No Man's Land Read online

Most people have the wrong idea about emo kids and our whole scene; they think we’re just a bunch of depressed teenagers in shattered hair, skinny jeans, and tight Tshirts who sit around cutting ourselves. Since Miranda, Ali, Koby, and I represent the emo contingent at Longview High, I’m probably qualified to tell you that’s totally not us. We’re not a bunch of sad-sack losers, just kids who like to hang out and listen to music that gets you thinking about how truly jacked up life is sometimes.

  That’s not to say the other kids at Longview don’t think we’re losers; there are a few—Ray Sellers, for example—who make that pretty clear. Fortunately, we don’t care: when we choose to give douche bags like Sellers any attention at all, it’s only to laugh about how ignorant and boring they are, and how much we’d despise ourselves if we were them.

  Don’t get me wrong; it’s not that my friends and I are secretly living the lives of the rich and famous. No, we pretty much all have our FML moments, sometimes even all of us at the same time. Miranda’s one of the sweetest chicks I know, but she’s grown up in foster care and I’ve seen her cry more than once about her situation. Since 9/11, Ali gets flack for being Arab, even though he was born in Ohio and his parents are both professors at the university in Longview. I’m not exactly sure what Koby’s deal is, but he’s always complaining about how the medication his shrink gives him makes his head hurt.

  If you printed up our life histories and put them side by side, you might think the four of us would have nothing in common, but we connect in a way that’s kind of hard to explain to anyone else. When I look at my three best friends, I know we’re all lit from inside by the same tentative, flickering flame, one that at best feels beautiful and pure and at worst burns like a motherfucker. The way I see it, if you’re going to hang out with other outcasts, at least find some who speak your lingo.

  As I lie there, the lyrics from “A Plain Morning” make me think of Brian, and I roll onto my side to stare across the dim room at the aquarium on my dresser. As if he can read my mind, Leo is looking back at me, his pointy little lizard chin pressed against the glass.

  “Hey bud,” I call softly. “What do you think Brian’s doing right now?”

  Well, considering the nine-hour time difference, Leo opines, your brother is probably washing the dirt off his hands in preparation for dinner.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re probably right.” I hope it’s something like that.

  And while we’re on the subject of cleanliness, Grasshopper, Leo continues, I was just wondering what’s happened to the maid service around this place? Not to put too fine a point on it, but I’m up to my knees in my own you-know-what …

  “Yeah, sorry … I know.” It’s been quite a while since I’ve cleaned Leo’s aquarium. “I’ll get to it after school today. I promise.”

  If geckos have eyebrows, Leo raises his archly to indicate he’s heard that particular promise before.

  I glance at the clock. The truth is, I probably do have time. “All right,” I sigh, sitting up. “Hang on.”

  You’ll probably laugh at the idea that a gecko is the sort of pet you can feel close to, but to tell the truth, I feel closer to Leo than to most anyone else. Maybe it’s because he came into my life around the same time my brother started morphing into the family superstar, but whatever the reason, Leo is my homeboy. My room wouldn’t be the same without the scratchy sound of his claws against the glass as he waves at me across the room, or the sight of him sitting motionless, watching an unsuspecting cricket before he springs into action. Plus, Leo is always good for giving advice when the going gets tough, as it sometimes does.

  Geckos are ridiculously fast and have great eyesight, so it’s always a challenge to catch Leo for housecleaning. It’s important to be careful, too; the first time I cleaned out Leo’s enclosure, I grabbed him by the tail, then freaked out when it pulled right off in my hand where it wiggled away as if it were alive. The tail eventually grew back, shorter and a little crooked. I like the crooked tail better; there’s something about it I can relate to.

  Today Leo lets me catch him pretty easily, and doesn’t even protest when I set him gently in the bottom of the fishbowl I keep nearby for cleaning days. He skitters over to the side and bumps his pointy head against the glass. Don’t be rearranging things, he orders bossily. You know how I hate change.

  “Too bad, so sad,” I reply, moving his warming rock from one side of the aquarium to the other. “Gotta keep life interesting.”

  Hmph, Leo grumbles.

  I shovel the damp bark, shredded newspaper, and weightless cricket carcasses off the bottom of the aquarium and into a plastic Family Mart grocery bag, then carry Leo’s fiberglass cave to the bathroom where I rinse it in the sink and dry it on a bathroom towel, glancing first down the hallway to make sure Mom doesn’t catch me. Her bedroom door is closed; probably still asleep, I figure. Mom sleeps a lot these days. Some days she doesn’t even go to work, just spends the day sleeping.

  “Hey … get the hell out of here!” I hiss when I come back into my room and find Sheba, Mom’s evil Siamese cat, staring up at the fishbowl from the floor below. “Git!” I aim a kick her way, causing her to disappear under the bed in a flash of silvery fur. Leo has been at the top of Sheba’s must-eat list for years, and she never misses an opportunity to slink eel-like into my room to gaze longingly through the glass of his aquarium, trying to figure out an angle that would close the distance between them.

  After I have everything back the way I want it, I pick up the fishbowl and lower it into the aquarium, then tilt it to the side so Leo can scramble out. He tumbles onto the fresh substrate, then heads over toward his cave. The feeder crickets live in a plastic box on a shelf over the aquarium; when I drop a couple into the aquarium they immediately scurry off, instinctively looking for cover. Drawn by the sudden movement, Leo’s eyes swerve in their direction.

  “Bon appétit, amigo,” I tell Leo. With an eye on Sheba, I double check to make sure the aquarium’s screen cover is securely attached.

  Awfully international of you, Leo replies, belly-crawling after his breakfast. But merci. And gracias.

  Four

  Even with an early start to my day, I’m somehow running late by the time I get to school, which means I have to sprint through the dry October leaves from the parking lot to the main entrance of Longview High, the only door left unlocked after the first period warning bell sounds.

  “You’re late, kid,” says Officer Mertz, tossing down his crossword puzzle as I come hurtling through the front doors and into the Commons. He’s seated at his official post, a little folding table positioned between the school’s main entrance and the indoor Commons where we eat lunch. From this vantage point, Mertz can see and therefore hassle anyone coming or going after the first bell. I figure it must feel like a real achievement to go through police training and end up guarding a table.

  “Overslept,” I mutter, glancing at the clock over the office, which tells me I’ve missed the bell by only four minutes. Giving me a hard time hardly seems worth Mertz’s energy, but maybe he’s already screwed up the crossword puzzle.

  “I should send you to the office,” Mertz threatens. “Hit you with a detention. This isn’t the first tardy for you, if memory serves me correctly.”

  Figuring there’s no point in arguing with the truth, I busy myself writing my name and arrival time on the sign-in sheet next to his half-completed crossword. Sure enough, two of the answers he’s filled in are scribbled out.

  When I straighten up, Mertz is taking in my Ebony Glow, the Bullet for My Valentine T-shirt, my dark pegged jeans, and my Converse tennis shoes. It’s times like this when hair that covers my eyes comes in especially handy: I instinctively know that any eye contact I give will be read as me being a smart-ass. Silence stretches between us; just when I think all is lost, Mertz gives a rumbling belch that suggests his breakfast included sausage and seems to instantly put him in a slightly improved mood. He reaches up and pulls a late pass from his pocket,
glancing down at the sign-in sheet to make sure he spells my name correctly. “Howard?” he asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Howard,” he repeats. “You related to Brian Howard?”

  “Uh, yeah.” Great. “He’s my, uh, brother.”

  “Kid’s in the Middle East, right?” Mertz still isn’t writing.

  “Mm-hmm.” I wonder where this is going.

  “Quite a kid, your brother. Remarkable football player.”

  Oh. Now I get it.

  “Yeah. He sure is … was … is.” I endure the customary 3.5 seconds during which Mertz considers the fact that I’m a far cry indeed from my brother, followed by the 4.7 seconds during which he wonders where my parents went wrong with me.

  “So,” he says, abruptly turning his attention back to the business of my tardiness. He seems embarrassed, as though he suspects I’ve been reading his thoughts. “Where was it you’re headed?”

  “Language Arts. Ms. Walker’s room.”

  He writes me out a pass, which I take without thanking him. “Okay if I stop by my locker?” I ask, knowing I’m pushing it.

  “Nope. I think you’d better head right to class.”

  I nod, bummed that I won’t be able to take a detour past the art room. A glimpse of Ms. Twohey always starts my day out right, and this morning I could’ve really used it. With Mertz staring at me, however, I have no choice but to turn and begin the long walk toward the Language Arts wing, resigned to a day without sunshine.

  I’m passing the main office when the door opens and a girl in a gray-and-black striped hoodie comes out onto the Commons. She’s with Mr. Kerr, the school counselor. “Are you sure you don’t want me to show you the way to your class?” he asks. “Longview’s a pretty big school, you know. We don’t want you to get lost on your first day here.”

  “No. I think I’ve got it,” the girl tells him faintly. Her hair is dark and unevenly cut, the tips dyed red, as if dipped in blood. She glances my way and our eyes meet; her eyes are a pale slate color, like flat and icy behind her long bangs. She holds eye contact with me until I have to look away to calm down the weird loop-de-loop my stomach is doing.

  “Dov Howard!” Mr. Kerr exclaims, as if I’m the answer to a riddle he’s been carrying in his head all morning. “Where are you headed?”

  “Language Arts,” I tell him. “Mrs. Walker’s class.” Part of me wants to take another look at the freaky-eyed girl, but the rest of me is relieved to have a reason to look elsewhere.

  “Great.” Kerr nods. “Listen, Scarlett here needs to find Mr. Taylor’s chemistry class. That’s on your way, isn’t it?”

  He and I both know it is. “Yeah.”

  “Perhaps you can show her the way?” Kerr prompts. “To class?”

  I risk another glance at the Ice Girl, but she’s lost interest and is looking across the Commons as if the field of lunch tables holds great interest for her. “Sure,” I agree.

  Kerr grins and nods. “Thank you, Dov. That’s terrific.” Something about the way he’s acting makes me think that Ice Princess makes him as nervous as she makes me.

  “Terrific,” she echoes now. It’s not clear if she’s insulting me or mocking Kerr, or both. Not that it matters, of course; my heart belongs to Ms. Twohey, so there’s no reason I should care what this new girl thinks.

  “I’m late already,” I point out.

  “Yes, you’d better go,” agrees Kerr. “And welcome to Longview, Scarlett.”

  Scarlett doesn’t reply, but keeps step beside me as we start walking. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that her nails are bitten down; what’s left of them is painted black, like chips of charcoal.

  “You just move here?” I ask, glancing at her sideways so as to avoid those piercing eyes.

  “No,” she says simply. “I’m only here for a little while. My grandparents live here. I’m staying with them.”

  I wait for more, but she doesn’t offer anything, and we travel the rest of the way in silence. I suppose I could try harder, but I have my own problems besides making friends with the new kid.

  When we reach the door to Taylor’s class, I slow. “This is it,” I tell her, “Mr. Taylor’s chemistry class.”

  Scarlett sighs. I don’t blame her; I’d be bummed too if I had Chemistry first period. Or, come to think of it, any period. I half-turn to look at her, ready to say goodbye, then see her swipe at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

  “Hey,” I say, “You okay?”

  When she doesn’t answer I reach out to touch her arm, but pull my hand back when she jerks away from me. “Yeah,” she nods, her head down. “I’m okay. I’m fine.”

  I wonder whether it sounds as unconvincing to her as it does to me. “Look,” I say, feeling bad I haven’t been nicer, “I’ll probably see you around, right? I mean, if you need, like, someone to hang out with … ”

  “It’s okay, Dov,” Scarlett interrupts, finally looking up at me. I force myself to meet her eyes; she lines them in black like Miranda does, and when Scarlett reaches up to push her bangs absently out of the way I glimpse the dark eyebrows that wing above them. “I guess … I kind of do better on my own. But thanks for walking me.”

  With that, she disappears into Mr. Taylor’s room, leaving me standing in the hallway, wondering what just happened.

  Five

  Everyone convenes for lunch at our usual table in the Commons, unofficially “reserved” for us because no one else wants to sit with the freaky emo kids. Ali is already there when I carry my tray over and sit down.

  “Sick shirt,” I observe, indicating the Hüsker Dü T-shirt he’s wearing. “Very old school.”

  Ali nods his acknowledgment over the carton of milk he’s drinking. He and I have been friends since we both showed up in Mrs. Makovsky’s second grade class at Phoenix Elementary. Even back in the grade school days, Ali was a kind of goth presence, showing up day after day dressed in a black T-shirt and sweatpants, vertical comb-marks clearly visible in his coarse, dark hair. When we hit middle school and most of us were trying to find where we fit in, Ali pretty much just stayed Ali, although eventually he traded the sweat pants for skinny black jeans. Idiots like Ray Sellers give him flack about the Middle Eastern thing, calling him Saddam and Haji, but Ali never seems annoyed by it beyond patiently reminding them he’s Pakistani.

  Unlike me, Ali’s an only child and also unlike me, he’s ridiculously smart. In fact, sometimes I wonder why he hangs out with us; the rest of us are grateful for C’s while Ali quietly takes home report cards filled with A’s. I’m not sure what he thinks, but to his credit, Ali never acts like we’re his intellectual inferiors.

  Ali and I are soon joined by the other members of our motley crew, Koby and Miranda. Even after five years, I haven’t figured out what goes on in Koby’s head under that mass of dirty blond hair. Most of the time he seems pretty much like the rest of us … just another lost emo kid in skinny jeans and band shirts … but then he goes through these periods where his mind seems to go into overdrive. When he’s like that, his thoughts go crazy and his attention is all over the place. He might call me at three in the morning to talk about something that happened in gym class two years ago, or to describe an elaborate plan he has for winning the next season of American Idol. Shortly after that he’ll usually drop off the radar for a few weeks—time we’ve all come to assume means he’s probably in a hospital somewhere getting shock treatments or whatever they do to kids who go temporarily nuts. Then one day he’ll show up again, back to the old, goofy Koby, and life just goes on. As weird as it might seem, none of us ever ask him about where he’s been or what happened to him there. We’re just glad he’s back, and he seems to be too.

  Miranda just sort of drifted into our group during freshman year. Unlike Koby, she does talk sometimes about what a screwed-up life she’s had. Her parents were both drug addicts and she hasn’t seen them since she was eight; she doesn’t even know where they are anymore. “Probably a good thing,” she added
when she told me about it, but I heard the sadness in Miranda’s voice as she said it. As messed up as my family is, I can’t imagine being completely alone in the world.

  Miranda and I both love to draw, but our styles are really different. Whereas my stuff ranges all over the place, Miranda draws only one thing: angels. She does something with the faces that’s hard to describe, except to say that even though her angels have faces, you can’t exactly see them. I remember once when Ms. Twohey asked her about it, and Miranda explained that her faceless angels were a metaphor for lack of hope. Our teacher looked like she didn’t know what to say to that, but I kind of got what she meant.

  Miranda’s not a bad-looking girl; she’s got that kind of red hair that’s usually the kiss of death, but on her it actually looks pretty good, especially with her brown eyes. I’d never admit this to anyone, but sometimes when I look at her I think she might be even prettier than Ms. Twohey. While I’m confessing, I might as well tell you we made out once when Ali fell asleep while the three of us were watching the original Halloween. It wasn’t something we really talked about afterwards, but Miranda does appear in my alone-time fantasies from time to time. Other than that, I remain firm in my devotion to Ms. Twohey.

  Once Koby gets settled at the table, he immediately launches into an account of a show he saw with his cousin last weekend. It isn’t uncommon for area bands to rent a venue and put together a lineup. Now Koby rattles off some of the bands on the ticket. “Tribes, These Hearts, The Suit. It was a sick show, man.”

  Ali sighs and looks at me sideways. “I’m bummed that we missed it. Too bad the Gator was out of commission.”

  “Hey, don’t blame me,” I protest. I’m the only one with a car, a green, needle-nosed station wagon we call the Gator, but one of the dash indicators had come on and I didn’t want to risk driving it any distance until Dad took a look at it. “Unless somebody here knows what Add. Cool. means … ”

  Miranda points at me. “I told you,” she says. “Add Kool—

  Aid.”

  “Yeah, but grape or cherry?”