Zenn Diagram Read online

  He looks at it for a moment and then, before I think to take a picture with my phone, he reaches into the sand container again to obliterate his work of art.

  “Don’t!” Without thinking, I reach for his arm to stop him, nearly touching his bare skin. I stop my hand just in time.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Don’t ruin it!”

  “That’s the thing about sand pictures,” he says. “They’re only temporary.”

  “Well, that’s sad.”

  “Not really.” And just like that, he draws the same thing again, not identical to the first one but pretty close. To this one he adds the head of a driver, a girl with a braid. Then before I have time to say anything, his hand swoops in and clears a section and the Loser Cruiser transforms into Albert Einstein. Same sand, same table, completely different picture in seconds. I can’t stop staring.

  “Holy crap, that’s amazing.”

  “That’s a bit of an overstatement.”

  “No, it’s not. How did you learn to do that?”

  He wipes his hands together.

  “And don’t tell me it’s just your thing.”

  “I didn’t grow up with a lot of art supplies. I had to be creative.”

  I must look at him sadly, thinking of the fuck-ton of crayons we have at home, because he says, “I know. It sounds pitiful.”

  “No!”

  He’s doubtful.

  “Okay. Well, a little. But look what amazing thing came out of your sorry childhood! I’ve never seen anyone do that before.”

  “I do have some odd talents.”

  Something about this comment makes my insides clench in a not unpleasant way.

  “Do you ever think about going to college for art? Like, the art institute or something?”

  Zenn scoffs. “Yeah, right.”

  “I’m serious. You could.”

  “It’s, like, forty grand a year.”

  I laugh triumphantly. “I thought you hadn’t thought about it!”

  He gives me a look. “Thinking about it and actually doing it are two different things.”

  I think about my own battle with college applications and I know he’s right. Dreams are one thing. Reality is something else.

  “You could apply for a scholarship.”

  Zenn sighs. “I’m no straight-A student, Eva.”

  I do that sometimes: assume that everything is easy for other people compared to the stuff I have to deal with. But I forget that academics are easy for me and that’s something, at least.

  “You should eat,” he says, “or Mr. Haase is going to blame me when your stomach is grumbling all through AP Calculus. Or whatever genius-level class you’re in.” He looks at me for a second. “What math are you in, anyway?”

  I feel my cheeks go red. The truth is by sophomore year I had finished or tested out of all the math classes the high school offers. Now I do an independent study with the local community college. I sit down at a table, unpack my lunch and change the subject back to him.

  “You know, there are lots of scholarships out there —”

  He cuts me off. “Eva, I’ll be lucky to get an associate’s degree and paint motorcycle fuel tanks for the rest of my life.” His voice is calm but he flips off the switch for the light table

  a little roughly. I sense that I’ve hit a nerve.

  “Sorry,” I say quietly. “It’s none of my business. It’s just that you’re so … talented.”

  “Everybody’s talented at something. Doesn’t mean we all get to do what we want.”

  He’s right. I know he’s right. Only one person wins American Idol each season. Most of those really talented singers are never heard from again. But Zenn’s fatalistic attitude makes me question my own dreams. Am I destined to get a community college degree and find some office accounting job that will keep me isolated from other people? Is that my future if I don’t get a scholarship? If I can’t cure myself somehow? No. It can’t be. Zenn may settle for something like that because he can still have a normal life in other ways. He can get married and have kids and have relationships without secrets. But me … my only hope is to go to a school with an amazing neuroscience-research facility and then guinea pig myself into some sort of cure. There is no good enough job that I’ll settle for. It’s all or nothing at this point.

  Chapter 18

  Lately it seems like the most contact I have with Charlotte is through Josh. She and I text a couple of times a week, but it’s mostly Hey — hey — what’s up — not much, you?, and considering we used to be in constant contact, we might as well not even bother. We haven’t spent a Saturday night together since before homecoming.

  Josh and I, however, have some quality time once a week to make sure his math grade doesn’t slip. So I may be tighter with him than I am with Charlotte now. Besides Zenn, he might be my closest friend.

  Weird.

  Unfortunately, when we do spend time together, all he does is talk about Charlotte. Maybe he doesn’t know we’re not hanging out much anymore. I can tell by the way he talks that he really likes her, and that is a relief. He tells me about all her quirks: that she stands on one foot a lot, her other foot resting up by her knee like the tree pose in yoga, that she still sleeps with her baby blanket (which is so threadbare it’s practically translucent), that she named her cello (Chelsey, obviously). I know all these things already, but I approve when he rattles them off.

  I’m a little ashamed to admit that I’ve used our time together, while he’s talking, to check his fractal. Just once. Okay … more than once. I actually check it every time I see him. I touch his jacket or his phone and once I even placed my hand lightly on his arm, because skin-on-skin fractals are the strongest and clearest. Slowly I’ve started to put together his puzzle.

  His fractal is tightly wound, like the rings of a tree trunk, which makes me think he’s being controlled, likely by a parent. Based on the masculine colors — blue and army green — I suspect the controller is his dad, probably a type A personality who dictates most of Josh’s decisions. I’ve gotten the sense, not so much through his fractals, but through spending time with him, that Josh is a bit of a closet nerd. He knows way more about superheroes and Star Wars and video games than most jocks would ever admit. But the intense structure of his fractal, combined with his expensive clothes and his Colgate smile, make me think that nerdiness is not acceptable for a Mooney. I get the feeling that nothing Josh does is quite good enough and, as a result (and maybe in rebellion), Josh may drink a bit. Maybe more than a bit, if the fuzzy, floaty feeling beneath everything is any indication. His whole vibe is less beaten down and lonely than it once was, and for that I credit Charlotte. Still, there’s a lot brewing beneath his happy-go-lucky exterior.

  I wonder if Charlotte knows any of that. I wonder if I should warn her. But I’m afraid that anything negative I say about Josh will come across as sour grapes. I mean, Josh’s fractals are pretty intense, but so are Zenn’s. I’d be kind of a hypocrite if I was trying to protect her while not heeding my own advice. So I keep my mouth shut.

  She’ll be fine.

  We’ll both be fine.

  Chapter 19

  I am soaking wet down to my socks and underwear. The rain drips off my nose and runs in rivers down my backpack. My mom reminded me to bring an umbrella today but since the one by the front door was hers and I didn’t want to walk home from school battling fractals, I left it behind. Along with my cell phone. And my house keys.

  It was one of those mornings.

  At some point during the school day the skies opened up. I watched out the window while I was tutoring Josh after school, praying it would stop. Hoping that maybe Charlotte would be somewhere to offer me a ride. But … no luck. So now I’m walking home in a monsoon. I’ve given up on trying to keep anything dry. I head toward home even though I doubt I’ll be able to get in the house. My mom is with the kids at their Fun to Be Three class until around five. My dad is at church, which is even farther away. Ba
sically, I’m screwed. And really, really cold.

  I hear a car coming and I walk on the edge of the sidewalk as far from the street as possible. I can hear the spray from the car’s tires, a fan of dirty brown water that will surely add filth to my soggy hell. The car slows politely. Then it slows more, pulling up next to me. My stomach drops and I wonder if anyone will hear me scream when the rapist yanks me into his car. The rain is so loud, and no smart person is out in this weather.

  I sneak a peek from the corner of my eye and see Eden Landscaping Service on the maroon door. Holy crap. Maybe God does answer prayers sometimes! And sometimes the answer is, Why, yes, Eva! I will send a handsome man to rescue you!

  “Nice day,” Zenn calls cheerfully through his open window.

  I look up at the sky. Rain pelts my face. “Gorgeous.”

  “Want a ride?”

  I pretend to think about it for a moment.

  “Come on. Get in.”

  I walk around to the passenger side, but hesitate after opening the door. I see his lovingly restored leather seats. “I’m soaked.”

  Zenn reaches in back for an old blanket, spreads it on the seat and pats it. I climb in.

  I start shivering immediately. Or maybe I had already been shivering and hadn’t noticed because I was alone. But now I realize I am shaking like a Chihuahua on the Fourth of July. Zenn cranks up the heat.

  He turns toward my house but I explain, with chattering teeth, that I don’t have my key. “You c-c-c-could t-t-t-take me to my ch-ch-ch-church. My d-d-d-dad is there.”

  He glances over and turns the car onto Oak Street. “Your lips are blue.”

  “Wh-wh-where are we g-g-g-going?”

  “My place.”

  Goodness. God really is feeling generous today!

  A few minutes later he pulls up to the Arts and Crafts house and I’m stunned. I had talked myself out of him being rich, especially since he said he didn’t even have crayons as a kid.

  “Y-y-y-you live here?” I stammer.

  “Kind of.”

  I don’t understand what he means until he pulls the truck around back. We get out and I follow him up some stairs to a loft above the detached three-car garage. It has been converted to a tiny apartment: one bedroom and a kitchenette–living space. I can see the sink of the microscopic bathroom just off the kitchen.

  “You l-l-l-live here by yours-s-s-self?”

  “My mom, too. Sometimes.”

  “S-s-s-sometimes?”

  “She likes to party. I don’t see her much.”

  I try to imagine what it would be like to have a mom who likes to party. Awful, I decide.

  “Your dad’s not in the picture?” I ask.

  He shakes his head.

  Wow. I don’t know why, but I didn’t expect that. I always think of my family as the exception, that everyone else’s family has a mom, a dad and 2.5 teenage kids in a 3-bedroom house. My family is happy and healthy, but not exactly normal in the sense that I am technically an orphan being raised by my aunt and uncle, and I have quadruplet sibling-cousins who are fourteen years younger than me. But Zenn: no dad, party-girl mom, lives above someone’s garage. I mean, I know people with divorced parents, but even that is not as common as statistics would suggest.

  The apartment is pretty clean for a teenage boy who basically lives alone. Not a lot of personal or welcoming touches, but it’s tidy and functional. He disappears into the bedroom and comes out with a folded towel, a sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants. He holds them out to me.

  “You can get dried off and then I can take you to your church or wherever.”

  I hesitate before taking the clothing. I have no idea what kind of fractals they might trigger, but once I get them on my body I should be fine.

  I disappear into the bathroom to change. I touch the clothing with my hands as little as possible and even still I get little bursts here and there. Most feel purple and sad, loose and flowy. A little drunk. His mom likes more than the occasional glass of wine. And maybe she’s drinking to forget something awful.

  The clothes smell clean, though, and I’m grateful for their warmth and mere dryness. The pink sweatpants barely skim my ankles and say Juicy across the butt, and the sweatshirt is emblazoned with Keep Calm and Kill Zombies. I debate leaving on my soaked underwear, trying to decide which would be worse: seeing the outline of wet underwear through the dry clothes or going commando in Zenn’s mom’s sweatpants. I decide on the latter, so I tuck my panties into one pocket of my drenched jeans, my bra into the other. I carefully stack my shirt and jacket on top to hide the evidence. Then I finger-comb my hair and dry off my glasses.

  When I come out of the bathroom, Zenn offers me a mug of something steamy. Again, I hesitate, then force myself to take it. It’s a mug, not a cell phone. Shouldn’t be too bad unless his mom cradles it every morning while she nurses a hangover and regrets with her coffee. When no fractal comes, I wrap my hands more tightly around it, happy for its warmth. I don’t even ask what’s in the mug — I just drink. Which is pretty stupid when I think about it. I still don’t know Zenn that well, we’re alone in his apartment, I’m not wearing underwear. This tea could be laced with some date-rape drug and here I am, just sucking it down. But like when he politely opened his truck door for me the night of homecoming, he now hands me a pair of dry socks and a plastic grocery bag for my wet clothes and my fears are allayed. Or ignored, at least.

  I think I’m safe.

  “Thanks,” I tell him.

  “I can’t really help you with shoes. Sadly, my mom’s are mostly fuck-me heels.”

  His tone is light, but I can’t laugh. I think I’m right about his mom’s drinking. Plus, any mom our moms’ age wearing fuck-me heels, or Juicy sweatpants, is a disturbing visual. I try to imagine my mom wearing either and it does not compute. Just last year I got her to give up her Crocs.

  “That’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m already one hundred percent better than I was.” He gestures for me to sit down at the tiny kitchen table. I sit and study my mug, still surprised that it doesn’t trigger anything. It says Pritzer Insurance on it, and I realize it’s probably just a spare promotional mug that no one ever uses. Just sits in the cabinet in case some drowned rat needs a hot cup of tea. Nothing personal about it.

  “Have you lived here long?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Just since June. We lived in Spellman before that.”

  I don’t ask why they moved to Port Dalton from just one town over — I know that would be rude — but I’m guessing they got evicted. His mom lost her job. His dad left them. One of many tragedies that my dad hears about on a daily basis from his parishioners.

  “It’s cute,” I say, looking around, and I mean it. It lacks a feminine touch, but the coziness of the slanted ceilings makes it feel like a cottage or a tree house.

  “It’s cheap,” he says. “Which is key since my mom’s not that gifted at staying employed.”

  I feel suddenly ridiculous that my biggest financial worry is how I’m going to pay for my snooty and expensive college education when he’s working three jobs just to keep a roof over his head. The words are out of my mouth before I think them through: “Zenn, if you need anything, my church could help. We have a food pantry and —”

  He cuts me off. “We’re fine.”

  Crap. Now I’ve offended him. Smooth move, Eva.

  I wonder how long Zenn’s life has been like this. He’s eighteen now, or at least close to it, and is safe from Child Protective Services, but I wonder how close he’s come to being taken from his mom. I wonder how hard he’s worked to keep their family of two together, how much he’s had to be the parent instead of the son.

  “Sorry,” I tell him. “It’s the do-gooder gene in me. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “Takes a lot more than that to offend me. And it’s nice of you to offer. But we’re good.”

  I nod and sip my tea. He watches me for a moment and then looks down, his eyelashes making long s
hadows on his cheeks. I imagine leaning toward him and pressing my hand against his face. I haven’t touched the face of anyone older than twelve in years and I can’t even imagine what it feels like, the roughness of someone who shaves, against my palm.

  “I remember this one time … I was maybe eleven or twelve. We went to Target to get school supplies, like, the day before school started.” He stares at his hands while he talks. “Everything was picked over and they didn’t have some of the stuff I needed. I was giving my mom a hard time for waiting until the last minute. Like always. And then when we were checking out I could tell she didn’t have enough money. She got this panicky look and started going through her wallet like she thought there was more hidden in there somewhere. I’m sure any credit card she had was maxed out. I was like, ‘Come on, Mom.’” Zenn rubs his forehead with one hand like he has a headache.

  “The woman behind us saw what was going on and offered to help. She had her Target REDcard in her hand.” He’s quiet for a second, remembering. “The bill was maybe sixty bucks, which felt like so much at the time, and she didn’t even bat an eye.”

  “Did your mom let her pay?” I ask.

  Zenn nods. “Oh, yeah.” He traces the wood grain of the table with his finger. “I hated that she did. I hated that feeling of needing help.”

  I think of the homecoming date Charlotte tried to set me up on. Pity sucks. “Probably made that woman feel good, though.”

  “Yeah.” He looks up at me. “But I’d rather work three jobs than feel like that again.”

  I get it. There is a lot to be said for self-reliance.

  I break his gaze and glance around in embarrassment.

  And that’s when I notice the painting in the corner across the room. At first I don’t realize what it is, but then I feel my stomach seize up and I stare at it, stunned.

  “Fractal,” I blurt out involuntarily.

  He follows my gaze across the room. “Oh,” he says, and looks back at me. Something in his eyes looks surprised and worried. He probably thinks something is wrong, with my word-blurting. “Yeah. You know fractal art?”