Chapter 20. Lorena
lorena
The metal ball zips through the display at the frenzied rate of my heart.
“Sure,” says Zach. “You’re always invited.”
William keeps his gaze on me. “Your ball is back.”
It takes me a moment to know what he’s talking about. “Oh—yeah.” As I pull on the lever, my heart is racing, and I hate that he can hear it.
“I’m glad everyone’s here because I want to formally propose we take a break from the LUB,” says Zach while the machine dings.
“I don’t know about you all, but I’m falling behind in homework and reading, and now that I have newspaper and history and film club, spending hours every night flipping through empty books just isn’t the thrill it once was. ”
“Same,” says Tiffany, and I get the sense they discussed this already.
“We can’t stop now,” says Trevor, and he looks at Salma with pleading eyes. “Come on, we’re almost halfway through the books, and it’s only been two weeks. By the end of the month, we could be done!”
“But there’s nothing there,” says Tiffany. “I think the real story is the secret timeline and why we can’t take photos or videos—”
“And those answers will be in the books!”
“You seem so sure of that,” says Salma, who hasn’t weighed in yet. “Why?”
Trevor’s face grows as inscrutable as William’s, and I wish I knew what he’s found in the green book. But I can’t tell William about it because I don’t want him messing with Trevor’s mind.
“I just have a feeling,” says Trevor. “Remember when you talked about how you felt a calling to this place? I get that same feeling about those books, like we discovered them because they have something to tell us.”
“I think we’ll have a better chance after Thanksgiving,” says Salma, and she sounds like she’s given this some thought. “I’ll bring my Ouija board, tarot cards, and spellbooks.”
“You really think that stuff works?” asks Tiffany, her voice laden with doubt.
Sal nods, and before I can back her up, I hear William say, “I think it is a grand idea.”
“No one was talking to you,” says Trevor, probably because Salma is beaming at the vampire.
“Salma seems fine with my input.” I get the feeling William is only saying this to annoy Trevor. As the two of them lock into a stare-off, I’m afraid the vampire will use his mental powers to humiliate Trevor—or worse.
Instead, he turns to me and asks, “Can I play?”
It’s the last thing I expected William to say.
“Sure.” I step back and make room for him by the machine. Then he folds his hand around the lever and pulls back.
The entire metal rod comes out, breaking the game.
Tiffany gasps, while Salma and Zach look wide-eyed and speechless.
“I felt something loosen the last time I pulled,” I say to cover for William’s mistake. “I should have warned you.”
“Let’s get away before a teacher sees,” says Zach, and the six of us hurry to join the small queue of people waiting for a turn at darts.
“The One Piece pinball machine is broken!” a student exclaims, and we all turn in the opposite direction.
“What happened here?” I hear Minaro ask.
“I don’t know, it was like this when I got here!”
We all trade side stares, barely containing our laughter, and when I look up at William, he’s watching me. His gaze is fixed on my cheek, and I think I must have something on my face.
It’s not until I’m in bed later that I realize he was looking at my dimple.
SATURDAY MORNING after breakfast, William and I walk to the garden.
The greenery looks so gentle in the sunlight that it’s hard to reconcile this place with the menacing memories it conjures. Every step echoes back to the last time he led me here, when all I saw was a monster. And all he saw was a meal.
Has that changed at all?
“Good morning,” says Minaro from one of the benches, and I didn’t expect her to already be here. “Come have a seat on the grass.”
The two of us do as she says.
“So, how are you thinking this club will work?” she asks. “Are you interested in putting on productions of Shakespeare’s plays?”
“No, we can leave that to drama club,” I say.
“We want to read the plays and discuss them,” says William.
“That is not enough for an academic club,” she says. “How about this: Pick a play to read and study, then you can do a presentation on it in class next month. Then next quarter you can pick a different one. Would you like to begin with a historical, or a comedy—?”
“Tragedy,” says William. He looks at me. “Hamlet?”
“You mean to carry or not to carry the burden of being a privileged male with too much time on my hands, while my girlfriend is slowly crushed by the patriarchy right in front of me?”
“Hamlet is one of the most complex plays ever written,” he argues. “It is—”
“Pick another play,” says Minaro, cutting him off right as I open my mouth to retort.
“Macbeth,” I say instead.
“You must be having a laugh,” says William. “You cannot tell me you prefer that play to Hamlet.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“You would rather read about a weak man who is so obsessed with tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow that he throws his entire life away just because three witches read him a poem?”
“Lady Macbeth is one of the most fascinating characters in all of literature!” I say, raising my voice, and even though we’re arguing, I can’t deny it’s fun to debate books with someone as passionate about them as I am.
“What is so fascinating about a coward?” he asks. “She pressures Macbeth to take action, yet when she has the chance to do the very thing she demands of him, she fails.”
“Wow, you really don’t get it,” I say, sitting up on my ankles. “Her very existence is a challenge to—”
“Here is what we are going to do,” says Minaro, speaking loud enough to drown me out. “I am going to choose.”
She looks from me to William and back to me.
Then a smile plays on her lips as she says, “Romeo and Juliet.”
TIFFANY AND Zach are spending most of today working on the school paper, so when I return to the room, I find Salma alone.
She’s reading Jane Eyre in bed, and she must be at a good scene because she doesn’t look up when I walk in.
“Sal…”
“Hmm?”
I’ve been stalling all week, loathe to ask this question because I’m afraid of the answer. But I can’t wait any longer, and I know I won’t get a better opportunity than this one. “Did you get your period?”
She looks up from her book and meets my gaze. Then she sets the novel down on the bed as she shakes her head.
My heart slides to my belly as I climb up to join her on the top bunk and take her hand in mine. She feels nearly as cold as William. As I rub my palms against her skin to generate some heat, I ask, “What’s wrong?”
“It’s a symptom,” she says quietly, and for the second time in eighteen years, I see real fear shining in her eyes. She hasn’t sounded this small since we learned about Tía Elena’s diagnosis.
“Of what?” I ask, keeping my voice as small as hers. “Are you—?”
The word pregnant won’t leap off my tongue. As far as I know, Salma hasn’t been with anyone in months, not since before her mom passed. Did she have a secret romance this summer?
“I think it’s my mom’s disease.”
Every single one of my brain cells seems to stop working at the same time.
As I stare into Salma’s eyes, I try to find any trace of humor. I know she’s a fan of dark comedy, but this would be fucked up even for her.
“You’re hurting me,” she says, and I realize I’m wringing her hand, so I let go.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, my calm voice contrasting with my raging pulse.
“A few weeks ago, I noticed my clothes were looking baggy on me. I was also losing more hair than usual in the shower. So I looked up my mom’s condition, like I did a million times before, only this time I checked if it was genetic.”
Now she’s the one who takes my hand, and I keep my hold loose so I don’t hurt her again.
“Apparently, it can be passed down from mother to daughter. Symptoms usually start at our age, and it’s rare for someone who has it to live past thirty-five. My mom was really lucky that hers showed up later, and she made it to forty-three—”
“Salma, stop.” I let go of her hand. “You’re jumping to a worst-case scenario.
You realize all the things you listed are also symptoms of grief?
You were barely eating this summer, and the missed period and hair loss are probably stress-related.
You’re not your mom, okay? You’re going to make yourself sick if you keep—”
“How can you know that?” she asks, crossing her arms, and I know how obstinate she gets when she believes something to her core. “You just don’t want to see it. I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”
“Sal … I think maybe you’re feeling guilty about moving on without your mom.”
I say it as gently as I can, like one removing a Band-Aid as slowly as possible so it won’t sting—but she still stares at me like I ripped it right off.
“We both got checkups before coming here,” I remind her, “and the doctors said we were fine. They know your medical history, so they probably tested you for her condition.”
“Or maybe my symptoms flared up after my checkup—”
“Sal, you’re catastrophizing,” I say, hearing Ma’s words coming out of my mouth.
She glares at me, and I know I won’t get through to her when she’s determined to be stubborn. That’s the whole reason we’re in Huntington in the first place.
“I don’t feel like myself, Lore,” she says at last, her shoulders dropping as she leans into me. I wrap my arms around her, holding her to my side, my heart rising to its rightful place as I relax into her.
“You’re grieving,” I say into her hair. “Give yourself grace.”
I still sound just like Ma, borrowing her words, saying the things she would expect me to say. And it makes me wonder if I’ve ever had an original thought in my life.
Maybe Tiffany is right about me.
Maybe everything I do and have ever done is nothing more than a reflection of Ma.