“We don’t say ‘fat.’ It’s not polite.”
“Teacher says ‘fat’ is an adjective just like ‘beautiful’ or ‘handsome.’ It’s only people that make it a bad word by saying ‘Listen up, fatso,’ or ‘Hey, look at that fat-ass.’ ”
Mom frowns at my dad like, He’s your fault, and he says, “Dustin,” in a warning tone, but I can tell he’s trying not to laugh.
I say, “Mrs. Buckley?” Dusty stares up at me, still on one leg. He nods. I nod. “That’s about right.” Mrs. Buckley is a very large woman.
“Jack.” Mom sighs. My mom is always sighing. “Let’s go. Back inside. It’s cold. You’ve got school tomorrow.” If we don’t stop her, she’ll list a hundred and one reasons why we need to get off this lawn.
Just then another fire truck comes roaring up, siren blaring, and then this white truck comes lumbering along behind and this one’s pulling a crane.
A crane.
We watch in silence as the firefighters and police and these construction workers, who suddenly seem to be everywhere, set up giant spotlights. The front door to the house opens and closes, and people are moving like ants, scrambling across the yard and disappearing inside and blocking off the street. By now, all the lights on the street are on and every lawn is covered with gawkers. We’re directly across from it all, front-row seats.
A man walks toward us, hands in pockets, glancing over his shoulder at all the commotion. He says to me, “Can you believe this?” He nods over at the house.
“I really can’t,” I say, and then Dad goes, “I thought that house was empty.” He says it to the man, who falls in beside him, and they stand side by side, watching. There’s an ease to it that makes me think my dad must know him, and then my mom calls the man Greg and asks about his daughter Jocelyn, the one at Notre Dame, and that’s how I know it’s Mr. Wallin, our next-door neighbor.
I stand there surrounded by the fire trucks and the spotlights and that giant crane, ruminating on my brain and how it’s so weirdly, strangely different from Marcus’s or Dusty’s or the brain of anyone else I know. It’s so weirdly, strangely different that for the past year I’ve been writing about it—not my life story, but a sort of This is me, this is what I think log because I like to understand how things work. Other brains are simple and uncomplicated, and there’s room in them for Mr. Wallin and his daughter Jocelyn, whereas my brain seems to be made for bigger things. Baseball. Physics. Aeronautical engineering. Maybe president. This is the reason I don’t watch a lot of TV or movies. I tell myself my brain is too busy thinking important things to keep track of the characters.
I watch as a news van rolls in, all the way from Indianapolis, and think again, Terrorists. I mean, what else could it be?
It’s the feeling of being suffocated.
What being strangled must be like.
My world has tilted away and gone light and floaty, and maybe it’s actually more like floating in space. I try to move my head. My arms. My legs. But I can’t.
When I was little, my mom read me this story about a girl who lived in a garden and was never allowed outside the walls. The garden was all she knew, and to her that was the whole world.
I’m thinking about this girl now as I’m trying to breathe. I see my dad’s face but he looks a hundred years away, like I’m circling the moon and he’s down on earth, and I’m trying to remember the name of the story.
I suddenly need to remember. This is what happens when people die. They start to disappear if you don’t watch it. Not all at once, but a piece here, a piece there.
Think.
The father was Italian.
Rappaccini.
Rappaccini’s daughter.
Did the girl have a name?
I try to raise my head so I can ask my dad, but he says, “Stay very still,” from way down on earth. “Help is coming, Libby.”
Not Libby, I think. Rappaccini’s daughter. I am here in my garden, and the world has stopped, and my heart has stopped, and I am all alone.
Then I hear something that brings me back to this planet, this town, this neighborhood, this street, these four walls. The sound of the garden being torn away, the sound of my world crumbling.
Five hours later, the top half of the house has been demolished by a team of sledgehammers and circular saws. The emergency workers have erected scaffolding and a long, wide bridge up to the second-floor window. They’ve fitted supports to keep the roof from collapsing, and when the sun comes up, they unroll this black tarp and circle the house with it—for privacy, I guess.
It’s clear that something needs to come out of there, and whatever it is, it’s big.
I sit on our roof so I can see right over the tarp. An enormous stretcher—I’m not sure what else to call it—is hauled out of the truck and rolled up onto the bridge. The emergency workers are racing back and forth, and a handful of them anchor the stretcher in place. And then the crane goes cranking forward and reaches its claw into the bowels of the house.
The tree outside my bedroom window suddenly starts to shake and a head appears. This skinny little kid pulls himself up next to me. “Move over,” he says.
I make room for him, and together we sit there. We watch as the claw comes up and out, and inside the claw is a pair of arms and a pair of legs.
“Is she dead?” Dusty whispers.
“I don’t know.”
The arms start waving and the legs begin kicking. It’s like King Kong clutching Ann Darrow. “Not dead,” I say.