The Fix Read online

  He shrugged. “I had a Ken.”

  “Huh?”

  “I had a Ken, and all he had was a cardboard box for a house. I could have brought him over to your place.”

  “Liar,” I said, punching him lightly on the arm.

  “You too,” he said.

  “I wasn’t lying!”

  “Maybe, but the Barbie ski house is not your biggest secret. I know you’re hiding big stuff.”

  “I’m hiding big stuff? You got that from talking to me for less than ten minutes?”

  “Lucky guess,” he said. The way he looked at me—like he had my number—was impossibly frustrating and attractive at the same time.

  “I didn’t say you were right,” I said. “What are you, clairvoyant or something? Telling everyone what’s lurking underneath the surface?”

  He took my hand and turned my palm up.

  “Ah, yes.” He traced a line along my palm. He furrowed his brow. “Many secrets, a tall, dark man, and a long life with some struggle but much happiness.”

  He let go of my hand. I hoped he couldn’t see my cheeks burning red.

  “So, what is it that makes me so completely transparent to a hack seer such as yourself?”

  “Hack? Me? My skills are unparalleled. I am the most experienced observer in town. That’s what you learn to do when you come here from Spain in the middle of third grade and you don’t speak English. And the Latinos call you conquistador and want nothing to do with you. You keep quiet and you learn.”

  “Well, you sure aren’t keeping quiet now,” I said.

  “I know, right? I’m pissing you off. I didn’t mean to do that.”

  His eyes met mine and didn’t stray. Finally, I needed to breathe again, so I looked down at my knees.

  “So …” I said. “What about me made you think I have some big secret?”

  I couldn’t help it. I had to know.

  He hesitated.

  “What? Go ahead. I can take it.”

  “Nothing,” he said. “I just see there’s something else in there, besides all this—school, the parties, the drama shtick. But no one sees it because you hide it.”

  What the hell? I had an urge to just get up and walk away, never talk to him again, but my body stayed where it was, unmoving.

  “I hide it. How exactly do I do that?”

  “Well, A) all your friends are in the drama club. You hang out with people who need the spotlight all the time so you don’t have to have it shining on you. And B) your expressionless face.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said, my voice bitter.

  “You kind of keep your face at a low hum,” he said.

  “Oh my god, now you’re freaking me out.”

  “See?” he said. “Like that. You didn’t raise your voice or change your facial expression when you said that, and I know you’re at least a little pissed, so you’re covering it up. You’re very good at it. That’s how I know you have a secret.”

  What was happening? It was just a regular Saturday night in May.

  Time to change the subject.

  “You never told me where you’re applying,” I said.

  “Don’t know yet. Don’t you get high? You didn’t go inside.”

  He was just as skilled at changing the subject as I was.

  “Me?” I said. “I’m the gullible dumbshit who believes those inane urban legends. You know, like the guy who hallucinated his face was an orange and peeled it off. You’re into it?”

  He looked away from me, took a sip of beer.

  “Maybe,” he said.

  “Like in a bad way?” I asked.

  “Is there a good way?”

  “I don’t know. I guess not. But everyone here seems to have a good time.”

  “Why do you hang out with these guys if you don’t get high?” he asked.

  “Rebecca’s my best friend. She loves to party. And Chris. And the rest of them—the drama club guys—well, they are entertainers after all, so they’re very entertaining, especially when they’re high as hot-air balloons. And they don’t care that I don’t partake, if that’s what you mean.”

  Sebastian looked at me as though he wanted more.

  “And to keep the spotlight away from me, right?” I added, elbowing him gently in the side. He smiled and elbowed me back.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Somehow I don’t really see you hanging with the cheerleaders.”

  “No?” I tilted my head and batted my eyelashes. “No rah-rah for me?”

  “No rah-rah for you.”

  “Why are you hanging out with these guys?” I asked. Sebastian hadn’t said much more than monosyllables to them—acknowledgements of “killer weed” or an occasional movie review.

  “Well, your friend Chris invited me,” he said. I cringed at the mention of Chris and the way he emphasized the word friend. “And they’ve got good weed.”

  “For such good weed, you don’t seem high,” I said.

  “You should see me when I’m not high. I’m very, very sober when I’m not high,” he said, pulling his mouth down in a frown.

  He looked at his watch.

  “Am I keeping you?” I asked.

  “I promised I’d babysit tonight. My mom’s got the night shift and my stepfather’s out of town.”

  “How old’s your sister?”

  “Four.”

  He downed the rest of his beer.

  “And you’re okay to take care of her like this?” I held my drink up, indicating the beer, the weed, whatever else they had in there. “Isn’t that somewhat irresponsible?”

  “I can handle my substances,” he said, and then his voice was suddenly gruff, almost angry. “I’m not like them—your friends and your boyfriend. I’m nothing like them. I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”

  I felt the heat from his breath on my cheek, slightly cooler than a fire-breathing dragon. He stood up quickly, making the chains on the swing bounce, and went to the edge of the porch. His body was rigid, his fists clenched.

  He leaned his forearms on the porch railing, looking out onto the street. I wanted to tell him that it was okay. That I knew whatever had made him angry wasn’t directed toward me. That I was angry too. But I wouldn’t even know where to begin.

  He straightened and gripped the railing with both hands. Then he opened his hands, gripped, opened again. He did this a few times.

  “I’m sorry for that—whatever that was,” he said quietly, “I shouldn’t have said that about them. Your friends are cool. I’m the ass.”

  “It’s okay. I understand,” I said.

  He came back to the swing and sat so close to me that if I moved my knee just a millimeter, we’d be touching.

  “I think too much,” he said. “I can’t stop. Even getting high. It numbs me, tones things down a little, but not enough.”

  He put his hands on his head and rubbed the fuzz there. He looked at me, and I tried to read what his eyes were saying. But I found it difficult to concentrate when he was this close to me, when his skin radiated heat toward me.

  “Why am I telling you this?” He was looking for something from me, like he needed me—me specifically—but I was paralyzed.

  He kneaded his hands together in his lap and placed them on his knees like he was trying to keep them still.

  “Do you think too much?” he asked quietly, so quietly I barely heard him.

  “I try not to. Thinking makes everything worse.”

  “Like what?” he said. “What’s so bad?”

  His eyes made me want to tell him something. I had to stop that from happening.

  “Nothing,” I said and looked away.

  “Got it,” he said, softly.

  “Maybe you’re too smart.” I wanted to get the conversation back onto him. “That’s why you think so much.”

  “Oh yes,” he said, his lip curling up on one side. “Way too brilliant for my own good, right? It’s a nice theory, but unfortunately I’m not all that smart. I just study a
lot.”

  We were both quiet for a few seconds.

  “Do you remember that summer when we were kids?” he asked abruptly. “When I was at your house with my stepfather?”

  I nodded.

  “You told me I had to learn to swim, so I did.” His voice got quiet. “Maybe we could swim sometime.”

  Sebastian and me. Bathing suits. My pool. Together. That would never, ever happen. Suddenly, I felt such a deep loss, I had to blink quickly a few times to make it go away.

  “I don’t swim anymore,” I said.

  “Really? I remember you telling me it was the only thing to do.”

  “Well, I guess it’s not.”

  He looked at me then like he knew me, like no one had looked at me before. Not Chris, not Rebecca, not anyone in my family. It was freaking me out. It was making my heart stutter. It felt good—it felt horrible. I was in a strange, marvelous, frightening dream. I could hear the voices inside the house and the bass of the music, but it was just background.

  “Macy, I—” And in the same second he said my name, I heard Rebecca yelling it, “Macy!” and then she was at my side.

  “Oh goddammit, I have to talk to you!” she said, slurring her words. No doubt Rebecca was having a Cody crisis.

  I stared at Sebastian, willing the dream to stay, and yet relieved that I could pull my veil back down.

  “Hey,” Rebecca said to Sebastian, and then, giving me a quick, curious look, “sorry, gotta borrow my girl.”

  “Gimme a minute,” I said to her.

  “Hurry!”

  She went back into the house.

  “What were you going to say?” I asked Sebastian, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  “Just that I’ve gotta go,” he said.

  I stared at him.

  “My sister,” he said. “Remember?”

  He walked down the steps.

  I jumped up from the porch swing and leaned over the railing. He was already on the sidewalk, pulling the earbuds out of his pocket.

  “Do you want me to drive you there?” I called out to him.

  “Isn’t that somewhat irresponsible?” He laughed. “I’ll see ya.”

  I watched his body disappear down the sidewalk and into the darkness.

  And then I was alone with this thing—whatever it was—that he’d unleashed, after years of being locked away.

  And that was it. No one saw or heard from him. Nothing.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I couldn’t stop thinking about Sebastian, but by the twelfth day, his disappearance was old news. Everyone else moved on. But I had to know where he’d gone, what happened to him. I’d asked around some, but no one knew anything, and I didn’t want my friends to know I was looking that hard. As far as they knew, I’d never even talked to Sebastian until Rebecca’s party.

  I replayed our conversation in my head, dreamed about him, about his eyes—eyes that seemed to invite me to tell him everything, eyes that seemed to know me better than I knew myself.

  And then, on the thirteenth day, as I was driving to the last day of junior year, my phone buzzed.

  REBECCA: Just got the real 411 on Sebastian. He’s @ NWH psych ward. Tried to off hmslf.

  I pulled over to the side of the road, my hands shaking so much that I kept missing the right letters and had to start my text over.

  ME: How do u know?

  REBECCA: His stepdad’s buildng mom’s boss house. Mom just asked if I know him!

  I swallowed hard.

  REBECCA: Pills? Slit wrists? 4 me bathtub/hairdryer thng. Quick, no pukng. What wud u do?

  I couldn’t respond.

  REBECCA: U there?

  I couldn’t blame her for making jokes about the news—she didn’t know that it wasn’t just gossip to me. I’d never told her how much his disappearance had been plaguing me. If we’d been talking about anyone else, I would’ve answered her: No way. Jump off mntn. Fly. B free!

  REBECCA: Macy???

  Even though I had thought of the possibility that he was dead, I’d dismissed it. I mean, who dies without anyone knowing? I’d thought about his eyes, which had seemed sad, but also so open. Maybe if I hadn’t been so busy thinking about how quickly he’d seemed to figure me out, I would have paid more attention to what he was feeling. Maybe if I’d listened a little better, I would have known that he was so unhappy. Sebastian read me like an open book that night, so why couldn’t I have done the same for him? I twirled a chunk of hair with my finger, a habit I’d started way back when I gave up thumb sucking. I barely knew Sebastian, but I had to know what had happened.

  And then, some other crazier version of me took over. I turned around and drove straight to Northern Westchester Hospital.

  My car idled in the parking lot. I couldn’t cut the engine. Not yet. Then I’d have to go in and that would mean I knew what the hell I was doing there.

  I put my hands on the steering wheel, willing it to give me a sign.

  REBECCA: Where the H r u? Ur skipping last day of school?!

  I took a deep breath, powered off my phone, and then cut the engine.

  I got out of my ugly-but-all-mine silver Civic and stepped onto the sidewalk leading to the main door. Birds sang their songs. My heart beat the bass line for them.

  The automatic door slid open. Inside, the lights were fluorescent, buzzing. The industrial gray carpet seemed softer, more luxurious than it should have been. There were semi-comfortable looking chairs and a piano in the lobby, which struck me as ironic—the Hospital Hotel. But despite its appearance, the smell was undeniably hospital—a mix of citrusy sterilizer and cafeteria hot meals.

  I approached the elevator and looked at the sign next to it, which showed the departments and their floors. I couldn’t find anything remotely like Psych Ward or Psychology. I even looked at the Ms for Mental Health. I was about to give up and go back to my car, relieved in a way, when I heard someone say, “Can I help you find something?”

  A girl with an official-looking name badge stood next to me.

  I cleared my throat.

  “Is there a psych ward here?” I asked.

  “Behavioral Health.” She pointed at the words on the sign. “Fourth floor. Just see the receptionist when you get up there.” She pressed the elevator button for me and then backed up, but I could tell she was looking at me. She probably wondered whether I was checking myself in.

  “Thanks,” I said as the doors opened and I got on. I listened to the beeps as the elevator rose and then I got off on the fourth floor.

  The woman behind the reception desk was giant—a linebacker with bright red lipstick and auburn shoulder-length curly hair. When she smiled, I could see red smudges of lipstick on her whitened teeth.

  “I’m here to see Sebastian Ruiz,” I said. Suddenly, I hoped she’d say he wasn’t there. Maybe it was just another rumor.

  She looked at her computer screen, click-clacked her fingernails on the keyboard.

  “And your name?” she asked.

  “Macy Lyons.”

  “I don’t see you on his list.”

  “No, I’m not on it,” I said.

  “I’m sorry, love.” She looked up, her eyes sympathetic. “You have to be on his approved visitors list to see him. I hope you didn’t come a long distance.”

  “No,” I said. “It’s okay.”

  My sanity was returning. I’d had one conversation with Sebastian—one. Unless you counted the one about planets when we were nine. Showing up at the psych ward was enough to put me in the psych ward.

  “You can write him a letter,” she said. “Or you can ask his parents to arrange a visit.”

  “How long will he be here?” I asked. What I really wanted to ask her was, What happened? Did he really try to kill himself? How? Why?

  “I don’t know, sweetheart,” she said, as though she knew she was answering all of my questions.

  After lunch, I met up with Chris at his locker. Chris—my set-building, blond, blue-eyed neighbor and friend sin
ce before kindergarten. Chris—my boyfriend of six months.

  “Hey,” Chris said, playing with the string of my hoodie. “Kinda weird, you know? Last day of junior year. Next year’s gonna be so different.”

  “The dreaded application process,” I said. Berkeley was going to be impossible now that I didn’t have the internship at the architecture firm. I had zero experience in anything architecture-related, other than obsessive hours on home-building apps and websites. What would I say in my application? I like seeing how the details of houses make them into homes, and I can picture myself making them someday? I felt my skin prickle with impending failure.

  “Come over after school,” Chris said, touching my neck.

  I shivered.

  “You cold?” He leaned in and kissed me.

  I shoved his chest. “Come on,” I said.

  His face fell and I immediately felt horrible.

  “You know I hate PDA. It’s cruel,” I said. “Some poor freshman innocently walks by and gets an uncontrollable hard-on. He’s got his tent-pole pants and everyone makes fun of him and the next thing you know he goes all Columbine on the school.”

  “Why can’t it be a girl wanting me?” he said.

  “You, huh?”

  “Yeah, me,” he said, smiling. Chris was undeniably cute. Until sophomore year, he’d been thirty pounds heavier and there were many times when I had to defend him from the dirtbags who teased him or the girls who giggled at their own fat jokes. It made me so mad that he wouldn’t stand up for himself and let me do his fighting for him. But when puberty hit late and in his favor, he thinned out, his acne cleared up, he got his braces off, and he turned into a bona fide hot guy.

  “Fine,” I said. “A sweet sophomore girl holding a burning torch for you, doodling your name in every notebook—and then gets her eye on this?” I gestured my hand back and forth between our chests. “Can you imagine the devastation? A trauma like that could send her straight to the nunnery, for god’s sake. I can’t be responsible for that, Chris. Can you?”

  “I can’t,” he said. “Though nearly impossible, I will refrain for her sake. And for tent-pole-pants-guy. Let’s meet up here after last period.”

  And he went off to class.

  But Chris hadn’t been enough of a distraction. I couldn’t shake the image of Sebastian’s eyes that night on Rebecca’s porch. He’d been about to say something important. I flip-flopped between desperately wanting to see him and never wanting to see him again, especially since he’d been the one to stir up stuff I didn’t want to think about.