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<l'm fine, Jake,> I said. <And I'll be better. When she's free again.>
-The Escape, K.A. Applegate
I'd told Jake I was fine, but I wasn't. Not really. I was fine because people needed me to be fine. I was fine all the way home, none of us bringing up anything that happened. Not even in private thought-speak. I guess they wanted to forget Visser One was my mom? I wish I could've.
I was fine when I sat down to dinner with my dad. We talked about normal things-- sports mostly. We didn't talk about my mom who was dead, then wasn't dead, and now possibly was dead again. I laughed and joked and if my dad noticed anything out of the ordinary, he didn't mention it.
I was fine until I crawled into bed alone that night. I curled up into a cocoon of blankets and pillows and tried to sleep. My mind raced in strange, desperate circles. Memories of my mom laughing clashed with the image of Visser One's cruel eyes and hard voice. Fantasies of freeing my mom mixed with the horrible thought that she really did drown this time. And I'd been the one to kill her.
I fell asleep briefly, only to wake to my alarm clock blaring. When I opened my eyes, my mom was standing over me, smiling. It was a soft, kind smile, unlike Visser One's. I tried to smile back, but my mouth was a shark's, full of sharp teeth. This was a dream, I knew, but I couldn't wake up. I couldn't stop myself from leaning up and biting my mom's head off.
I woke up sobbing, the tears on my face and in my mouth warm like blood.
My dad made breakfast in the morning. He rarely made breakfast, so I felt obligated to eat. I hadn't really slept, and I felt sick. Still, I poked at my eggs and shoved a few bites into my mouth.
It was Monday somehow. I'm not sure where Sunday had went. I remembered feeling like a zombie all day, pretty much just getting up to go to the bathroom and eat. There had been a football game on I watched with my dad. I couldn't tell you who played.
I didn't think I could go to school today. I didn't want to see anyone. I didn't want to see the pitying looks on their faces.
Cassie would look at me like she looked at wounded animals, like I was someone who needed bandaging and medicine. Well, no amount of Band-Aids were going to cover up the wound in my heart. There were no pills that would make any of this better.
Rachel would try to play things off like everything was normal. Maybe we'd tease each other. But, deep down I know she'd be feeling sorry for me. I know she'd be thinking "Poor Marco."
And Jake. He'd know how I was hurting and try to draw me out. He would try to save me. I could try and put on a brave face; I could joke and laugh, but he'd know and he'd look at me with those serious eyes of his. His eyes would say "I know, but I'm going to let you pretend. For now." He was the one I was most afraid to see.
I couldn't face them. My heart was beating too fast in my chest, my stomach was rebelling. I felt dizzy. I barely made it to the bathroom before I threw up the few bites of eggs I managed to choke down.
My dad came in just as I was flushing my lost breakfast.
"Are you okay?" He asked, brow furrowed.
"Yeah, just..." I didn't know what to say. Everything I wanted to say-- about mom, about the Yeerks, about being an Animorph-- I couldn't say. I wanted to tell my dad everything. Instead, I tried to joke.
"Guess you need more practice cooking. Who knew someone could mess up eggs?" I said, lamely. That was weak. I started rinsing my mouth out before I could say anything else dumb.
In the mirror, I saw my dad frown. I winced. I was weak. I hated looking weak in front of my dad. After my mom had died I tried to be strong for him. I tried to make him laugh, I tried to only cry at night when I was alone in my bed.
He reached up to press a hand to my forehead. "You don't feel feverish," he said. "But you don't look well."
I spit into the sink. "No, I feel fine," I lied.
"I think you should stay home today. Maybe get some sleep? You look exhausted." He eyed me in the mirror as I started brushing my teeth to get the taste out of my mouth.
Then my dad smiled. He had a mischievous look in his eyes. "What do you think about me calling out sick to work and us laying on the couch all day watching movies? Just me and you playing hooky together? Schwarzenegger day. Commando, Terminator... Kindergarten Cop? "
It sounded wonderful. My dad knew I loved Kindergarten Cop. It was hard to resist the allure of Arnold yelling "IT'S NOT A TUMOR!" But, the more time I spent with him, the more I might not be able to hold back. I was afraid my dad would ask me questions. I was afraid I'd answer truthfully.
"I'm probably just going to sleep all day," I said, after spitting out toothpaste foam. "You shouldn't miss work anyway. You know those guys couldn't program their way out of a paper bag without you." I didn't know if it was true, but my dad laughed anyway.
"If I can't tempt you with Arnold movies, then I know you must be sick." He ruffled my hair. "Get some sleep. Call me if you feel worse."
I nodded. Suddenly, his arms were around me, hugging me. I wanted to push him away. I tried to hold my body away from his, not wanting to give into his affection. If I did I didn't think I could hold myself back anymore.
"Remember what I told you," he murmured into my hair, "you can always talk to me." He kissed the top of my head and I choked back tears. I couldn't cry now.
"Okay," I managed to say. My voice was shaky, but no tears fell.
He let go and turned to head back downstairs and get ready for work. I crawled back in bed feeling horribly defeated for the second time in forty-eight hours. After a while, I heard my bedroom door open. It was my dad checking in on me, so I just pretended to be asleep. My door closed quietly and a few minutes later the front door opened and closed heavily.
I was so tired. I tossed and turned for what felt like hours, stomach churning. Blearily, I opened my eyes and checked the time. It was only 8:46, but by now Jake knew I wasn't at school. I could picture him in first period, glaring at my empty desk, probably worried about me.
I tried reading some book Cassie had let me borrow. It was about some scarred up kid who was secretly a wizard. The fact that his parents were dead made me uncomfortable. Why couldn't anyone ever have a happy family in these stupid things? I dropped the book over the side of the bed in disgust and picked up my CD player. I just hit play on whatever was in there and tried to zone out.
I was too hot, so I tried to kick the covers off. My foot went through my comforter with a sickening squelch and I suddenly was coated in the disgusting yellow guts of a Taxxon. I tried to scream but I didn't have a mouth. I was a spider and I was being crushed. I was wet and I could feel a tongue. I was in a human mouth! Somehow, around her mouthful of spider, Visser One was saying, "Your host body is the biological son of my own host body." Inside the Visser's mouth, I could hear my mom screaming my name over and over again. She was sobbing desperately, "No, mijo!" She was the only one who ever called me mijo.
I was dreaming. I wanted to wake up but I was trapped in a nightmare again, like the night before. I began morphing inside Visser One's mouth. "Oh, no you don't," said Visser One. She crunched down on me. Everything went black. The last thing I heard were my mom's cries.
They were actually my cries. I awoke with a start. I had been screaming. My heart was beating like crazy. My Aquabats CD had looped back to the beginning so The Bat Commander was singing "Our little army, we were commandos, gorillas with decoder rings..." Not only was the upbeat song giving me mood whiplash, but the lyrics were a little too on point. I ripped my headphones off my ears.
I'd been napping all morning. It was already noon. My stomach growled, but I didn't really feel hungry. Right now, at school, everyone was at lunch. They would all know I hadn't come to school today. I shouldn't have skipped. They probably thought I was a loser, that I couldn't handle being an Animorph.
Maybe they'd kick me out of the group. Now, that'd be funny. Marco, the most reluctant of the group, the one who tried to quit more than once, kicked out. I laughed to myself, but the sound was strange in my ears.
I felt restless and irritated. Getting up from bed, I paced around my room, avoiding a dirty shirt here, a book there. I thought about morphing into an osprey and flying, but I was afraid to run into Tobias. I stepped on the cap of a pen the wrong way and hopped around in pain for a few seconds. Briefly, I considered cleaning my room, but discounted the idea as the thoughts of a madman.
In between my mattress and box springs was a notebook. Sometimes I wrote my thoughts in it. I had to be vague or silent about a lot of things, but even writing completely untrue things helped. I scrounged around on the floor and found the pen the cap belonged to. Notebook on the bed, pillow under my chest, I was on my stomach just scribbling random words on the pages. I didn't know what to write. I just needed to get something out.
As a kid, I liked to write stories and make my own books. I didn't have brothers or sisters, and, before Jake, I didn't really have friends, so I had to entertain myself somehow. When I was six, I had written this story about a sad boy who wanted a puppy. When his parents finally got him his puppy, he was the happiest boy in the world and he did all his chores and kept his room clean and told his parents he loved them every night. Okay, yeah. I was trying to sway my parents into getting me a dog. I even drew pictures of me smiling and petting a big golden retriever.
I stapled the pages carefully together, like it was the spine of a real book and not crayon on lined notebook paper, and handed it to my mom. She had been folding laundry and I remember sitting on the bed between a pile of white socks and shirts just out of the dryer while she read the few pages.
"Oh, mijo," she had said, sounding sad. She climbed up on the bed next to me and pulled me into her lap. "You know why we can't get a dog. Daddy is allergic."
She was soft and smelled like clean, warm laundry and even though I was upset that I couldn't have a dog, just the feel of her arms around me made me feel better. After I'd stopped sniffling into her shirt, she wrapped her arms around my waist and sat me in the semi-circle hollow her legs made, like a bird in a nest. I snuggled back into her and she taught me how to sort and fold socks.
As I wrote, I realized I was wishing I could be held by her again. Even if it meant we ended up just sitting together folding socks. I didn't care. I just wanted my mom back. Seeing her so cold and cruel clashed so horribly with these fuzzy, warm memories I had.
Writing out good memories really did help, though. I could almost feel her holding me, as crazy as it sounds. I hugged the pillow under me harder to my chest.
I glanced at the clock and realized I'd killed three hours writing and daydreaming. It was fifteen after three now. Jake was probably walking home alone. I felt bad. I should've been there for him. It's not like our last mission was any easier on him. I should've been walking with him, joking about how dumb it was that we, Earth's last, best hope, had to do homework or something.
I tried to put thoughts of Jake out of my mind. I was reading over what I had written when I heard the doorbell. Shoving the notebook under the mattress, I hopped up quickly. I crept downstairs nervously, wondering who it could be. It could just be Jehovah's Witnesses. Or, worse, Jehovah's Witness Controllers.
Squinting out through the peephole, I eyed a head of brown hair attached to a tall kid. Jake. I considered not opening the door, embarrassed that Jake thought he needed to check up on me.
"Marco," Jake said, voice muffled behind the door. "I know you are there. Come on, let me in."
Sighing, I opened the door.
"Hey," I said brightly. "Miss me so much after just one day that you had to stop by?" I moved to let him in and closed the door.
Once inside, Jake rounded on me.
"I was going to let you get away with saying you were fine the other day," he said, "but I can't. I know you. A 'fine' Marco would've showed up to school today."
"Well, that's a great way to greet your oldest and dearest friend," I joked. My insides were squirming. I hated when Jake was serious with me.
"Not now, Marco. Look. I want you to be okay. I... I want to help you be okay." That was Jake, determined to make this better.
I realized Jake looked as tired as I felt. I couldn't keep putting my problems on him. Sure, he was our leader, but that didn't mean he had to deal with my own unruly emotions. He had his own things to deal with.
"I'm still me," I said, keeping my voice as light as I get make it. "Same old Marco. I just didn't think the kids could handle me today. I mean, have you seen me lately? Of course you have, you are standing right there." I put one had on my hip and thrust it to the side. "My good looks would make the ladies cry. And the guys. Because they'd be so jealous."
What was I even saying? I was bleary-eyed, in ratty sweatpants and a stretched, faded t-shirt telling my best friend I was too hot to go to school. It was a pathetic lie and a desperate attempt at normalcy. And, of course he saw through it.
"You don't have to make jokes all the time," he said, sounding frustrated.
I narrowed my eyes, a sudden flash of anger heating my face. "Oh, I don't have to make jokes, do I? That's not what you said on Saturday when you told me my seriousness was making people nervous. Only Jake is allowed to be serious, huh? Marco has to be the clown. That's all he is." I clenched my fingers, making a tight fist. I wanted to punch him, but I held back.
"Whoa, Marco." He put his hands up, attempting to placate me. "I'm sorry, okay. I didn't mean it like that. I really didn't. I'm just worried about you. You're my best friend and I..." He paused, like he was searching for a word.
"You what?" I asked impatiently.
Finally, he quietly said, "I care about you."
That took the wind out of sails right there. I sagged a little, feeling ashamed I'd let anger get the best of me. I tried to keep my emotions bottled up, but it was so hard sometimes. It was becoming harder and harder. Like now, hearing Jake say he cared about me broke something in me. I mean, I knew he did, we were best friends, but he'd never said it in so many words.
I felt a tear slide down my cheek. I didn't even know I'd been crying. I wiped it away with the back of my hand.
I had to say something. I couldn't just stand there crying like an idiot.
"Well, Jake. I didn't know you felt that way." I put one to my hand to heart and the other to my forehead and feigned swooning. It wasn't much of a joke. My knees really did feel weak.
It managed to eke a quiet chuckle out of him anyway.
"It's true," he said, stepping closer to me. "I do really care about you." He took another step towards me.
What was he doing? My heart sped up, and this time it wasn't from stress or anger.
"I know," I said. Apparently I was channeling Han Solo. I kind of felt like I was in Carbonite, frozen in place. I wanted to step back, but having him there in my space didn't really feel uncomfortable. It just made me feel... I don't know. Nervous. Excited.
He put his hand on my shoulder. His touch was strangely electric and my stomach flip-flopped. It wasn't like the friendly jabs or arm punches we usually shared. My breath caught in my throat. Then, he pulled me forward into a rough embrace. It was awkward at first. I wasn't short enough to tuck my head under his chin, nor was I tall enough to really put my head on his shoulder. I wrapped my arms around him and we made it work. His chest was solid, and my face was turned so I could hear the soft thump of his heart beating. I closed my eyes and just breathed. Slowly, in and out, in time with his heartbeats. His warm breath ruffled my hair, the pressure of his arms around me comfortable.
It felt so good, him hugging me like that. He was someone who knew what I'd been going through-- someone who'd seen me at my worst. He knew me. All of me. And he still wanted to be my friend. He didn't pity me; he cared about me. I felt so warm inside. The warmth spread through me, pushing back any lingering worry or anger. I knew my nightmares would surface again, but, right now, I was happy.