Sounds echo around her, heavy and dull, like she is underwater.
Is this, she wonders, what it is like to be dead? To be vaguely aware of flesh and breathing and feet scraping across a floor, but not to be a part of it? To be invisible to the mortals surrounding you, isolated in your front-seat coffin desk, forgotten and slowly, slowly curling into your dead world and forgetting about them, too? The bell rings, and the scraping reaches a frenzy as feet rush out the door, away, away from Mrs. Garrett, who rules the living. Zoe remains seated and lifts unblinking eyes to Mrs. Garrett, who is a glacier before her. It is a whisper, a quiet act of defiance that says, I still breathe. Mrs. Garrett maintains the tilt of her head, observes her domain, her eyes rigid on the depleting landscape, full of control and awareness, but eyes never straying to Zoe, who is just a few inches below her nose. A few lousy inches. Invisible. Bitch, Zoe thinks. Fucking bitch. Zoe leaves the classroom, her own feet scuffling and echoing in her ears in a distant, dead way, and she can feel Mrs. Garrett’s satisfaction burning a hole in her back.
Her throat is dry, cracked. No words have passed her lips in the last hour. And now comes Group, where all they will want her to do is talk and cry and spill her guts, and that is the last thing she wants to do there. Maybe now she can answer the question Mrs. Garrett asked—the question Zoe raised her hand for, but because she is invisible Mrs. Garrett called on the person next to her, behind her, the one walking down the hall, the one in the next town, anyone but Zoe. Zoe, who doesn’t exist. How can you hear someone who doesn’t exist?
And now they want her to talk? Fucking fat chance. She wants to throw her head back and laugh so loudly the irony ricochets all the way back to Mrs. Farantino’s office. But her throat is too dry for more than a pathetic croak. And now she is missing Friday P.E., where alliances are being made, shots are being practiced, and coaches are watching before practice even begins. But they won’t be watching Zoe. Invisible again. Shit. She is really going to like Group.
Group is held in Room 10A, a portable with a rickety ramp on the outermost edge of the campus. She smiles. Maybe they are afraid of us cursing types, she thinks. Keep us far away from the noncursers. We could be dangerous. The loud pinging of the rusty steel ramp announces her arrival, and she holds off opening the door. She had wanted to slip in quietly and sit in the back unnoticed. Now every eye will be on her. Her throat feels like it is sticking to itself and could seal shut with one more dry breath. She tries to muster some saliva to soothe the dryness, but her mouth won’t cooperate. Shit. Let ’em look. She opens the door.
The room is empty.
She steps back out and looks at the number on the door: 10A. She digs the counseling agreement out of her notebook; 10A is circled in red at the top. This is going to be easy, she thinks, and she steps back in.
“That’s right—10A. You got it. Come on in. You Zoe Buckman?”
She searches for the voice and finally sees a man at a table in the corner, almost hidden by stacks of papers and books. His hair is frosty white, and heavy glasses are sliding down his sweaty nose. He stands, and she sees a large belly pressed tight against a white buttoned shirt. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and he holds out a palm indicating that she should sit.
She stays near the door. “I think there’s a mistake. I am supposed to be here for some kind of group session.”
“No mistake. You’re it. The first week of school is slim pickings. We don’t usually have anyone this soon, in fact. So for now you get my full attention.”
Her stomach pinches like it has been folded in half. There will be no sliding into the back. There will be no listening to others. No fading out after a couple of sessions. Only her. Could life get worse? It should be Mama, or Grandma, or Mrs. Garrett sitting here being looked at under a microscope. Not her. Not for one lousy cussword, when they have spent a lifetime screwing up lives.
His palm waves again, and she sits. She sits for fifty minutes, and they listen to him wheeze, listen to the buttons on his too-tight shirt scrape the edge of the table, listen to the air conditioner click on and off, and then more wheezing and throat-clearing. For this she is missing P.E. For this she is slipping from fourth, to fifth, or tenth, or maybe dead last.
He prompts her. He prods. He discusses his hobbies. He discusses his name—Mr. K, because his full name is too long and difficult to pronounce. He asks her about her name. Simple ploy, she thinks. She grunts and nods and shrugs, strains to keep the conversation going, to keep from using a word that might turn his ears pink, too. She doesn’t want her sentence extended. She wants to be paroled. She wants the hell out of there. Her stomach rumbles. She skipped lunch to ration out her money. Five dollars and a can of pennies won’t go far. And then out of nowhere a thought lodges in her brain, Did Mama eat the Chinese in the fridge? Without Zoe prompting her, has she eaten anything at all? Mama. The bell rings, and the thought dissolves. She stands to leave. Mr. K stands, too.
“Zoe,” he says, not to her but to the air, like he is trying it out. “Zoe.” He pushes his glasses back on his nose. “An interesting name.” Another obvious ploy, she thinks. Pathetic. But she likes hearing her name pass from someone else’s lips. His voice is deep and buttery, almost like Daddy’s. “Means ‘life,’ doesn’t it?” Zoe nods, trying to conceal her surprise. Mr. K holds his hand out, and she reluctantly takes it. “Nice talking to you,” he says. “See you next week.”
“Sure,” she answers, but hopes she won’t see him next week or ever again.
She slips out the door and pings down the ramp, but still, she can’t help but be impressed that he knew about her name. Not many people would know something like that. The last person who had ever even mentioned it was Aunt Nadine. It was after Daddy’s funeral, in the parking lot of Ruby First Baptist. Aunt Nadine lifted Zoe’s face with both of her hands and peered into it like she was holding a treasure.
“Look at those eyes,” she said. “Just like your daddy’s. That was always my favorite thing about him. So big and dark you can just melt into them.” Zoe didn’t answer. “And he did a mighty fine job choosing your name, too. It means ‘full of life.’ Did you know that, Zoe?”
Zoe had only nodded, and wishes now she had done something more meaningful, something more than a nod to show Aunt Nadine how deep her words had gone, how much they had filled her when she was feeling so empty. Grateful. She was grateful beyond any telling for those few words Aunt Nadine had offered. She was grateful, but she had never said so.
Zoe hasn’t seen her Aunt Nadine since the funeral. She wonders about her aunt, Brownsville, and how far away they both are from Ruby. So far. Maybe just far enough, she thinks.
By the time she makes it all the way to the other side of campus and changes into her tennis clothes, almost everyone has been assigned a court. She fastens her hair back in a ponytail as she approaches the small group that remains.
“You’re late,” the coach says.
“Barely,” Zoe answers.
“Enough,” he says.
He sends her to the last court to play singles with Doreen Stark. Doreen. The syrupy secret pal queen of niceness and giggles who cannot return a ball hit with a force above a baby’s burp.
Formalities are honored. They shake hands. Doreen smiles, giggles, bounces back to position. Zoe watches her rock back and forth like she is ready to slam the ball. It is all for show, bu
t Zoe does not play for show. She plays to win. It is the one thing she can do. The one place where the control is hers. She loses, it’s her fault. She can take that. She wins, it’s her skill. She can take that, too.
Doreen turns and waves to her mother in the bleachers. Some parents not only come to games, they come to practice, too. Zoe has never had anyone to turn and wave to, but she shakes the thought away. Tennis is able to do that for her. With each bounce of the ball in front of her, her focus narrows. She serves the first ball and aces it in the corner. Doreen’s swing comes hours too late. Doreen shrugs and smiles and bounces to the other side to wait for the next serve. Zoe eases up on her serves, wanting some play and a chance to practice her backhand. The game still ends forty–love, and Zoe has not broken a sweat. The next game ends the same. Doreen smiles and giggles, and her mom cheers her on despite the loss. The coach moves Zoe up a court to play Annie Meacham, and when she wins again, up another court to play Libby Wheeler. By the end of the two-hour practice, she is at the first court playing doubles with the best players on the team.
She runs, swings, and smashes until the sweet, orangy scent of her body is gathering in droplets, running in streams down her temples and soaking her back. She has heard that sweating is a way to get the poisons out of your body. With each swing, each grunt of air expelled from her lungs, she thinks it must be true. Poison seems to drain from her as she smashes the ball with the pent-up force inside. She and her partner lose the match, but just barely. It was close—the victors know that—and it brings Zoe satisfaction. No one may be cheering her from the bleachers, but the joy of an almost-victory is enough. The coach pats her on the back and tells her not to be late for their first competition in the morning. The bus leaves at seven.
He gathers everyone around for a last-minute pep talk and to introduce the new assistant coach, who arrived late. If you’re over twenty-one, I guess it’s okay to be late, Zoe thinks.