Ziggy, Stardust and Me Read online

  No. She would have called and said goodbye and—no. Get it together, Collins, you’re tired. Not enough sleep last night. Never enough sleeps any last nights. Breathe.

  In.

  Out.

  Ahhhhh.

  Okay. I love that smell after a morning rain shower in Creve Coeur: rusted earth swished with fresh laundry hanging on the line. Perfect thing to bottle up in a jar and open on a sticky summer day when you’re sick of the smell of sweat. (And those dog days happen a lot in this part of St. Louis.) People think we live out in the country. Guess we do. Subdivisions have been creeping up for a while now, and with them, civilization, but mostly Creve Coeur’s smack-dab in the middle of a patchwork quilt of farmland with a lake. And this means we live under a comforter of humidity for the summer. By the feel of it now, we’re in for a brutal one. Grandma used to call it the days and nights of molasses . . .

  Anyway, where’s Starla? This is more than weird.

  Still waiting.

  My watch says 7:43. So, I don’t know. I wait until I can wait no more, flop my satchel over my shoulder, jump on Stingraymobile and pedal off—who, by the way, is not just my bike; she’s my velvet-black, candy-red-trimmed piece of fantastic. And I’m so lost in my crisscross thoughts of the mysterious disappearance of Starla, Bowie dreams and Dr. Evelyn nightmares, and Dad’s nightly escapades (more on that later), I turn left at the corner instead of right and BOOM:

  Scotty Danforth and the Asshole Ape Brigade.

  No.

  “Navigate the negative.” That’s what Dr. Evelyn says. I took it literally. I mapped out my own path to school, in school, and back home from school to avoid this very incident from ever occurring again. Nice to meet you, I’m Gaylileo. But hey, it worked, and otherwise it might happen every day. It started with Scotty and his half-wits a few years ago right after IT happened. (Oh, we used to be friends, but everything changed that day.) And one thing I know for sure: Once you’re a target, you’re always a target.

  “Hey. Hey, Jon-Boy. What it is, what it is?” He puffs his shaggy black hair out of his eyes, not a single strand slipped out of place.

  I say nothing, paralyzed prey. Also, still stunned they’re here. I swear they just teleported from Planet of the Apes. I swear Scotty has this weird frigging ability, because why not, he’s chiseled out of Michelangelo’s leftover marble, so he might as well have superhuman speed as well.

  “Awww, she looks so pretty today, don’t she, boys?” He wraps his arm around my neck and rats my hair. A total bummer because I spent fourteen minutes this morning trying to get it perfectly swooped to cover the scar on my forehead.

  I assume the Apes agree, but I only hear “HOO OOO OOO” and “UH UH UH.”

  He flings my satchel to the ground. Dammit. Hope nothing broke. “We missed you, Jon-Boy. Where you been hidin’?” His breath: a mixture of stale cigarettes and Juicy Fruit. “What’s the matter? Can’t speak? Lost your voice in Starla’s pussycat last night?” He smooshes my face in his Rolling Stones tongue-lick shirt, which looks like it’s about to swallow me whole.

  The Apes go wild. I go limp. In my National Geographics, when an animal plays dead, the predator usually gets bored and leaves.

  Usually.

  Instead: “So whatcha got for me today, Jon-Boy?” He wriggles his fingers through my jeans pocket and—KAZOW—pinches my balls so all the colors melt from the earth, puddling at my feet. Don’t scream. Don’t scream. Don’t show them fear.

  “What’s this?” he asks, unfolding something he’s grabbed.

  My eyes hopscotch. Focus, Collins. Breathe. Okay, I see it now: a crumpled dollar bill. Dad forgot to leave me lunch money this morning, so I had to sneak in and grab it from a wad of cash sitting on his nightstand among an array of fine fatherly accoutrements: rolling papers, an empty Budweiser bottle—or two, or twenty-seven, I lost count—a glass of whiskey with a few cigarette butts floating in the muddied water. You know, the usual.

  What I didn’t see in the dark then, I see in the light now: a phone number scrawled across George Washington’s face with the name “Heather” in fat cursive. And a heart. “Call me.”

  Oh no.

  That means Dad met some chick last night, and that means this particular dollar bill is like getting the Golden Ticket to the Girly Factory, and if I don’t get it back, Dad will kill me.

  “Scotty, I need that—”

  “It’s Scott, you freakin’ queer. We ain’t in grade school anymore—What’s this? A phone number?”

  “Give it back. Please.” Dammit, I hate my voice. Like a stupid titmouse.

  “Awwww . . . po wittle Jon-Boy said pweeassse . . .”

  The Apes grunt in approval.

  “Who’s Heather?” He flattens the dollar bill out, displaying it for all to see.

  “Oooooooooo.”

  “Oh man, I bet Starla would love to hear about Heather. Don’t you, boys?”

  “Come on, quit playing around, Scott.” I try grabbing the dollar, but he snatches it higher in the air. Yes, this is happening. And now I’m trapped in the middle of a smelly Ape huddle. If they don’t kill me, their stink surely will.

  Think, Collins, think. I’m shorter and skinnier and can slip through them in a single bound. Nope. They’re clumped together like one big hairy wall.

  Dr. Evelyn taught me some tricks when confronted with Barbaric Meatheads:

  Rule 1—Compliment your enemy. “Hey, Scott, it’s just a dollar, man. You’ve got plenty. You’re the richest kid in the city.” Which is true. He’s the only kid we know who has a digital watch.

  “Yeah, I know,” he says. “But I want this one.”

  Doesn’t work.

  Fine. Rule 2—Close your eyes. Conjure lightning bolts from your hands. Blast them all to oblivion. Made that one up. Saw it on Star Trek.

  “I’m gonna git me some Heather pusss-say,” he says. He wads the bill in a little ball, starts playing hacky sack with the Apes.

  Me: fumbling around, trying to grab it. Back and forth, back and forth. My hand barely brushes it each time. And then I trip. And smack into Scotty. And we lose our balance. And fall to the sidewalk with such a THUD the earth stops spinning on its axis.

  The Apes go silent.

  Me: splayed out on top of him.

  Scotty: huffing and puffing, about to blow my ass down.

  I have one second to:

  1) track a thick vein bulging from his forehead,

  2) watch his hazel eyes flash to Hiroshima white, and

  3) suck up another waft of fruity breath,

  before I grab my satchel, leap on Stingraymobile and zoom off, leaving Dad’s almighty dollar scrunched in Scotty’s palm.

  3.

  MY HEART PEDALS my chest, feet pedal Stingraymobile, speeding down the street. Or maybe it’s the other way around. My satchel thumps my back, pounding my last breaths out.

  Gasping an inhale.

  Coughing an exhale.

  Invasion of the Asthma Attacker.

  Crystal thought: I need PeterPaulandMary. Where’d I put it? I fly around the corner. The football field’s a few blocks ahead.

  “COME BACK HERE, QUEER—”

  “HEY, JON-BOY! HERE WE COME—”

  My breath claws at my lungs.

  “DON’T ACT LIKE YOU CAN’T HEAR US! YOU CAN’T RUN FOREVER, COLLINS!”

  The stadium bathroom’s only half a block away.

  Fifty feet away . . . thirty-five . . . ten . . .

  “GOT YOU CORNERED!”

  I fling the door open, throw in Stingraymobile, and whambamthankyouma’amSLAM it shut, just before I see his grin glimmering in the sun.

  Locked. He pounds on the door. The Apes join him, trying to figure out this new metal square thing in their faces. I slump down.

  “YOU CAN’T STAY IN THER
E FOREVER, SISSYBOY.”

  “WE GOT YOU. COME OUT, COME OUT TO PLAY.”

  I reach into my satchel and dig through my books and smiley-face pencil case and the tape recorder I always carry with me—not broken, whew!—and finally find PeterPaulandMary, aka my inhaler, stashed at the bottom. Grab a few poofpoofpoofs—my steroid-filled elixir of fairy dust ahhhhhhhhhh—before settling down.

  Bell rings.

  “Shit, we’re late,” Scotty says.

  “Catch ya on the flip, Jon-Boy,” another Ape yells.

  Fists beating chests slowly fade away.

  Gone.

  I inhale two more poofs. I’m back. A bit jangled, but back. I lean my head against the door and close my eyes. Damn. Missing first period. Anyway, it’s biology and we’re dissecting frogs again, and I’ve had enough dissecting for about seven lifetimes, thankyouverymuch, but still.

  Another inhale: extra-piney, extra-bleachy. Ahhh.

  Welcome to my other Home Sweet Home: the Stadium Bathroom.

  Secret: This is where I eat lunch.

  Oh, don’t worry. I did my cafeteria time. Three years in the slammer. I somehow survived a new scene from Lord of the Flies every 12:06–12:46 p.m., until the day Chief Scotty stood in the center of the island and properly displayed my gym class jockstrap for all to see. He’d put ketchup on it and yelled, “Let’s all congratulate Jonathan Collins on becoming a woman today,” then slingshotted it across the heavens so, of course, it landed perfectly on the pile of mashed potatoes on my tray. That was my cue to Exit Stage Left, never to be seen on Cafeteria Island again.

  I tried eating with Starla a few times, but because she sits at a table full of girls, it felt like I was invading their Girlniverse. Tried joining a few other tables—the chess club geniuses and dramazoids were way too talkative, and the hippie stoners were way too . . . I don’t even know—then one day, I found this spot. Been here ever since. Never been happier.

  But I’ve never been in here this early. A different light sparkles through. Like entering a dream sequence . . .

  Anyway. I have an hour. Should read our English assignment since I had no time last night. I pull out Jonathan Livingston Seagull from my satchel, along with my tape recorder and microphone to begin recording. “Memorization helps spark memory.” That’s what Dr. Evelyn says, so she asked me to record as many moments as I can during treatments to keep my mind sharp. Also, this is how Andy Warhol started Interview magazine, so I always pretend I’m famous and being interviewed by him.

  Click.

  “Jonathan Livingston Seagull,” I say into my mic. “A book about the meaning of everything.” I flip through the pages and read one of my favorite passages:

  We can start working with time if you wish . . . till you can fly the past and the future . . . and then you’ll be ready to fly up and know the meaning of kindness and love.

  “Oh yes, I agree, Andy,” I say to the toilets. “I think what he’s saying is you only have right now to be kind. After that, it’s gone; you’ve lost your chance . . . You’re right, Andy, it is hard to do when you’re being chased by Apes, but that’s the test, I guess. Dr. Evelyn says, ‘Tests teach the soul to grow,’ so I guess that’s what she means— Oh, and another thing: Love is timeless. So the only way to truly find love is to take a tin-can spaceship to another dimension and live there. With the other Star People. And Ziggy. Yup, makes perfect sense to—”

  “Maybe he’s trying to say somethin’ else.” Another voice echoes from a stall.

  “Sh-boogie shit!”

  “Sorry, man, didn’t want to bother you,” he says with a half laugh, half Hello, Cuckoo Collins.

  I scramble up the door. “Sorry, I—” Perfect. I’m talking like an asshole into a stupid microphone and some guy’s been going number two. “I didn’t know anyone else was here. Jeez—”

  “Yeah. Figured that.” His feet drop down—was he hovering?—and man, his Chucks are thrashed.

  “I should go,” I say.

  “Maybe he’s tryin’ to say something else,” he says again.

  “Who?”

  “The author.”

  “Oh. Maybe, yeah—”

  “You have to believe it in order to see it, right?”

  “Huh?”

  “You believe in time travel, man? Parallel universes? Stuff like that?”

  “Oh, well, sure. Like Star Trek . . . ?”

  “What?”

  “That time when they teleport through an ion storm and return to parallel versions of themselves who are really mean and Spock”—JESUS, WHY ARE YOU TALKING, SHUT UP, COLLINS—“has this . . . goatee . . .”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I mean, what’s real and what’s really real, man? Know what I mean?”

  Okay, what is happening? This guy sounds wackier than me. Am I on some hidden-camera show? Are there cameras in here? That would be supremely messed up, considering we’re in A BATHROOM. I try to laser-beam through his stall door to see him. Nothing.

  “Not sure I do,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Know what you mean. I should leave you—” Inching the bathroom door’s lock to the right . . .

  “Hey, I like what you were sayin’ just now . . . in that tape recorder thing . . . kinda beautiful, actually . . .”

  Oh . . .

  “Yeah. I mean, imagine being able to just, you know, open that door in front of you and BOOM, you’re in a parallel universe,” he says. “Experiencing a whole different version of you. Far-out stuff, right?”

  “Huh. Yeah . . .”

  “That would be amazing to be able to change your life in a split second.” He snaps his fingers. “And be a totally different person.”

  Yeah, actually that would be really frigging amazing.

  “Who would you be?” he asks.

  I don’t move. I’m not sure why.

  “I’d probably be the principal,” he says.

  “The principal? Of our school? Why?”

  “To make all the rules. So people would finally listen and pay attention to me.”

  “Huh. Why think so small? Why not be president? Or why not be ruler of the universe, for that matter?”

  He laughs. “Yeah, man, I like your way of thinking. What about you?”

  I stare at his stall, waiting for some announcer to pop out. Nothing happens.

  “Hello?” he asks.

  “Oh, I don’t know. A different version of me, I guess?”

  “What would be different?”

  “Everything.”

  “Oh.”

  Silence. The only sound: a dripdripdrip from the faucet.

  “Deep stuff, man,” he says finally.

  This is weird, right? Talking to a total stranger who’s in a bathroom stall? Talking to a total stranger at all? But I don’t know. It’s safer somehow having that barricade between us. Like I’m at confession. I want to say this, but that sounds stupid. I want to leave, but for some reason my Chucks are glued to this spot.

  “You there?” he asks.

  “Oh. Yeah. Uh. Have we met before?”

  “No.”

  “Do you go here?”

  “Kinda.”

  “Kinda?”

  “It’s my first day,” he says.

  “But—there’s only three weeks left of school.”

  “I know.”

  “And you’re starting today?”

  “I guess.”

  “What year are you?”

  “Junior.”

  “Oh. Same . . . You just move here?” I ask.

  “Kinda . . .”

  “Scared?”

  “What?”

  “Are you scared?” See, when people’s voices trail off or they start using fewer words, it almos
t always signifies (a) fear, (b) hiding, or (c) both. I’ve had enough sessions with Dr. Evelyn to learn the tricks.

  He laughs. “Scared? Me? Nah, man.”

  Lying.

  I look down. A black smudge on the whites of my Chucks. Nope. Lick my finger and start rubbing. “Okay, well, listen,” I say. “Piece of advice? Keep quiet and you’ll be fine. Take it from me.”

  “I’m not really one to keep quiet, man.”

  “Suit yourself.” Out, out, damned spot. I hate dirty anythings. “Anyway, I’ll let you get back to . . . whatever it is you’re doing.” I stand, even though there’s still a tiny visible speck.

  “Did you think I was—”

  “Good luck out there . . . I mean, if you need anything I can—I mean—”

  “Thanks, man. Nah, I’m just . . . sittin’ here,” he says. “You know . . . waiting . . .”

  Uh-huh.

  “Okay, fine . . . hiding . . .”

  I smile. “It’s a good place for it.”

  “Yeah . . .”

  I stare at his stall. His feet bounce so fast, he looks like he’s trying to jackhammer down to the underworld. Oh, I know that feeling. “So I guess I’ll see you in there, then . . . ?”

  “Right on,” he says.

  I creak the door open.

  “Hey, man?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Nice to meet ya,” he says.

  “Oh. Yeah.” We laugh. Well, he laughs like a normal boy. I titter like a stupid termite. Okay, that’s my cue. Catch you on the flip, man. I slam the door and peek my head around the corner.

  All clear. No Apes. No hidden camera setup or weird parallel universe.

  * * *

  —

  I don’t think.

  4.

  NOPE. DEFINITELY DID NOT enter a parallel universe. Two hours later, we’re back from commercial break resuming our normal hellacious schedule.

  Third period. Health class. Which is essentially the second-to-last step to the entrance of Hades’s gates. The last being PE. And because the classes basically bookend the day, it’s a true miracle I ever make it out alive and escape back home unscathed.