice to be the relatively normal one again. And I've got friends here and stuff. And doing the vigilante thing is more fun than it isn't. It sucks to have to choose one life or the other, and I'm totally dreading picking a college, which I have to do soon... I just want us all to be together, the Bomb Squad and the tank crew here, and just do awesome shit together, all the time.

Patience... It's never been something I've had more than a passing awareness of. But it's not all bad. Impulsivity, I get. Got it in spades. Honesty, sure; I don't have the patience to scrub up a lie and try to stick to it. Sure, I've got long term goals, but, frankly, they're just going to stay as something to talk about over pizza unless there's a series of instantly gratifying steps to get there. It's not that I'm not motivated. I just don't like to have things hanging over me, stuff to remember, stuff to wait for, stuff I can't know right now.

It's why I skate, I guess. It's made up of bite-sized chunks. Learn a trick, perfect a combo, win a heat, get new soul plates. Read a chapter of a book. Hook up with some girl once. Dye my hair. Instant gratification. I'm lucky, I guess, that it works for me.

I don't mean to make it look like it's such a great thing, though. Impatience has gotten me into my fair share of trouble. I rush homework, physical therapy, and relationships. I forget about stuff because it's too far in the future. I mean, it's really no mystery why I get a reputation as a slut and a flake when it's not like I'm retarded or anything. Right?

So asking me to be patient for something more than the afternoon mail isn't all that constructive. I get all grumpy if I can't at least have some sort of update. It makes thinking about anything else practically impossible.

So when I hear myself calmly (and honestly) say, "No rush," it's like I'm speaking in tongues or something. No rush? Really? It's so not me, like I'm leeching this confidence off the universe. I don't get it. I'm being patient. And not like fake-patient where you're waiting on pins and needles, all agitated, and if there was something you could do about it, you would. I'm talking like some serious zen here.

And this isn't some transitory state, either. I seem to have an awful lot of the stuff lately, and it's freaking me out. Like I'm totally content to just sit here and watch the seasons turn over and youth fade 'cause I trust Sam so completely. I've got no clue what's going to happen, but I know, I just know that she's not going to, well, break my heart, I guess. Whatever you want to call it. 'Cause if we were ever any less of friends than we now, I know it would kill her just as much.

It's a really weird feeling. It's simple, clear. But it aches.

[Anthony Kite]

I shut my locker door and adjust the stack of books under my arm. Criticism: Major Statements, Othello with notations, Darkness Visible--Mei had suggested I read that one. The world reels slightly, fuzzy at the edges. Back in Paragon and patrolling again, the migraines are back in full force, and I'm still trying to find the happy medium between pain-free and attentive. See, in California, I could have just gotten a prescription for medical marijuana to take the edge off; but, even if I took to self-medicating, I really can't afford to sacrifice my already crap math skills this late in the game. And I could quit patrolling, of course, but my extra-curriculars are pretty sparse and I need all the help I can get if I want to get into UCLA. My pain management doctor, since he caters to heroes, is pretty used to the, "A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do," mentality, though, and has no problem throwing pain killers at me. It's kind of sketchy, but I'm not being stupid about it or anything. I just have to figure out what works.

Whatever, I'm starting to get the impression that life is just a never ending series of adjustments. My parents tried so hard to provide a stable environment, and that's awesome, but now it's hard not to feel totally adrift. Maybe there's something to the term "well-adjusted" after all. And maybe happiness is just being able to roll with it all and not take stuff for granted.

I turn down the hall on autopilot, not really seeing the sea of kids as more than bodies, their faces muddled and alien. But one I do notice: one of the new girls--the southern belle. She sweeps by with her nose in the air, and I could give a shit, but she drags this wake of, I don't know what, but damn, she smells good.


* * *


As long as I live, I'll never be able to see a coconut and not think of Meiying. She's obsessed with the things, and since switching shampoos in fifth grade, has smelled like coconuts ever since. Don't ask me why I remember crap like that.

She had collapsed on the beat-up, old couch, fingering the worn, forest green velour. I still had this weird, nervous energy, pacing around the basement even though we'd been out all evening, grinding to terrible hip-hop in a hotel ballroom full of Asian kids.

Mei shoved a couple yards of acid washed, black denim off the couch and patted the cushion.

"You're making me seasick."

I flopped down next to her and we sat in silence, overlooking the nearly finished dress I'd been working on since Sam left. Black with white pinstripes on the bias. It was punky and all-purpose and missing something, but I hadn't felt all that creative lately.

"Your dummy has no boobs."

She rolled her head across the back of the sofa to look at me, and I shrugged.

"Does it really matter? Models are sticks anyway."

Mei gave me a disapproving look. "Since when are you designing for models, Mr. Hotshot?"

I shook my head an shrugged, too tired and ambivalent to fight about it. "You don't have boobs, either."

She was up, then, and in the dress and wouldn't take it off until I'd pinned darts in it and promised to never sell out, cross my heart and hope to die.

She looked good on the couch, her hair tossed over the back, warm skin and brown highlights against the green. I could smell coconuts in the dusty air.

There were a million things we could have said to each other. "I missed you." "What if we'd never split up?" "Thanks for dragging me out tonight." "I just need to not think for a while." But we never said a word--we didn't have to. It was just nice to have someone there, to have something familiar to hold onto in the middle of the shitstorm.

As Mei crawled into my lap, I briefly wondered if Rob would hear about it. Of course he would, sooner or later. And he'd have to adjust, just like everybody else.

This was how Mei adjusted. I couldn't lie and say that I hadn't been itching these past few years to get back with her, but to tell the full truth, my heart just wasn't in it.

[Anthony Kite]

Whoever named them "butterflies" obviously hadn't faced more than a small pang of stage fright. Rattle snakes I might buy, but butterflies, for sure, don't do the feeling justice.

It's really more like a flash fire. It starts with a tingling behind my ears, sliding back and tightening my scalp. I know it's coming when it moves in, spreading a shiver across the floor of my skull like the ions rearranging in a thunderhead. Then, snap! Lightning down my spine, electrifying each rib as it goes. It hits the pit of my stomach and ignites, breaks open, spreads. My insides are on fire. Bravery and reason go up in smoke. An ember sits there, smoldering, burning a hole through my resolve until the secrets show through. My mouth goes dry. My feet weigh a ton. Something wraps itself around my chest and holds tight. I wonder if anyone could ever drown it out. I hope I can hear her over my pulse pounding in my ears, even though I know she'll only say things that set me off all over again.

The middle-aged lady at the counter smiles sympathetically at me. She probably gets this all the time: kids standing there as pale and still as the stone garden statues, only able to say, "Um," and God help them if they need to count bills and handle change. Maybe I look a little more and a little less like the marble cherubs than most guys who come in here, but the terror in my expression is universal.

"First date, dear?"

My face is petrified and politeness fails, though I manage to nod. "Sorta."

Her smile broadens, amused, as she turns to the coolers behind her. "Sorta?"

I feel at the back of my scalp where this whole thing started like maybe I can find the switch to turn it off.

"Well, we've been best friends for, like, a year now, so..." I trail off. "So..."? So I hope I don't fuck it up.

She hands me a partially-bloomed red rose in clear plastic. "How's that?"

The ember flares again but I smile and it feels a bit easier to do this time. Flowers or no, I know she'll know what I mean even without me saying anything.

"It's perfect."

[Anthony Kite]

I shrugged off my messenger bag and flopped face down on my bed. The mattress felt alien still. The air smelled strange. At least Brandon washed his football crap occasionally.

My phone rang and I fished for it, reluctant to move from the warm spot on the comforter. It was probably Sam, wanting a post mortem update on the M.A.G.I. thing. Even though she was there, we didn't really talk about it. I didn't feel like talking. I still didn't really. I accepted the call and said, "Yeah?" into the sheets.

"Hi, honey, how are you?"

Oh, no, it was Mom.

"Hi, Mama. I'm alright."

"Are you sure? We heard about it on the news--what are they? Zombies? Anthony, tell me it's a hoax."

I couldn't help myself and sighed. "No, it's not a hoax. It's...pretty awful."

Mom hissed with worry. "They say they're everywhere--is it really that bad? Are you safe?"

I sort of shrugged out of habit. "Yeah, seems so. We're on hallowed ground, so, like..."

"Oh, thank God for that." She probably crossed herself.

"Yeah..."

There was a pause on the line. "Still, I wish you'd called sooner so we didn't have to worry."

"Sorry, Ma. The school woulda called you if something bad happened." What a weak excuse.

Then it was her turn to sigh. "Well, they did, Anthony. Should I be worried? What are these invoices from M.A.G.I.?"

"Oh, shit, sorry, I can pay those."

I could just see her shaking her head on the other end. "No, you don't have to. I just wanna know what's going on." She paused, but I didn't come up with anything in time. "You know you can tell me anything. After all we've been through, I can't imagine what you'd have trouble saying..."

I rubbed my face at took a breath. It was Mom. She'd find out sooner or later, anyway. And it was better than her worrying I'd got a girl pregnant or something.

"I, uh, had another bad 'accident.'"

She gasped. "Jesus Christ, how?"

"The...the zombies. A bunch of us went out to fight them. I felt like I had to help, y'know? I dunno, I got clocked really hard, I guess." And then...

She was quiet for a bit. "But...you're okay now?"

"Yeah, better than before, actually. No headaches. That staining is gone..." And...

Mom sighed through her nose and I could hear her turning pages. "It's not an angel, is it?" It wasn't a question.

"No, not so much."

"So...what is it? Who's this 'Miguel de Santana'?"

This whole conversation was like chewing on tinfoil for my brain: not pleasant.

"It's--I dunno. It's Aztec. Says the dude. He's an anthropologist or something. Studies dead shit from the Americas, I dunno."

"My God..." She barely whispered.

"Look, Mom, I'm alright. It's fine."

"Anthony..." She tutted. "You know all I've ever wanted is for you to be safe and happy, and right now... Anthony, I think you should come home."

I tried to protest but she cut me off.

"I'm not going to argue about it right now. Think about it and we'll talk tomorrow, okay?"

We said our good-byes and I dropped the phone to the floor. Soon the shock set in and I figured I might as well stay right where I was until morning--maybe I'd get lucky and sleep would come before then. When Sam called, I let it ring.