Author: Amy Kathleen Ryan
Category: Young Adult
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/amy-kathleen-ryan/page,16,61299-zen_and_xander_undone.html
“Is she still mad?”
“Yeah, but I think she’s proud of him too. The way he tried to defend us.”
“You should call him.”
“I will.” She lies back on my bed, resting her head against the wall. “Do you think you could maybe travel sometime soon?” she asks.
“The doctor said I should be mostly better in about two weeks.” I hope he’s right. I’m so sick of my back being out, I could scream.
I’d hoped she’d let this go, but of course she can’t. The truth is, I’ve been thinking about John Phillips too. I want to let it go, but it won’t let go of me.
“Do you think the hatchback would make it a thousand miles?” she asks, only half serious.
I make a face.
“You’re right. The hatchback is out. Maybe we can borrow Dad’s Audi.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I’ll tell him it’s our last chance to do a sister-on-sister road trip. He might let us.”
“Ask him if we can host an orgy first. Soften him up.”
This conversation is pointless. We both know Xander is planning on going with or without permission.
Her eyes slip over to my window, and I can see she’s looking at Adam’s house again. There’s something different about her now. I’ve never seen her humbled, but that’s how she seems. I’ve always admired her daring, but I like this humbled Xander too. She doesn’t scare me as much. I hope she stays this way.
“If you don’t go over there and talk to him,” I tell her, “it’s going to seem like you don’t care.”
“I know.” She stands up, patting down the overalls, which are huge on her. “How do I look?”
“Like my sister.”
She takes a deep breath and slowly walks to the door. “Wish me luck.” She turns to look at me over her shoulder. She’s biting her bottom lip so hard that it’s turned white. She’s afraid. She gets halfway out my bedroom door and stops, turns. “Can you come with me?”
“No, Xander.”
“Zen. I don’t know what to say.”
“The truth usually works on people. Maybe you should try that for once.”
She stands there, staring at the rug in front of her feet. “I’m not sure what the truth is.”
“In another month you guys are going off to college, and if you don’t take care of it soon, things can never be put back the way they were.”
“Oh, Zen. That’s already true.” She smiles at this, and for a second I see a glimpse of the Xander who always thinks she knows what’s best. “We’ll never be the same again.”
She closes the door behind her, but I can hear her standing on the noisy floorboard in the hall. It squawks under her, as though she’s shifting her weight back and forth. Finally I hear her footsteps, slow and halting, as they go back into her room.
Coward.
I want to close my eyes for a nap, but I’m too haunted by the memory of Topher’s arms clamped around me, holding me helpless while I screamed in pain. It sends a searing ache through my guts, and I fold into myself.
I lie still, imagining pulling out of Topher’s hold and kicking him in the head. I kick him harder and harder in my mind until I hear his neck snap. Now instead of feeling helpless, I feel sick to my stomach.
I think there’s something wrong with me, deep inside.
I ease myself out of bed, hobble out to the hallway, and pick up the phone.
He answers on the second ring. “Shotokan, Sensei speaking.”
“Mark, it’s Zen.”
“Hi! How are you doing?”
The question completely undoes me, and I start crying. I try to be silent about it, but even my silence gives me away. Finally Mark asks, voice low, “What happened?”
I tell him the whole story, starting at the surprise party, and then describing how Frank punched Paul, and how I had launched myself at Frank before I’d even had time to think. I tell him how I’d been held against my will, how I’m haunted by that, and how helpless I feel about everything.
When I’m done, he’s silent for a long time. Finally, he speaks, but he sounds shaky. “So what do you think you’re learning from this?”
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “I was hoping you’d be able to help me.”
“When you attacked, did you use your skill to good purpose?”
I say nothing, because trying to defend myself would sound to him like I’m not learning anything. The truth is, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to learn.
He senses my hesitation, and his tone changes. “Zen, I think you need to do your soul-searching on your own. This isn’t something I can teach.”
“Okay.” My eyes trace the outlines of my room, and I try to think of something more to say.
“We’re adding another intermediate section in the fall. The class starts September fifteenth. Can you make it?”
He’s not really asking me if I want to. He’s asking if I’ll sort through my baggage by then. “I’ll try.”
“It will be great to have you back. We’ve missed you.”
I feel incredibly tired. After we hang up, I dig under my covers and close my eyes, letting myself fall asleep.
Lecture from Mom
I WAKE TO FIND MOM playing in the dappled light that moves through the tree leaves outside my bedroom window. They flutter, and she speaks. “A black belt doesn’t make you invincible.”
“I know.” I turn my head and breathe in the scent of my fresh pillowcase, which Xander brought up this morning.
“Besides, it’s only a lower-grade black belt. You’re not a master.”
“I know.”
“A master could’ve gotten away from that Topher kid, hurt back or no hurt back.”
“I know, Mom!”
“And now here you are, staring at the crack in the ceiling, talking to your dead mother, who is very angry with you.”
“I was defending my friend!”
“You escalated an already violent situation,” she says.
“What do you want? Want me to prostrate myself and beg for forgiveness?”
“You’re already prostrate, and no. I just want you to learn this lesson. You’ve been pushing your body too far. Every time you’re almost better, you do something to hurt yourself again.”
“You know, Xander’s the one who got us into this.”
“Xander’s unraveling in her way, you’re unraveling in yours.”
“I’m the only one in the family who’s held it together!”
“Oh yeah? How many fights did you get in before I died?”
This stops me. For a second I forget that I’m having a fight with Mom, and I just think. This is what Mark meant when he asked if I’d used my skill to good purpose. Maybe I wasn’t really protecting my friends so much as looking for an excuse to let my anger out.
Even if Mom has a point, that doesn’t mean I have to admit anything. “Xander’s still acting crazier than I am. I don’t know why you’re not lecturing her!”
“Oh, she’s getting a lecture, all right.”
“You talk to her? Because she insists there’s no such thing as ghosts.”
“Hey! I resent that. I’m a spirit, not a ghost!”
“What’s the difference?”
“This is not a haunting.”
“Okay. Whatever.”
I open my eyes to the lines of light on the ceiling drawn there by my blinds. Particles of dust float, twinkling, and I imagine that Mom is one of them, floating around, enjoying her weightlessness.
“What’s it like to be dead?”
“It’s apart. I’m apart. But I’m here.”
“Like you’re on the other side of a wall?”
“More like I’m on the other side of time.”
“What does it feel like?”
“Like I’m underwater, or in an envelope of water, and I’m looking at all of you moving around in the air. I’m held by the water, I’m part of the water, and I can’t get out of it, but it’s soothing, and warm
, and it feels nice. So I’ve learned to accept it.”
“I wish I could see you.”
“I know.” I feel a whisper of air against my cheek, and I imagine that she has kissed me. “Your father is coming out of his funk.”
“Yeah. He looks much better.”
“You guys are going to be okay.”
I watch the light cast through the shimmery leaves as it dances on my bedroom wall. Mom and I painted that wall a pale peach five summers ago, before she got sick. It was fun painting with Mom, changing the color of my room, listening to the radio as we worked. She taught me a song. “Knock three times on the ceiling if you want me.” She would knock on the ceiling as she sang it, and Dad would call from downstairs for us to be quiet.
“That was a fun day,” she says, her voice a wisp of shadow in my ear.
Suddenly I hate this. I hate that I have to communicate with her in fluttering leaves and shadows. It’s so unfair, I want to explode something.
“You seem angry,” Mom whispers.
“You’re right. I’m angry at you!”
“Say what?”
“You lied to us! You lied to us about John Phillips!”
“It’s not as bad as you’re thinking.”
“Why did you do it? Why did you cheat on us? Why did you have to die?”
“Well, for god’s sake—I tried not to!”
“That’s not good enough.” I’m surprised by the sound of my voice. I didn’t mean to speak aloud.
She sighs. “Honey. Honey, I’m sorry.”
“I know,” I say in my mind. Tears burn my eyelids. I press my fist to my forehead and stiffen up my whole body. My tense muscles fire rapid shots of pain through my spine, but I ignore it. I don’t want to cry. I won’t.
“Just let it come,” Mom says, and I feel her presence moving over me, under me, smoothing me over.
But is she? Is she really?
Is she here with me, or is she a figment of my imagination?
“Are you real?”
Silence. Only birdsong fluttering through my window.
Of course she isn’t real. I’ve known this for a long time. I knew her well enough when she was alive that I can imagine anything she might say to me, in any situation.
Mom isn’t here.
Mom is just gone, and I can’t keep doing this to myself. I can’t keep imagining things that aren’t there.
Everything in me releases. I turn over, my face jammed into my pillow, and I cry.
I cry alone.
Indecent Exposure
“NO WAY. No way in hell.” Dad sets down his spoon, which is still full of lukewarm, sticky oatmeal, and points in Xander’s face for emphasis. “I just want to make myself clear. There is literally no way I’m letting you two out of my sight for the rest of the summer. And I’m certainly not loaning you my very expensive European car for a road trip to an unspecified location.”
“Maine!” Xander yells. “We were thinking Maine. There. It’s specified.”
“Young women who engage in illicit drug use do not deserve to borrow luxury automobiles.”
“Well, perhaps if I’d had adequate supervision . . .” she says, just to play the guilt card.
“Oh, so you admit you need supervision, do you?”
This shuts her up.
My turn. I rest my elbows on the worn wood of our kitchen table. “Dad, we just want to be together for a few days, just us girls, before Xander leaves for Pasadena. We’re not planning on doing anything crazy.”
He laughs at this. “Crazy people don’t make plans. The shit flies on its own.”
“So we’re crazy?” Xander asks. She’s trying to act offended to put Dad on the defensive, but not even this works.
“Look. It’s simple. You’re to stay in town for the rest of the summer.” He drops his bowl in the sink, shoulders his satchel, and starts toward the door. He’s been getting up at eight o’clock every morning, and he’s off to the library by ten. He stays there for at least four hours, and then he comes home with a stack of books and pages of careful notes. He’s working again, on an article, he says, but he has also hinted it could be the first chapter of a new book about Yeats. A critical biography, he’s calling it. The color has come back to his cheeks, and he seems much more awake than he has for a long time. Our trouble at the party seemed to snap him completely out of his funk. It’s nice to have him back.
“I’m sorry, girls,” he says as he backs out of the door, his overgrown bangs hanging in his eyes. “I love you, but I have to say no to this.”
“Well, that’s full of piss,” Xander spits.
“Watch your language, little miss,” he shoots back, and closes the door behind him.
We’re quiet. I trace a yellow patch of sunlight that slants across the table. The kitchen is bright, just like when Mom used to be alive. It’s strange that I think of it that way—that it’s been dark in here for almost a year, but that’s how it feels. It’s like the house was bathed in a gray shadow, and now that Dad’s come up from the basement, the sun is allowed to come in the windows. We’re moving forward through time again.
Xander drops her spoon into her shredded wheat, picks it up again, and drops it. Milk splashes out onto the blue plaid tablecloth. “Well,” I begin.
“Who do we know with a car?” She raises her eyebrows.
“I don’t think we should just drive there.”
“Do what you want. I’m eighteen years old.”
I did not think of that, but it’s true. Technically, she’s an adult. She can legally leave and there’s nothing Dad can do about it. I’m a different matter, though. “He might never forgive us if we defy him.”
“He’ll forgive us. He has to. He’s our dad.”
We’re quiet for a long time while we think. When the kitchen starts to get hot from the sun, we move onto the front porch and sit on the creaky wicker chairs. I put my hand on the armrest and it comes away with a spider web stuck to my fingers. I ball up the fibers and try to flick them away, but they keep clinging to me.
I hear a door slam and look to see that Adam has come out of his house. He still has the pale blue splint on his face to protect his nose. He notices us and freezes. Out of the corner of my eye I see Xander straightening up. We stare at each other like that until I finally wave at him to break the spell. “How’s your nose?” I call.
He shrugs. “Okay. Not great.”
“Will it heal purdy?” Xander asks him in her hillbilly accent.
The tension evaporates. He half smiles, and slowly crosses the street. As he comes up our porch stairs I see that the bruises under his eyes are faded to yellow. “The doctor says it was a clean break. It should heal okay.”
“That’s good,” Xander says. She gives him a shy smile.
I have to look at her again.
Yes, I would definitely characterize the smile on her face as a shy one. Demure, even.
Adam smiles at her too, but his smile is sad. Wistful.
“So, know anywhere we can steal a car?” Xander asks him.
He raises one eyebrow at her. “Already breaking the law again?”
“Adam.” She pauses for a moment, her eyes soulful and deadly earnest. “I can’t go to college without putting this thing to rest.”
His smile fades. He thoughtfully scratches at the tip of his nose, just under the splint. “You know, my dad has an extra car.”
This gets her attention. “Would it make it a thousand miles?”
“Yeah. He uses it on the weekends for road trips. I’m sure it would be fine.”
“Would he loan it to you?” I ask.
“He cut my visit last month short so he could take Melissa to Hawaii.” He says her name as though speaking about poison. “He feels guilty enough that he might.”
For the first time since the party, Xander smiles with that devilish glint in her eyes. “Want to go to Wisconsin?”
“Have I ever told you how much cheddar cheese means to me?” he replies with
a crooked smile.
The phone inside rings, and Xander pops up to get it. My back is feeling much better today, but popping up is still beyond me. Adam is looking at the tree in our yard, watching a robin on the bottom branch. It seems like the bird is watching him too. I wonder if he’s remembering Beverly. He probably is. Of anyone I know, Adam cares the most. About everything.
“Thanks, Adam,” I say, without stopping to think of how strange it might sound.
He looks at me quizzically.
“You brought her back,” I tell him, by way of explanation.
He smiles at this, but he says nothing.
“Paul’s coming over,” Xander says as she slams out through the screen door.
“Thanks for asking first.” I struggle out of my chair. “I need a shower.”
“Hurry!” she calls after me.
At the bottom of the stairs I look back over my shoulder to see Adam taking my chair. He leans toward Xander tentatively, and she lets him.
Paul is already here when I come back down, freshly showered, in my tank top and khaki shorts. The three of them are already cooking up plans.
Paul has an atlas draped over his lap. “If you drove in shifts you could make it there in a day,” he says. When he sees me, he stands up, forgetting the atlas, and it slides to the floor. “Hi.”
“Hi.” I take a step closer to him and brush my fingertips gently across the bruise on his cheekbone where Frank hit him. It feels so natural to touch him, I don’t even notice how exhilarating it is until after I’ve done it. He takes my hand and holds it to his chest, smiling.
“Hey! What time is it?” Xander has stood up and is peering through the living room curtains at the mantel clock.
“We can make it,” Adam says.
We all step off the porch, Paul behind us. “Where are we going?” he asks me.
“It’s a tradition,” I tell him. It feels so right to have Paul as part of our group, I have to grab his hand and swing it between us as we walk. I’m too happy not to.
Xander and Adam walk a lot faster than I can go, but I don’t mind, because Paul hangs back with me. I’ve wanted to be alone with him ever since that awful night. “I never told you thanks.”
“For what?”
“For what you did that night. You were so cool-headed. And”—I take in a deep breath of velvety summer air—“mature. You were mature. Much more grown up than anyone else. I just made things worse, but you got us out of there.”