Holding Up the Universe: List 5

There’s something in its protectiveness that brings on this wave of déjà vu, and suddenly I’m six years old and lying in the hospital.

He is unwavering, which may be the thing I love most about him.

It’s the first day of swimming, which means for the entire hour of gym class I’ll be fulfilling one of my worst nightmares: parading around in front of my classmates, wearing the world’s smallest, most unflattering piece of clothing.

I nudge off one shoe and then the other and place them—one and then the other—neatly, gingerly in my locker, as if they’re made of the finest glass.

Ms. Reilly is padding toward me, her feet going slap slap slap on the wet cement. “What is that on your stomach?”
And she must be nearsighted, because I wrote it in giant letters across the widest swath of skin I own.

And then I walk over to the deep end, drop my towel, and execute an Olympic-worthy dive that would impress even the most unimpressible judge.

She and I took lessons at the municipal pool near the park, and together we learned to tread water, breathe, do the back float, do the breaststroke, dive.

The closest stairs are in what we call the Four Corners, which is where the main hall branches off in four different directions, and if I'm wily enough, I can duck up these to the second floor.

As my breathing grows raggedy and uneven. As my palms go clammy.
I stand there.

She holds up a copy of the thing I wrote. My Treatise for the World. “Someone’s been harassing you? Sending you letters? Why didn’t you come to me?”

It’s pretty much the most despicable thing you could tell somebody.

I’ve got a good personality and a great brain and I’m strong and I can run. I’m resilient. I’m mighty.

And maybe you’ve got a fit body and a perfect face, but I’ll wager you’ve got insecurities too, ones that would keep you from stripping down to a purple bikini and modeling it in front of everyone.

Half an hour later, I’m cleaning up the mess, all cool and collected, when a man skulks in wearing my dad’s name tag.

We have a real, honest-to-God art gallery in our school, our gym seats ten thousand people, and Civic Auditorium, attached to the athletic center, is the town's venue for concerts and shows.

It may be my imagination, but every pair of eyes lands on me as I walk through the halls. I walk and breathe, walk and breathe. I start to strut a little. I try adding in a sashay.

It may be my imagination, but every pair of eyes lands on me as I walk through the halls. I walk and breathe, walk and breathe. I start to strut a little. I try adding in a sashay.

“You’re kind, punctual, polite, get along well with others, and you’re a lot more confident than you were when we first started this Circle. Then Maddy says five great things about me.”

You can tell some people by mannerisms, like the way they brush the hair off their face, but these guys just blink on through it.

I flash him a grin. “Ladies first. Chivalry and all that.”

But Jack falls in step beside me, Afro billowing and blowing like it comes with its own wind effects.

“Oh, the irony.” And then, because for some reason I can’t help myself, I tell him, “I’ve apparently gone viral.”

Mom is opposite us on the ottoman that’s the size of a small boat.

I stare at her, hoping she’ll morph back into Libby, and she goes, “What is your problem? Why are you being so weird?”

I throw it down my throat. My esophagus burns like I just inhaled gasoline.

At this point, I don’t bother lurking, trying to make sure it’s him. I walk right up to the Someone Who Is Probably Seth and say, “I need a ride home.”

I want to say to her She's your family. Have a little compassion. But that would be ridiculous coming from me, wouldn’t it?

I must let out some sort of scream, because I can feel my own eardrums shatter and I see the faces of Moses and Malcolm and Reed Young and their friends turn and stare at me, mouths agape, as I go flying through the air.

“He’d read aloud every day, and by doing that, he taught himself not to stutter. In middle school, he started working out hard, and by high school he was a beast. He graduated valedictorian and won the Heisman Trophy, three years into his college career at UGA. When he retired from the pros, he started noticing this shift in his behavior, and that’s when he found out he’s got this thing called DID, dissociative identity disorder. Multiple personalities.”

If I was designing a home for Libby Strout, it would be exceptional. It would be bright red with a tin roof, at least two stories, possibly more, a state-of-the-art weather station, and lots of turrets.

I stand in front of the open fridge for at least five minutes, maybe more, willing something good to materialize—a pizza, a whole chicken, a giant steak, or a rack of ribs.

When it doesn’t, I grab a soda and some kind of guacamole/spinach/cheese dip, scrounge up some chips from the pantry, and sit down in the dark kitchen to eat myself a feast.

I love her rollicking, throaty laugh that makes her sound as if she’s got a cold.

I love the way she struts like she’s on a catwalk.

Suddenly, I’m transported back to my house, back to the day my mom first stuck that on our fridge. “We’re going to fill this up with magnets of all the places we’ll go,” she said. “Ohio may not seem exotic, but one day, when this is covered, you’ll look back on it and think, That’s the one that started it all.”