Page 31 of Fade into You
“Not so simple, Jessamine. A reboot won’t work, but a lot of people, including me, are working on fixing the code. If everyone does their job, then the lights should stay on.”
“That’s good,” I said, hoping people would do their jobs. But a new anxiety crept in, and it was time for the real truth.
“Hey, Dad?”
“Mm-hmm?” He was already back in his code, saving the world, I guess.
“Mack is talking about rebooting herself. I think she’s not doing so well. Maybe it’s time to talk about a hospital….”
“Mackenzie had a bad night, she’s stabilizing. Your mom’s got her taking her meds again,” he said, sounding less sure than his words.
“We both know Mack can hide her pills, Dad.” He wouldn’t look at me. I was bringing out the dirty family secret. I was saying the quiet part out loud. “I think it’s getting bad again.”
He just sighed deeply and stared at his screen. We both stayed frozen for a minute, me hoping he’d listen this time. Him probably hoping I’d just leave. “Jessamine, I will keep an eye out. You shouldn’t be worrying about this. Leave it to me and your mother.”
He might as well have slammed the door in my face. We both knew the conversation was over. For a second I felt this wave of anger and it pushed my hands to tremble, my eyes to tear up, and a scream to shove up my throat, begging to come out. But I couldn’t let it. Rage, it’s another sign of manic depression.If I went off, what if it was the first dip down the same coaster as Mack? What if letting go once allows the thoughts and feelings I have inside to take over? I’m made of the same stuff as her, only difference is I’ve got a warning to hold back. So I held back. I grabbed the magazines and headed to my room in the attic, which is still not far enough away from this shitshow to keep me safe.
Upstairs, cross-legged on the floor with Bird’s Janis Ian CD cycling through stellar tracks, I look at the cacophony of glossy pages and try to think of anything that would possibly make for good reading. My initial thought was music reviews, pictures of stars and albums and written columns, but the teacher stressed the “short form,” and reviews are rarely short—at least, mine aren’t. Maybe a zine of lyrics, and images that echo them. Maybe a zine about Y2K. Maybe I don’t do the damned zine and fail out of school and spend the next few months preparing for the societal overhaul. No school in an apocalypse, right?
With my luck, we would still be expected at our desks the day after all the lights go out. Take our math tests by dumpster fire. I start cutting out a picture of a computer, one of those big blocky old gray ones. Next I start to cut out a cornucopia and place it on the computer screen, but glue glowing numbers and letters fromWiredover the bounty, all the digits and alphabet dumping onto the white page. It looks ridiculous.
If Dade hadn’t dropped journalism class to follow Kayla, then maybe we could manage something blending his love of movies with my critical ear for music. He hasn’t even mentioned if his New School application went out, and nothing about looking forhousing in NYC…. I guess our plans must be on hold… and dropping this class will cut down on content for his college interview portfolio. The fear that takes hold in me is icy, and something dark opens up with this new sense of despair I’ve gotten post-Kayla. I have to push it out of my mind. These things can swallow you, Mack knows….
Refocus.
I’ve taken journalism every year for the entirety of my high school existence. It’s one of those bright lights for me. I get a regular music column in our school paper, theBradfield Bears Bulletin, which Mrs. Rivera grants me with the agreement that I’ll cover other school events too. Hence why sophomore year I somehow ended up at prom. Barf.
I have at least a dozen decent published reviews in theBulletin. Dade has two movie reviews he submitted and something he’s been doing online called a blog with this Open Diary site that he thinks will take off and get him into college. I wonder if Y2K is gonna fuck that up for him too.
“Jessamine! Phone!” my mom hollers up the stairs.
I look down at my cell, no vibrations, no missed call, and I didn’t hear the personalized $2.99 ringtone of Blondie singing out “Call Me.”
“What?!” I yell back. “No one’s calling me!”
“Landline, Jessa!”
Who the fuck calls on the landline for me? That’s church lady territory.
“Fine! I’m coming!”
I run down the stairs, sliding a bit and catching myself on thebanister. Falstaff sees my approach and starts jumping and barking, thinking we’re playing a game. I slide across the kitchen linoleum and grab the receiver from Mom, gasping into the phone, “Hello?”
“Jessa?”
It sounds like Bird, but it can’t be her.
“Uh, yeah?”
“It’s Bird.”
Itisher.
“Shutup, Falstaff! Sorry, dog. How in the hell did you get this number?”
“Um, I looked in the white pages…. You know, let your fingers do the walking?”
She gets quiet, I think I was supposed to laugh. “Sorry, is this a bad time?” she finally says, more seriously.
