Because You'll Never Meet Me Page 11

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Cigarette

  I am irritated that you’re trying to, ah, “set me up” with three different ladies that I am acquainted with. I know you think yourself quite the comedian. I want no part of your speculation. You snickering fiend.

  You may not be needling about the lab. But allow me to silence your newest needles: I don’t wish to discuss my romantic inclinations. This has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me, Oliver. I trust you. But this issue is not one I trust myself to speak about.

  As for Fearsome Fieke (that’s pronounced “FEE-kuh”), there have been unusual developments in that area. Calm yourself: they are of an unromantic nature.

  I did not know how to approach Fieke. It was not that I could not find her. I saw her every morning before school started. Fieke is always easy to find. She jangles. Thumps. She announces her every movement with an arrogance that would terrify lesser men than you.

  I am a lesser man. But I had to brave an attempt. Thanking Owen has become a fixation. After he was absent from school for several consecutive days, I resolved to confront her.

  On a brisk April morning I heard her stomping on the far side of the school. She was looming by the recycling bins. There was her slight wheezing. Her noisome piercings. She was tapping away on the keypad of an outdated, battered phone. She has taken to jabbing her cigarettes into a long, sharp cigarette-holder.

  I had carefully considered what I would say. How I would describe the debt I owed to Owen. I wanted to tell her, as thoroughly as possible, that—

  “Fluff off.”

  Like a hissing viper.

  “Yo.” My disarming introduction.

  “I told you to fluff off. Never say ‘yo’ again.”

  “Duly noted.” I coughed. “An American boy sometimes encourages me to use outdated slang. And I am fond of eighties hip-hop music.”

  She flicked her cigarette to the ground. Stomped on it. “God, I wish I could beat you. Spit out what you want.”

  “It’s regarding—beg pardon. Were you chewing tobacco and smoking simultaneously?”

  “Do I have to answer that? You can see what’s inside my mouth.” She tucked her hands into her pockets. “You still forget to use your cane half the time, you know. And real blind people don’t tap them like that. You look fluffin’ spastic.”

  “I’m sure I would know more about that. Being the blind one.”

  This time she aimed a punch at my nose. I twisted my head away.

  “Are you done?”

  “You’ve made your point.” I breathed deep. “I read your note.”

  The bell rang overhead, but she began walking away from the school building, toward the back entrance and the street.

  “Took you long enough.”

  “There’s no call for rudeness.”

  “Wow. That means a whole lot, coming from you.”

  “Tell me why I have to stay away from Owen Abend.”

  “What, you gonna beat me up if I don’t? Oh, wait. You’re a pussy.”

  “I am not. And yes, theoretically—I could beat you. I’m capable.”

  She was still scowling. “Yeah, you could. But you fluffing didn’t. You let Lenz smash your face in. Then he bashed in Owen’s face for helping you, you mopey bastard. But you don’t give a shit about that.”

  “I do. I want to thank him. You and your confounded boots won’t allow me to.”

  “‘Confounded boots’?”

  “Or whatever you call them.”

  She eyed me in silence. Then: “Owen’s thinking of dropping out of school, you know.”

  “Let me speak to him.”

  Trying to be heroic, Ollie.

  She coughed into her hand. “Fluff it. Come on.”

  And she walked right out of the schoolyard and into the street.

  “What are you doing? The final bell has rung!”

  She kept walking. Loud as a rampaging elephant.

  What could I do? Soon she would be lost in the early morning crowds. Lost to my sight despite the volume of her.

  I followed her into the chilly morning.

  Fieke led me to a Kneipe I hadn’t known existed, a pub of sorts called Der Kränklicher Dichter (“The Sickly Poet”). It was tucked away behind a city plaza, not far from the Städtisches Kaufhaus, a multistoried shopping mall. Halfway there, while we were passing through a flower market that smelled so strongly of blossoms that I imagined I could almost see colors in the scents, she yanked the cane from my hands.

  “I’ll show you how it’s done.”

  Fieke waved the cane in huge arcs. People scurried left and right to avoid her blows. She closed her eyes and mimed a look of utmost concentration. Old women covered their mouths and tittered with concern.

  “Stop that,” I said.

  Fieke smirked. “But I’m blind.”

  “It’s distasteful!”

  She thrust the cane against my chest. “Isn’t it, though?”

  I was relieved when we escaped the stares of stallholders, but my face was still burning. We entered the cool dark of the Kneipe, the smell of smoke and damp.

  The barman, wearing a beret of all things, nodded at Fieke like they were old friends. We sat down in a corner booth removed from the weekday morning patrons. I noticed a stage in the center of the room. A circular space where a man was crouched beside a microphone.

  She nodded at it. “Look.”

  “What is he doing?”

  She pursed her lips. “You didn’t even turn around. You can see what’s behind you, even?”

  “Well. Yes.” I often forget to turn my head when people say “look.”

  “How does it work, exactly?”

  “It isn’t dinner conversation.” Here we were, casually discussing the ailment that usually made young ladies trip backward over things, Oliver.

  “Why not? I’m not ordering a damn thing.”

  “I can ‘see’ anything that I can hear. A crude way to describe it. Are you familiar with echolocation? Although the comparison, ah …”

  She chewed her cheek. Didn’t blink.

  “I know it can be unsettling. Let me appease you.” I intentionally turned around in my seat. I mimed looking at the stage, as if I had not been able to hear its location since I’d stepped in. As if I were normal. “My, what is he doing?”

  “Man, you’re a freak.”

  “Do not call me that.”

  “I can call you anything I want. You owe me.”

  “Why should I owe you anything?”

  She sighed, rasping on smoke. “Owen is my little brother. I had to bandage his fluffing wounds after Lenz knocked his head against the bleachers. I had to sit next to him when he got his stitches and he got two teeth pulled. After he helped you.”

  The blood left my face. I had not realized the extent of Lenz’s handiwork. “When was it?”

  “Right after he handed you your goggles. Gebor turned his back to calm the masses—the idiot—and the moment he wasn’t looking, Lenz went apeshit on Owen. He always goes apeshit on Owen. Why do you think he’s still suspended?”

  “Is Owen … is he all right?”

  “What’s it to you?” She watched me for a moment. Shrugged. “Well, his face isn’t a fluffing purple blood cake anymore.” She nodded at the stage. “Shut up. This guy’s about to perform.”

  On the stage, the man stood up straight, nodded at his minuscule morning crowd, cleared his throat, and began reciting into the microphone. It was a torrent of melancholy sound, Oliver, and it carried across the room, illuminating every crevice until I was almost blinded by the pocks and scrapes in the bar.

  “Wir sind für nichts mehr erreichbar, nicht für Gutes noch Schlechtes. Wir stehen hoch, hoch über dem Irdischen—jeder für sich allein. Wir verkehren nicht miteinander, weil uns das zu langweilig ist. Keiner von uns hegt noch etwas, das ihm abhanden kommen könnte. Über Jammer oder Jubel sind wir gleich unermesslich erhaben. Wir sind mit uns zufrieden, und das ist alles!
—Die Lebenden verachten wir unsagbar, kaum dass wir sie bemitleiden. Sie erheitern uns mit ihrem Getue. Wir lächeln bei ihren Tragödien.”

  Roughly:

  “We are touched by nothing, no longer responsible for good and evil. We stand high, high above earthly concerns—every man for himself. We do not speak to each other, because that is boring. None of us cherishes anything, and so we have nothing to lose. We are as content to be miserable as we are to be happy. We are satisfied, and that is everything!—We pity the living, just as we despise them. Their fuss is amusing. We smile at their tragedies.”

  “What is this?” I whispered.

  “You’re a fan of performance speaking?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Well, you suck. That monologue—it’s from a Frank Wedekind play. Spoken originally by a character named—”

  “Moritz.” I swallowed. “The ghost of a boy named Moritz, who took his own life earlier in the play. He was doing poorly in school. Because he could not sleep.” I stood. “I’m leaving.”

  “Moritz, wait.”

  “Oh, yes. My cane. I have to be distasteful.”

  “No. Sit down. Look—”

  “Do not ask me to look. I am always looking.”

  She bit her lip. Clink. “I mean, come here. Sit. You want to meet up with Owen? Fine. I can arrange that. But not at school. Not where Lenz would hear about it.”

  I sat back down. “Then where?”

  She smiled. “First, why don’t you go on up and perform. To show you’re a dedicated little gerbil.”

  “I would prefer not to.”

  “Go on up, or I’ll never let you see him. Ever.”

  If I could scowl properly! “You can’t be serious. You bring me here and—then you demand—You simply cannot be serious.”

  She blinked. Clicked her piercings, so that I could see the smallest of sardonic dimples. “Can I not be?”

  “Infuriating wretch.” I stood up once more.

  “Get your cane.”

  “No.” I pointed my finger in her face. “I am going to silence you, you rackety girl.”

  She blinked in shock. Then broke into an enormous grin, the first I had ever seen on her face. It was a coiled thing. Not precisely pleasant.

  I walked to the stage. Bowed. Took the microphone. And I “owned” the stage with my personal rendition of Dr. Dre’s immortal masterpiece, “Nuthin’ but a ‘G’ Thang.”

  I sat myself carefully in my chair. The morning crowd was still applauding. Beverages of an alcoholic nature appeared at our table. Old Swiss men slapped me on the back.

  “Allow me to meet with Owen, please.”

  “At this point I would let you impregnate me!” Fieke cackled.

  “That would be unnecessary. And undesirable.”

  “Hah! Fluffin’ unreal! I thought you were taking the piss earlier, but what the hell? How does someone like you get into rap, Brille?”

  (Brille translates as “glasses.” Or “goggles.”)

  I folded my hands on my lap. “I suppose … I’ve often felt like a public enemy.”

  After a beat, she laughed once again, grabbing my shoulder and shaking it. “Unreal. Fine. Look. Ten PM next Friday. He’ll be looking for you in the Partygänger Diskothek.”

  “I’m not one for the Diskothek.”

  “Really, Brille? After what you just pulled?”

  “A fit of passion.”

  “Again—you’re a freak. If you wanna see him, you’ve gotta meet him in a crowd. Lenz can’t get into that club. It’s a safe zone. And here’s the good news: I’ll be coming with you, looking sickening as always.”

  “Perhaps we have opposing definitions of the phrase ‘good news’?”

  “Shut up. Was that a joke? Shut up.”

  “I can manage by myself.”

  “As if. I’m coming. And don’t bother bringing your cane.”

  What on earth, Ollie. What on earth.

  Tell me of your final happy memory. Next week I can tell you about meeting Owen Abend, another boy who is making me a decent human being.

  Moritz

  P.S. You’ve asked me not to needle. Don’t fling a cat at my face (I would only dodge Mr. Gray), but know that I am worrying. That is all.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Living Room

  So I want to tell you about the best day of my life. Simply, without fuss or hoopla. Except that isn’t really possible—because fuss and hoopla were both present on the day in question.

  And this was the day when I realized what Liz was to me. I mean, really realized it (I know I’ve blabbed about being lovesick, but it wasn’t always like that in my head). Liz and I were friends, and really good friends, but here was the day that upped the stakes.

  Now it just sounds all dolphin-wavy up in here, but please have mercy again.

  The party was for my thirteenth birthday. It wasn’t actually on my thirteenth birthday, but a few days before it, because normal kids usually have to go to school on Tuesdays.

  My birthdays were always nice enough before. Mom would usually give me some new model fossils or miniature-sarcophagi-making kits, and make me an awesome, multilayered cake (she went through a wedding-cake-hobbyist phase), and Auburn-Stache would come over and join us for a night of stuffing our faces with almond chicken and playing board games (I kick royal ass at Clue, if you’re wondering). Pretty tame, by all accounts.

  But my thirteenth birthday became a bigger deal, maybe because I’d become a teenager. I don’t think Mom was convinced I’d make it to adulthood, but I was getting closer and she was getting hopeful. In the weeks before October 11, she kept dropping all these fond little hints that she was bursting on the inside (and not with grand mal seizures). Like, sometimes she would let her face relax and she’d just drape her arms around my neck without warning.

  “You’ve grown so much! Who’s this man in the house?”

  It was downright creepy. Like a very loving leech had possessed her. She meant well, I think. But it was like she was trying to sap the aging right out of me with statements like:

  “What happened to my little kickstand?”

  And:

  “God, I can’t believe how much you look like your father!”

  Catchphrases, Moritz. She developed catchphrases. And she was mentioning Dad, which was even freakier.

  I started hiding out in the woods more, clambering up into our old tree forts or visiting the pond and dipping my feet in for the hell of it. Mom was way more lenient nowadays, and had been ever since Liz started coming around. Over the past few years she’d only locked herself in the garage seven times or so. Another reason to be grateful for Liz.

  (And another reason to miss her, now that Mom is locked inside the garage every other day.)

  Anyhow, she and Liz plotted and schemed behind my back to throw me a party. I knew they were planning something on account of all the obvious whispering and winking, so I was mentally prepared for them to jump out from behind trees and throw confetti in my eyes.

  On that Saturday, I followed the deer trail to the junkyard not remotely at unawares. After all, Liz wasn’t stopping to scope out things on the forest floor. She was way too eager to get to Joe’s. She couldn’t keep a secret without it basically leaking out her ears, and she dragged me right through the trees as if we were being chased.

  They had constructed an enormous white tent—a pavilion of sorts—near the center of the yard, in an open space of thirty feet or so.

  “You made me a circus! There had better be juggling bears. Juggling dead teddy bears.”

  “It’s not a circus.”

  I grinned. “Of course not. It’s a birthday tent!”

  “You could have at least pretended to be surprised.”

  “You like me because I don’t pretend.”

  “Ugh. Just come inside, doofus.”

  “Nope. I hate to disappoint. Let me try again.” I blinked and rubbed my eyes with my fists. “Whoa! What could that be? Surely not a surpris
e party.”

  “Shut up, doofus.”

  “You don’t have to finish every sentence with ‘doofus,’ you know. A boy has feelings, you know.”

  “You don’t have to finish every sentence with ‘you know,’ you know.”

  “I know.”

  She pulled me into the tent.

  What I stepped into was a living room. Not like the living room in our cabin, which is full of lanterns and bookshelves and a fireplace and Mom’s handmade furniture and paintings.

  I stepped into a modern living room. A television, a stereo with speakers, phones on the coffee table, power sockets and plugs and wires, wires everywhere tucked behind couches. There were so many electronic devices in there that I jumped backward and trod on Liz’s foot before I realized that not one of them was giving off seizure-inducing color. Before I realized that every object was an imitation or had been gutted.

  I could never have hoped to see so many people in one place. I heard later that Liz, Mom, and Joe had checked the pockets of and patted down every person who arrived. If anyone resented that, they didn’t tell me. Most of the guests were Liz’s extended family: her muddy cousins, perfumed aunts, and baseball-capped uncles. I spotted the local state park guy who keeps an eye on wildlife and plays poker with Mom sometimes, too, and Lucy, Mom’s pharmacist, whose glasses sparkled with rhinestones. But Liz had also persuaded two friends from school to stop by and meet me, friends I’d heard about in passing with increasing regularity over the past few months: a blond boy named Tommy, a red-haired girl named Mikayla. (I remember just staring at her, half convinced she was wearing a wig, just like Mom has started doing. I’d never seen curly hair in person before.)

  “Surprise!” cried the crowd. Just like in a story. And it was a crowd. At least thirty people were gathered there in my mock living room, standing beside the television and a vacuum cleaner and a laptop and a—oh my fluffing god a humidifier.

  “Welcome home,” said Liz.