Slide

Everything about our house is pretty much the same as it was five years ago, when my mom died of cancer. Same faded curtains with little red cherries on them. Same old yellow wallpaper. Same cherry hardwood floor covered by an ancient red-and-gold rug. Same ornate silver mirror opposite the front door.

I step closer to the mirror. The girl I see looks wild with her bright-pink hair—rebellious and free. I wish I felt that way inside. I dyed my hair because I needed a drastic change from pale blond—my natural hair color is exactly the same shade as my mother’s. I was tired of looking in the mirror every day and seeing her, missing her.

Dyeing my hair couldn’t disguise the other parts of her that lived on in me, though. The way my laughter borders on cackling when I find something hilarious, just like hers did. The way my skin refuses to tan, no matter how many hours I spend in the sun.

And I know she had narcolepsy, too. I’ve inherited that unfortunate gene from her. I remember her falling asleep sometimes while watching television or during dinner. When she woke up, she’d have the strangest little smile. I’d give anything to know what happened to her while she was asleep. If she was like me. If she slid.

I don’t remember the first time it happened, but it was after my mother’s death. My father told me about walking into my room when I was twelve years old and finding me on the floor, unconscious. I was barely breathing. He couldn’t wake me up. He rushed me to the emergency room, but no one could figure out what was wrong with me. Eventually, I just woke up and was fine, like nothing happened.

The doctors conducted test after test. Eventually, with a lack of any better explanation for my periodic bouts of unconsciousness, they diagnosed me with narcolepsy—apparently it can start around puberty. When I tried to tell my father what was really happening to me, he started sending me to a shrink—a woman with bright-red hair named Mrs. Moran. She said I was dealing with the pain of my mother’s death by making up stories. Crying out for attention. My father thought that made sense.

So that’s when I started lying.

As time went on, I just got used to it. And I started to learn the rules. Like one time during a field trip when I was thirteen. I’d worn Miss Ryan’s sweater because the air had suddenly turned cold and I hadn’t brought a jacket to school that day. She warned me to not spill anything on it because her grandmother had knitted it for her. One minute, I was walking through the museum, studying the paintings on the wall, and the next—I wasn’t anymore.

I was back on the school bus. Suddenly a man came up behind me and circled his arm around my waist. He said, “Nancy, Nancy.” Miss Ryan’s first name. He spun me around, and I realized it was the bus driver.

He and his mustache came closer. His face descended onto mine, and his tongue went into my mouth. That was my first kiss. It was the most disgusting thing that had ever happened to me. It tasted like ashtrays and orange Tic Tacs. His hand slid under my blouse, and I prayed it would be over soon.

When I woke up, I was looking into a security guard’s face. I’d fallen down and hit my head. He let me go when he was sure I didn’t have a concussion or anything. I remember the moment when I handed Miss Ryan’s fuzzy sweater back to her. Something just clicked. I realized my sliding into her had something to do with her sweater. She had left something of herself—her essence—on it, and I picked it up somehow. I wouldn’t learn the word empathy until a couple of years later, but I understood the concept. It’s seeing life through someone else’s eyes. I had a gift.

Or a curse, depending on how you looked at it.

When I got onto the bus to go home, I couldn’t help but stare at the driver. He winked at me, and I hurried past him. For years after, I had nightmares about him biting my face off.

At first, it didn’t happen that often. Maybe every few months. But the uncertainty was enough to make me scared to touch anything. It was hard to tell which objects carried an emotional charge. There were the obvious things, the items people cherished and loved—like wedding rings or photos of grandparents—but there were unexpected things, too. A borrowed pencil. A library book. Anything someone was touching when they experienced an extreme emotion.

For a while, I wrapped my fingers with tape to keep myself from accidentally touching anything dangerous. But then I forgot and got sleepy and rested my cheek on a desk. I slid into an older boy stealing cigarettes from the grocery store. I felt his heart pounding beneath his big, black coat and the sweat under his arms. When my teacher woke me up, I stared into her face, terrified she’d know about the bad thing I’d just been doing.

But then I realized everyone was doing bad things. My teacher was sneaking drinks of liquid that made my throat burn. My sister was cheating during a math test. The mailman tucked packages into a special bag to take home. People were doing good things, too—writing thank-you notes, holding doors for old ladies, smiling at each other— but those people weren’t the majority. The fact is that most people keep secrets hidden behind their eyes.

Lately, I’ve been sliding more often. Once a month turned into once a week and then a couple times a week. Now, even if I can manage a few days without sliding, I end up exhausted and unfocused and even more susceptible to the slides than usual. It’s like the sliding is picking up momentum somehow. It’s like there’s a reason behind it. I just wish I knew what it was.

In my room, I throw my backpack onto my bed, but the stress doesn’t ease from my shoulders. Something is weighing me down. Maybe it’s the way those ugly words felt coming out of Amber’s mouth. Maybe it’s Sophie’s desperation. Maybe it’s how Zane’s smile made me buzz like there’s electricity coursing through my veins. I don’t know exactly what it is, but I need something to help me unwind.

I need music.

In my closet, behind my mountain of Converse shoes in all the colors of the rainbow, I keep a box of my mother’s CDs. I don’t know why I hide them; my dad doesn’t care that I have them, and my sister couldn’t be less interested in music from the 90s, but it’s like, if I keep them packed away, they’ll stay fresh—they’ll keep my mother with me just a little longer.

I push a Pearl Jam CD into my laptop and then crawl onto my bed. I retrieve the astronomy book and run my fingers over the cover. It’s black, sprinkled with peepholes of light. There’s nothing as gorgeous as the night sky. Nothing.

Flipping through the pages, I find the corner I carefully turned down to mark my place. Black holes. They’re so intense and sad. When massive stars die, their cores grow so dense with gravity that they pull other things in, suck them into infinity. Black holes seem impossible, like they defy the laws of physics, but there it all is, in black and white. I wish there were a textbook that would explain the phenomena of sliding to me.

The song “Alive” comes on, and my heart trips a little. I lean back against my pillow and listen to the words. It’s all about this kid finding out his father is dead. Even though the kid never knew his father, the death leaves a scar on him. An absence so all-encompassing, it’s there even in his happiest moments.

I close my eyes and wish I could tell my mother about my day. I’d tell her I’m worried about Sophie and how there’s a new boy who’s really kind of hot and how I think Mattie and Amber are up to no good. I’d tell her I miss her. I’d tell her I love her. I’d tell her everything.

A couple of hours later, Mattie and Amber spill into the kitchen, all ponytails and giggles and pom-poms. I roll my eyes over my glass of chocolate milk. Through the kitchen window, I see Samantha Phillips’s car pull away from the curb. The ridiculous thing is that, instead of just ditching me as a friend, Samantha hangs out with my little sister now, like she’s upgraded to a newer, shinier version of me. I suppose it was inevitable, since Mattie joined the cheerleading squad. And Mattie has way more in common with her than I ever did. I’ve heard Mattie spend hours on the phone with Samantha, debating the merits of thong underwear.

Mattie tosses her purse and pom-poms onto the kitchen table before raiding the fridge. “Hey!” She grimaces at me. “You finished the chocolate milk.”

She pulls out a bottle of Evian and twists the cap off before taking a long gulp.

Amber helps herself to a bottle of water and shakes it at my sister. “You don’t need chocolate milk, anyway, honey. Remember, we’re off sugar and flour.”

Mattie sticks out her tongue at Amber.

“So, what are the chances I can get you guys to lie low tonight?” I hoist myself onto the kitchen counter. “Rollins is coming over to watch movies.”

At the mention of Rollins’s name, Amber stands up straight. I can practically smell the pheromones coming off her.

“What will you give us to stay in my room?” Mattie, ever the negotiator, asks. Her gaze drifts up to the half-empty bottle of Captain Morgan on top of the refrigerator.

“There’s loads of sugar in rum,” I say, unable to keep the irritation out of my voice.

“Booze doesn’t count,” Amber announces. “Your body burns booze calories superquick. Especially if we practice our new routine a few times.” She swivels her hips and tosses her ponytail in either an epileptic seizure or their new routine.

“Please?” Mattie’s eyes are pleading. “We’ll just stay in my room. Won’t we, Amber?”

Amber shrugs. “Whatever.”

I sigh. If they actually stay in Mattie’s room, I’ll be free to enjoy the movie instead of having to explain the plot to Mattie, and Rollins won’t have a freshman in heat crawling all over his lap. Besides, if I tell them no, they’ll just sneak it anyway. Isn’t it better that they drink here, where I can keep an eye on them?

“Fine,” I say. “Just stay in your room.”

“Yoink!” Mattie grabs the bottle of rum.

Amber paws through the refrigerator until she finds a two-liter of Coke. “Don’t you have any Diet?” she whines, and I shoot her death rays until she looks away.

Armed with booze, Coke, glasses, ice, and a butter knife to mix their drinks, the girls bounce out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Just in time, too. At that moment, Rollins pulls up in his old Nissan Stanza.

I watch him climb out of the car and amble up the front walk, carrying something under his arm. He runs his fingers through his hair before ringing the doorbell. When I open the door, he holds his hands behind his back.

“Choose,” he says.

“Choose what?”

“Choose a hand. Right or left.”

I point at his right hand, and he brings it forward. I’ve chosen The Exorcist.

“Wise choice.” He nods.

“Mos def,” I say. “What’s in the other hand?”

He slowly reveals his other hand. He’s clutching a bundle of blue cloth. He shakes it out, and I see that it’s a T-shirt. I suck in my breath. The cover of The Smashing Pumpkins’ album Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, with an angel bursting out of a star, is on the front. Mellon Collie is one of my favorite albums. I’ve been trolling eBay for this shirt for ages.

“It came in with a shipment of vintage T-shirts,” Rollins says. “Is it the right one?”