Sick Read online

  “Handle dinner” is usually code for “order pizza.” Nice. I text Kenzie back with this information, then text Laura, asking if she wants to come over to share. This might work out for the best, Mom not being home. The three of us can have the house to ourselves, and I can find out what it is Laura wants to talk about.

  And I hope I’m right, that she wants to ask about getting back together. I know, I know—school’s practically over and I’m going out of town and I’m the one who ended it. But still. Even though we’ve been talking and stuff since we broke up, I miss her.

  Laura writes back: Pizza sounds good. Thanks.

  How you doing? I text.

  Nervous. But okay. Thank you.

  I start to reply when my phone goes off. Mom. This time I answer. It’s lunchtime, so I’m in the clear.

  “Howdy,” I say, and move toward Chad’s kitchen for some privacy.

  “Heeeey, sexy!” Jack calls after me, making obnoxious kissing sounds, assuming it’s Laura on the other end of the call.

  “Jack says hi, Mom.”

  Jack’s face falls. Chad curls into a ball and laughs his ass off.

  “Hey, Brian,” Mom says as I take a seat in the kitchen. “Tell Jack next time he’s over to bring his mother’s peanut blossom cookies, or I’ll have Miguel do a live autopsy on him.”

  I laugh. Can’t help it; Mom cracks me up sometimes. Her sense of humor has gotten progressively grosser over the years, probably because of her job.

  “Did you get my message, sweetie?”

  Ugh. Sweetie. “Yeah, no problem.”

  “Well, it’s a bit more complicated now,” Mom says.

  I hear people in the background shouting at each other. Very weird. Mom’s a doctor, working for the county medical examiner as an investigator. It’s always quiet in her office.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  Mom sighs. “We got called out of town, some little place called … Arroyo? It’s between here and Tucson. Miguel says there’s a good chance we’ll be staying overnight.”

  “Oh. Bummer.”

  “So if you and Mackenzie would—yes, Miguel, I’m packing up now!”

  I wince as Mom shouts at her boss. “Mom? What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know, Brian. Some emergency,” Mom says, grunting. I imagine her pulling her big leather satchel over her shoulder. “There was some kind of incident at Phoenix Memorial earlier. A patient transported there from Arroyo went crazy, and Miguel says there may be more. We need to find out if some kind of outbreak has started there.”

  Outbreak. The word is jagged and hard in my ears.

  “So what’s up?” I ask her.

  “I really don’t know, honey. Probably a meth addict just went nuts.”

  “Yeah, but we heard there were problems at a bunch of hospitals.”

  “It looks that—yes, Miguel, I’m coming!—it looks that way. Listen, I need to go. Please don’t have Chad or, you know, Laura or anyone over tonight, all right? Just you and your sister.”

  Damn.

  “Yeah, okay. Is it cool if I head over to Lau—”

  “Sweetie, I have to go.”

  “Um, okay.” And for some reason, I add, “Be careful.”

  “Thanks. You too, sweetie. Bye.”

  I say good-bye and hang up. I go back into the living room, where Chad and Jack are shouting answers at a Jeopardy! contestant.

  “Hey, take it back to the news,” I tell Chad.

  Chad glances at me. I can only guess what my expression is, because he changes the channel right away.

  “—appears that federal investigators are on scene,” a reporter, this Asian chick, is saying in that reporter singsong voice. Behind her, Phoenix Memorial Hospital is surrounded by cop cars, lights flashing. Nearby, a bunch of dudes in dark suits talk next to a black SUV.

  “Now, we don’t have confirmation of a federal presence. That was reported to us by an eyewitness who was trying to get into the emergency room just a few moments ago. But the ER has been blocked off by police at this time. Patients are being asked to go to other local hospitals and urgent care clinics, but we are hearing reports of disturbances breaking out at these locations as well.”

  The screen splits, one half staying on the reporter, the other showing the Barbie news anchor in the studio.

  “Dana, is there any indication of why the FBI is involved?” Barbie asks.

  “We can’t say for certain that that’s the case right now,” Dana the reporter says. “We have not seen or heard specifically that the FBI is here. We do know a vehicle bearing Centers for Disease Control insignia was seen nearby, but whether that is connected to the events inside, we don’t know.”

  “What events?” Jack asks her, like she can answer. I tell him to shut up.

  “Dana, is there any reason to suspect an attack of some kind?” Barbie asks. “Is this a terrorist action?”

  Chad leans forward on the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. His face gets grave.

  “That does not appear to be the case, as reports coming in so far give no indication of that,” Dana says. “As you can see, we’ve been quarantined … excuse me, we’ve been cordoned off a ways from the building, and police have been unable to answer many questions.”

  Outbreak, a voice whispers in my head. Outbreak.

  “Quarantined?” I say, kind of to myself. “That was a hell of a Freudian slip.”

  Chad nods. Jack pops a potato chip into his mouth.

  “All right, thank you, Dana,” Barbie says. The screen shifts to the studio. “Dana Mei reporting live from Phoenix Memorial Hospital. We’ll keep you updated as more information becomes available.” She shuffles some papers on the desk. “In world news, the president canceled his trip to Israel earlier today, earning a strongly worded reproach from Israeli—”

  Chad hits the mute button. “Dude,” is all he says.

  “You think Hollis’s mom’s okay?” Jack asks.

  “Who knows,” I say. “My mom said something was happening but that it might just be a meth freak. I wonder if Hollis even knows this is going down. Whatever it is.”

  “Goddam terrorists,” Chad grumbles.

  “They didn’t say that,” I remind him. “We’d know if it was. It’s probably just some cracked-out guy going nuts with a scalpel or something. A shove match, like in the gym.”

  “Or some dude got his finger bit off,” Jack says, all melodramatic.

  Chad shakes his head. “Naw, no way. Just one dude? He’d get dropped, guarantee it. Nurses and doctors deal with that shit all the time, especially in that part of town. It’s something else.”

  “Maybe someone’s got a hostage,” Jack says with a shrug. He dumps chip crumbs from the bag into his hand and tosses them into his mouth.

  “Yeah, maybe,” Chad says, flipping back to the game show. “I just can’t wait to get out there and do some damage, that’s all I’m sayin’. Creep into their backyards, see how they like it.”

  Jack nods his agreement. I shake my head. It’s pointless to remind Chad again that the news said it wasn’t terrorists.

  Chad isn’t interested in any of the Marine specialties or jobs or whatever. He wants to be infantry, a rifleman, first and always. I told him every Marine gets rifle and combat training, no matter what job they have, but Chad doesn’t care. Wherever the action is, he said, he wants to be there.

  So you’re ready to kill someone? I asked him when he signed up, just as pissed then as I am now.

  If that’s what it takes, he said back.

  No way could I do something like that. I’m glad there are people who can, and will—it’s not that. I just can’t imagine killing another human being. I already watched Kenzie come within inches of checking out seven years ago. That was as close to death as I ever want to get.

  BY THE TIME LUNCH IS OVER, THE THREE OF US say the hell with it and decide to skip fifth and sixth hours too. My phone rings just about the time the bell must be going off at the end of fifth hou
r.

  “Hey, Laura-licious,” I say when I answer it, then wince; her pet name came out reflexively.

  “Hey,” Laura says. Her voice is a little high, a little breathy. “So, are you coming to the rally?”

  “Doesn’t look that way. How about you?”

  Laura audibly swallows. “Yes,” she says, and I can hear how hard it is for her to say the word with any semblance of confidence. “I’m meeting Kenzie outside the gym. Are you sure you won’t come, Brian?”

  See, this is where things are hard for me. Part of me—the selfish prick side—can’t help but think, I don’t have to put up with this needy crap. I could be with someone who doesn’t come with so much baggage.

  But the tone of her voice, the spooked look she gets in her eyes, the way her hands start to shake … I want to protect her. I want to be my own civilian version of a Marine and stand up to anything that threatens her. Even if there’s nothing actually threatening her—even if it’s all in her head—it feels good to be wanted, to puff out my chest and act all badass when really I’m not.

  That part of being with her, the manly-man part, includes helping her with what she needs, not what she wants. What she wants is for me to be there; what she needs is to learn how to handle difficult situations. In my opinion.

  “You can do it,” I say. “You’ll be totally safe. I really think this’ll be good for you. And you’ll have Kenzie. She’s a tough old broad.”

  I like to think Laura smiles at that, but of course I can’t tell.

  “Did you take anything?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Really!” It comes out a lot more shocked than I intended, but I am surprised.

  “I mean, I will if I need to,” Laura says. “I’ve got everything in my bag.”

  “Well, yeah, if you need to,” I say, still trying to absorb her decision. Honestly, she usually takes the Klonopin like it comes out of a Pez dispenser. “Look, just keep your eyes on Cammy, relax, and enjoy it. Okay?”

  She takes a deep breath. “Okay,” she says, but her voice shakes. “I’ll try. Brian?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I know what you’re trying to do.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Help me.”

  Oddly, I kind of feel choked up when she says that. “Maybe just a bit.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Anytime.”

  Laura takes another breath. I can hear the foot traffic surrounding her on the sidewalk, people shouting and cussing at one another.

  “There’s Kenzie,” she says. “I’m going to go. See you later?”

  “Definitely.”

  “I …” Laura hesitates. More shouts echo through her end of the phone.

  “Yeah?” I say after a second.

  “Never mind,” Laura says. “See you later.”

  “Later.”

  I hang up and turn my attention back to an old episode of Justice League. Or rather, try to.

  “How’s she doin’?” Chad goes.

  “She’ll be all right.” And I think, I really, really hope she’ll be all right.

  “WELL, STAGECRAFT NEXT,” CHAD SAYS TO ME, checking the time. “You wanna go or what?”

  Jack’s got English last period, but me and Chad are together in stagecraft, which is sort of a blow-off class in the drama department. We’re supposed to be learning about lighting design, building sets, that kind of thing. Mostly, we end up painting, moving platforms, or scraping tape off the stage. It’s like the drama teacher, Mrs. Golab, created the class specifically to force non-drama geeks to do all the grunt work while her technicians and performers get to do all the cool stuff.

  I don’t mind. It’s easy enough, and we get to screw around quite a bit because Golab spends most of the period in her office while her favorite students—the techies—boss the rest of us around.

  “Might as well go,” I say. “Keep the easy A.”

  If you show up, don’t bug Mrs. Golab, and don’t bitch too much, you get an A and an arts credit. It’s a good way to end the day. Don’t get me wrong—I didn’t get into Cal by slacking off, and there’s nothing slacker about working in the auditorium. But it’s muscle work, not biochem.

  “Cool,” Chad says, and turns off the TV. Jack looks a little disappointed but doesn’t say anything as we head outside to pile into the Draggin’ Wagon.

  We pause as a rapid whup-whup-whup sound passes above us. All three of us look up, shading our eyes against the sun as a police helicopter swoops past.

  “Whoa!” Jack shouts, and ducks like the helicopter is going to land on him. Then he climbs into the backseat and shuts his door. “Man, they were hauling ass. Get to the choppah! Mooove! Go!” he shouts through the window in his best Schwarzenegger voice, which doesn’t amount to much.

  Chad shrugs it off and gets behind the wheel. I start to open my door but hesitate when I hear sirens in the distance. The sirens—fire trucks, I’m pretty sure—are headed away from us, in the direction of the gunshots we heard earlier. If they’re responding to a shooting, they’re doing a shitty job of it; the gunshots were hours ago. They’re probably going to a car accident or something.

  I get into the Draggin’ Wagon and we head back to school. We gave Chad’s car this dubious name after stuffing twelve people into it once for a lunch run. The rear bumper scraped the pavement as we pulled out of the parking lot.

  We don’t make it even a block down Scarlet Ave before I hear sirens again.

  “Officers of the law!” Jack shouts at Chad, looking out the rear window.

  He’s right. A cop car is bearing down on us something fierce. Chad swears, slows down, and veers off to the side of the road. “I wasn’t speeding!” he says to us.

  But once Chad’s off the road, the cop slams on the gas and roars past us.

  “Whoa,” Jack says to the cop car, as if the cop could hear him. “Easy there, boss.”

  We snicker, and Chad gets us back on the road. About a block from school, we have to pull over again as two ambulances race past, sirens wailing.

  “Damn!” Chad goes. “We missin’ somethin’ or what?” He picks up speed to make it back to school in time for seventh hour.

  Cop cars, ambulances, the police helicopter … the gunshots earlier, all the stuff on the news about Phoenix Memorial …

  Outbreak. Outbreak.

  I suddenly really want to know what’s happening in that little town Mom was headed to, so I call her cell, wondering if this is how Laura feels all day: sort of jumpy and nervous.

  I get Mom’s voice mail and hang up without leaving a message. I know it’s probably nothing, but, man, it seems like it’s been a weird day so far.

  Chad drives past the parking lot to see if the gate is open. No luck. Muttering, he turns around and parks on a residential street across from the lot, perpendicular to Scarlet.

  We walk across Scarlet and climb carefully over the tall iron fence. Basically, you have to pull yourself up and get a foot on the top crossbar, push up off that foot until you’re squatting above those damn spikes, and leap from there. No big deal if you take your time.

  There’s no sign of security. They’re probably congregating around the gym for the pep rally to make sure everyone’s behaving. Just to be on the safe side, we sink low and sneak through rows of cars until we reach the sidewalk in front of the auditorium box office doors.

  Chad pauses when we reach the sidewalk and looks back over the lot. “Hey,” he says, “is that Whitey?”

  I look where he’s pointing. Yeah, it’s Whitey all right, parked in one corner of the lot.

  “Man, Hollis should not still be here after the way he was looking,” I say.

  “Maybe they’re bustin’ him for somethin’.”

  “Like what?”

  “Bein’ black.”

  “Right, good point.”

  The three of us shake our heads. You can see it on a lot of the teachers’ faces, like they’re afraid anyone with skin darker than bleach is
going to knife them or something.

  “Not like he could go to the hospital anyway,” Jack says.

  “Yeah, good point,” I say, and get an anxious clench in my stomach. Maybe Laura’s paranoia is rubbing off on me, because I’m not liking everything that’s gone down today.

  Or maybe, I tell myself, it’s that you broke up with a great girl because you’re a selfish prick who doesn’t want to put up with her freak-outs, and the truth is, you really do want her back and you feel bad for ditching her at the assembly.

  No, I correct myself as we walk around the auditorium. It’s not that. I can deal with the breakup. I’ve dealt with worse.

  The performing arts building looms over us. When they have plays or concerts, the audience goes in through the auditorium box office, which faces the parking lot. But those doors are locked during school hours, so we have to walk around to the rear—to the main school sidewalk—to get to class.

  Sixth hour hasn’t gotten out yet, so it’s just us and a group of football players on the sidewalk when one of the other security guards—I don’t know his name—comes around a corner and sees us all. Three guesses who he walks up to.

  “Lemme see your pass,” he says to Chad.

  The football players just keep on walking, smirking visibly, proud of their invincibility.

  “What about them?” Chad asks.

  “Don’t worry about them, I’m talking to you. Where’s your pass?”

  “Jesus,” Chad spits, and looks at me. “I hate this place. C’mon.”

  He keeps walking toward the performing arts building. Jack and I follow. So does security.

  “I’m gonna write you up right now if you don’t show me your pass!” he says.

  “Oh, yeah?” Chad says. “Do I even go here?”

  “I seen you around!”

  “Yeah? What’s my name? What year am I?”

  Right then the bell rings. The sidewalk instantly floods with students. Laughing, Jack says, “See ya!” to me and Chad and blends into the foot traffic. Most people appear to be heading for the gym. The security guard keeps rambling on about how much trouble me and Chad are going to be in, but we just dart and swerve between students and head toward the double doors of the performing arts building, which, for reasons surpassing all understanding, are painted bright orange. The security guard gives up.