Pendleton hands out worksheets for us to detail Simba’s “heroic journey” as we watch The Lion King. As quick as I can, I fill in the blanks so that I can zone out once the movie starts. A quick survey of the class reveals I’m not the only one with the idea. Pendleton probably should have chosen a movie that most kids our age didn’t already know by heart. I lean my chin on my left fist while my right plays with the spine of my spiral.
And who’s the voice of adult Simba? Matthew Broderick? For years I hadn’t made the connection that Ferris Buehler was the- ^ ^ ^
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I’m standing, open mouthed, eyes wide, and spiral clutched in my left hand. Something cascades from my right: my pen, I think.“Kim, are you alright?” Mr. Pendleton asks, concerned.
I look around slower than I would have liked. Everyone is staring at me, the light on their faces blinking due to the film. Valentina seem in shock that I’m standing, as if they had previously thought I was paraplegic. (“Hakuna Matata? Hakuna Matata- it means no worries”) I carefully kneel down to grab my pen.
“Um, no, I’m sorry. I think I was just falling asleep,” I answer.
Pendleton chuckles and tells me to sit back down. (“It means no worries for the rest of your days/ it’s our problem free, philosophy”)
“Well?” Val whispers into my ear.
I mouth back to her, in conjunction with the music, “Hakuna Matata.”
I open my spiral to where my fingers were holding my place. In my writing:
Keep paper always on hand
btw don’t eat raw spinach
No way. Somehow I’m channeling something. Or I have a prophetic pen. Oh, man! Why can’t I eat my spinach?!
No way. Somehow I’m channeling something. Or I have a prophetic pen. Oh, man! Why can’t I eat my spinach?!
*
This time I keep it to myself. If I say anything now I know my friends will just get annoyed, seeing my actions as a cheap attempt at attention. Or worse yet, and I wouldn’t put it past them, they’d think I was genuinely crazy and report me to the counselor. No, for now I'll just keep my spiral next to me, on me, and a folded sheet in my pocket, just in case.
Several days pass since the last note. Just as my attention began to turn away from the mystery and toward my classes, the first salmonella outbreak was reported for raw spinach. I wasn’t even aware one could get salmonella from raw vegetables.
At this point I become slightly obsessed. I lie awake wondering. At school I start to freak if I don’t have a pen or pencil on hand.
During History my pencil lead breaks. I beg Becca to borrow one of hers until lunch. She hands me a pen.
“Thanks! You’re a life-saver.”
She opens her mouth, her teeth barely parted.
“Something on your mind, Becca?”
“I was wondering…”
Becca eyes how my hand is poised on the college-ruled paper, waiting to write though Brennan is still passing out a worksheet to the class. She furrows her brow, changing her tone mid-sentence. “What are you doing? We’re not taking notes right now, we’re supposed to get into groups.”
I chuckle nervously. “Force of habit. I’m sure a brain like you can sympathize.”
Becca pales, but doesn’t say anything.
*
The chicken feathers can still be found in between book pages, in pockets and shoes, rolling the hallways like tiny tumble weeds. I think I’m allergic to them. Try as I might to get rid of them, they’ve infiltrated my home and bedroom, leaving me little solace from a scratchy throat and watery eyes. It bothers me enough that I don’t sleep peacefully; instead, I just have these insane dreams, the kind you only have when you’re sick. Last night I was running across a flooded train station being chased by orcas with legs.
This night I dream I went to school in a chicken suit.
^ ^ ^
<<< > < > < >>>
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My comforter's on the floor and I'm breathing heavy. I had gotten too hot again and my pajama shirt is soaked with sweat. I stumble over to my dresser. I pull off my shirt, but nearly jump out of my skin when I see something covering my arm. I switch on the light and discover words in ballpoint. My notebook was lying where I left it, on the nightstand a mere two feet from me. A ballpoint pen had been planted in my pajama pocket. As I think about it now, the first two times I received these notes I had had the notebook in my hands, not just near me.
The words were on my left arm. I’m right handed:
If Becca wants to talk, for God's sake, listen!
*
Yes, something is bothering Becca. Yes, I am definitely writing the notes. Yes, I may be crazy.
My alarm clock displays 3:50.
At 6:30 I call her cell and offer her a ride to school. Groggily she asks why. I tell her I want to review our History test on the way. She mumbles an okay and hangs up.
I’ve known something was up, haven’t I? I noticed her recoiling when Liam asked her what special ingredient she had put her breakfast before she aced that test. She’s been letting her comedy mask slip into tragedy more and more often. She’s been trying to talk to me, but I let myself get distracted. I was even the one interrupting her at times.
Becca lives out in the boonies, a twenty minute drive from our high school. I hope it’s enough time, but I know I’m always thinking wishfully. Becca is waiting for me on her porch, even though it’s cold out. She gets in the front seat without ceremony.
“Eager to get away?” I ask.
“You eager to take me away?”
I laugh.
“If the whole college thing doesn’t work out, you should look into getting paid for your one-liners.”
Becca pounds the window with a fist.
“Dude…,” I protest quietly.
“I’m sorry, I’m just sick of hearing about college. It’s all they ever talk about.”
“Your parents?”
Becca nods. “You know they interrogate me about my friends? They don’t want me hanging around people who are just going to drag me down. I told them your grades were average, but at least you were gifted in art.”
“I suck at art.”
“I know,” she grieved.
I pull to the side of the gravel road. The paved street is just a little up ahead.
Becca has a hand to her temple. It hides her face from me, but I can hear the tears in her words. “They’re pushing me so hard. And I’ve wanted to tell you for a while now. You’re such a goof, but you’re my closest friend…I didn’t want you thinking I was this super student when I’m just Becca on Adderall.” She sniffles.
I roll up the sleeve on my left arm. I place my right hand gently on her back, and I show her what I wrote. “Becca, I made a note of it. I’m listening.”
Her eyes widen when she reads it.
*
I continue driving and Becca candidly recounts the situation with her parents. They fight, but they seem to fight less when they’re able to brag about her to those who will listen. She tries to fight back, but her parents always win. They want her to get into an Ivy League school. They won’t accept less than A’s and won’t accept that she’s spreading herself too thin.
It turns out Becca hates math. I never really knew, because we were put in different levels.
Becca has been using Adderall to stay successful in all her advanced subjects and still have time to do the extra activities that would get her into said Ivy League school. It allows her to sit in her room without her mother badgering her to finish her homework, or her father nagging her to turn in college applications.
I pull into the school’s parking lot just as she finishes. I hug her.
“Kim,” she dries her eyes on her sleeve. “What made you
^ ^ ^
<<< > < > < >>>
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I’m in a hangar. That’s what I think, at least. In the center is a giant a machine. It’s spinning so fast it looks near motionless. Blue and yellow lights are streaming. People in white coats are sprinting around it. Everyone’s yelling. The machine is making a sound like a dying whale, mournful and majestic. It’s going to rip us all apart! Someone panics. A woman with dirty blond hair sticking out behind a protective mask suits herself into a heavy duty coat and gloves. Her nametag falls off: Rebecca Dortmund. She enters a compartment of the machine. Everyone’s disappeared, their clipboards and wrenches left like toys at the playground. The machine’s pitch takes off like a jet, going higher and higher. I can’t plug my ears. The yellow lights dominate the blue. Soon everything is glowing like the sun. The light erupts out of the machine. Then nothing. Absolute nothing. How can nothing truly exist in such a way? Like a light switch everything comes back. The woman crawls out of the machine. She presses a final button and the machine goes to sleep. There, she says, it should stop now.
write on your arm like that?”
“What?” my heart is racing like I had one of my episodes. I feel terrible that I don’t know what she just said. “I’m sorry, say that I again?”
“I asked why you wrote that on your arm. About me.”
“It started with your name. I wanted to pretend I had it tattooed, but then I thought it could use some verbs and voila.”
“You goof.”
“But, what are you going to do now? This can’t keep going on with your parents, you’ll snap before you graduate.”
“Being late to English probably won’t help. I’m sure we can figure something out. Maybe you can get Liam to man up and be my knight in shining armor.” She hugs me and runs toward the English portable.
I search my body for a pen. I don’t have one. I sigh at the loss of not knowing what my latest vision could have been about.
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