The Cost of Knowing, page 11
“Now, hold on, Alex, your opinion matters here. Both of your opinions, actually.”
Mrs. Zaccari studies Isaiah for a moment, and as she picks up her wineglass and sinks back down onto her seat, she says, “Isaiah, maybe you can help me out with something here. Did you know that Shiv Skeptic is going to be in town tomorrow night for a concert?”
Isaiah glances at me, and I hope he can sense my telepathic big brother advice: This is a loaded question. Answer carefully.
“Um,” he says, shifting his weight a bit. “Yeah, I heard.”
“How do you feel about that?” she asks.
Isaiah looks at me again, and Mrs. Zaccari follows his gaze as if she doesn’t understand why her questions are concerning. His eyes are panicked, and I decide to step in.
“I don’t even think Isaiah knows who Shiv Skeptic is. Do you, Isaiah?”
He looks to Mrs. Zaccari, then to me, then back to Mrs. Zaccari, then back to me.
“I—I’ve heard of him….”
I give him a look that I hope says, with claps between each word, Bruh, keep up. His eyebrows go flat and his eyes ask me what the hell I’m trying to do. Aunt Mackie jumps in and saves us both.
“Why the fascination with the Shiv Skeptic concert specifically, though, Karen? They have concerts at the Wall all the time.”
“I mean, you have to admit a Shiv Skeptic concert has a much different clientele than, say, a Nyein Chen concert.”
“Who’s that?” asks Isaiah.
“Concert violinist,” says Aunt Mackie.
“An award-winning, classically trained concert violinist,” interjects Mrs. Zaccari. “And she’s so young. Can you believe she’s only twenty?”
I’ve heard Nyein Chen’s music. She does things with a violin that I thought could only be done with a synth, modifying her violin to take on different tones so they sound like different instruments. In a video I saw of her performing live, she clipped several hair clips to her violin in different spots and played, changing the tone each time she added a new one. But comparing Nyein Chen to Shiv Skeptic is a bit unfair.
“You saying people can’t get drunk or high at a Nyein Chen concert?” asks Aunt Mackie.
“I’m saying the types of people to attend a Nyein Chen concert would be less likely to get drunk and high than people who attend a Shiv Skeptic concert.”
That phrase, types of people, makes every hair on the back of my neck stand up.
Isaiah breaks character.
“It sounds like you’re saying bad people listen to Shiv and good people listen to the violin lady,” he says, folding his arms and narrowing his eyes. Come on, Isaiah, you’re throwing our money away. But at the same time, what he’s saying is bold. It’s honest. It’s… exactly what I’m too afraid to say. I stare at him, hoping he’ll look in my direction, but his eyes are trained on Mrs. Zaccari.
“Well, his lyrics alone are cause for concern, Isaiah,” Mrs. Zaccari explains, her voice brightening as she breaks it down gently for the child in the room.
“Lyrics like what?” asks Isaiah.
Aunt Mackie, who’s been unusually quiet, gets up and heads for the pantry, where she keeps the rest of the wine. Mrs. Zaccari glances at me before letting out a helpless laugh.
“Well, I’m not going to quote them. But he references crystal meth quite a bit.”
“Yeah.” Isaiah nods. “He raps about people who bring it to his concerts. He’s asking them not to.”
Leave yo’ body for the crows, bruh.
“There’s also quite a lot of sexual content,” she says. “Sex workers, promiscuous women, video girls, things you shouldn’t even know about yet, Isaiah—”
“I know those people exist, Mrs. Zaccari,” he replies.
And then he just looks at her. The silence is tangible. My heart is pounding. Isaiah’s eyes haven’t wavered. I’ve never seen him like this before, but I guess if you question Shiv Skeptic’s character, you get Isaiah’s horns.
“Well,” says Mrs. Zaccari, “that may be. But that doesn’t mean any of it belongs in our neighborhood. You boys may not understand what a serious responsibility it is to keep the neighborhood safe, but one day you’re going to grow up and be thankful that your aunt and I have worked so hard to provide a safe, happy place for you to live.”
“We’re thankful,” I say. Perfect time for me to defuse this. Mrs. Zaccari might just get her way, but I’m not going to this concert, so I guess I don’t have to care if it’s canceled or not. “I get why you want this concert canceled, Mrs. Zaccari.”
Isaiah is glaring at me like I’ve betrayed him somehow, and it stings. I make up my mind to talk to him about it later, and then it hits me all over again that with every passing moment, the time frame called “later” dwindles.
We don’t have much time. Not much at all.
I can feel myself getting angry. Fuck this whole stupid conversation. Isaiah and I have a past to discuss. But before I can jump in and ask Isaiah to follow me to my room so we can talk, Mrs. Zaccari is talking again.
“Oh, I don’t necessarily want the concert canceled,” she says with a smile. “I’m not here to ruin anyone’s fun. They can do whatever drugs they want as long as they keep it out of Santiam. All I’m suggesting is some kind of criteria that should be met before we allow out-of-towners into our homes, starting with background checks. We pay good money to live in this gated community, you know.”
Isaiah looks from me to Mrs. Zaccari, and back to me. His jaw is clenched, and he takes a deep breath before turning back to the hallway and waving goodbye.
“I’m going to bed early,” he says, with a smile that’s probably convincing to everyone in this room but me. “Good night, Mrs. Zaccari. Alex, you coming?”
Thank. God.
I follow him this time, dead set on explaining why I leveled out the conversation at the expense of Shiv Skeptic’s honor, and dead set on figuring out how to get rid of this curse.
“Good night, Mrs. Zaccari,” I say with a smile. “Night, Aunt Mackie.”
On my way down the hall to our rooms, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and blink away the vision of me unlocking it, and then unlock it. My heart skips at the thought that it might be Talia.
Nah, wishful thinking. It’s Scoop.
Scoop: Hey, so, think you’ll be better by tomorrow? Ashlynn and Ross both called in sick with the flu.
I stop underneath the skylight in the middle of the hallway and sigh. I’m running out of excuses. I was out sick today already. Would he buy it if I’m out sick tomorrow, too? It takes me at least two minutes to think of a reply, which I’m sure looks even more suspicious, but I’m doing what I can.
Me: Still not feeling well, Scoop. Sorry. I need tomorrow off too.
Those three dots spring to life and I take a deep breath, focus on expanding my lungs into my belly like my school guidance counselor advised, and let it out slowly through my nose. When I look down at my phone, it vibrates.
Scoop: To be honest, Alex, I saw you and Isaiah this morning at Elginwood.
Shit. A lump forms in my throat and I suddenly feel sick. Isaiah was right. Scoop was there with us.
Scoop: I understand if you were having a rough day and needed to visit your parents. I wish I could give you as much time as you need. But without someone up front tomorrow, I can’t open the store. If I lose a day at the store, I lose lots of money.
Come on, Scoop, I think, any day but tomorrow.
I’m so lost. If I go to work tomorrow, my goodbye to Isaiah tomorrow morning might be the last time I see him alive. If I stay home, Scoop’s will take a huge financial hit, and who knows what that’ll mean for a man who already won’t spend a dime on his employees. Work from here on out might suck even more for me if a piece of equipment breaks, or, God forbid, we have to work some hours without pay. Scoop’s might go under faster than I expected.
I take a deep breath and settle on the real reason I want to go to work.
Not going feels wrong.
I shut my eyes and remember the moment my dad drove me to work when I didn’t want to go. I was sitting in the front seat, arms folded, head against the window, fuming, as Dad explained to me that I’d made a commitment. And from that day on, Dad would make me go to work. Hail, sleet, or snow. Hell or high water. Sickness or health. Not going feels like I’m turning my nose up at something Dad hammered home that I should be grateful for.
Not going feels like I’m slapping my father in the face.
Okay, Alex, think. What do you know? What can you reason out?
I realize a few things. First, that no matter what I do, Scoop’s is going under at an already predetermined time. Second, no matter what I do, Isaiah is going to leave this earth at an already predetermined time.
That knot in my stomach twists at having to realize that all over again.
I have a finite number of hours left with my brother.
His peace, his well-being, come first.
Me: I’m so sorry, Mr. de la Cruz. I can’t. On any other day I would, but I absolutely can’t.
That guilt vine is back, creeping up through my middle and into my throat. Breathe, Alex, I think. But I don’t listen to myself. My heart is racing. Breathe in. Breathe out. I crack my neck and open and close my fists, and my phone vibrates again.
Scoop: Listen, Alex. Don’t make me play hardball. I know the concert is tomorrow and you probably want to get there early. Could you just help me open the store until 11?
What?
The concert?
Scoop really thinks I’m the type of person to skip work for a concert? I’ve never done something like that. Every single time I’ve asked for time off, I’ve given him every detail. I’ve never lied. I’ve never missed a day of work unexcused in the four years I’ve worked for him.
I don’t know whether to feel hurt or angry, but these heart palpitations tell me it’s probably some combination of both. It suddenly feels a bit warmer in here, and I reach up to touch my forehead, my palm accidentally brushing against my glasses. I grunt in frustration and cancel the vision of me slipping my glasses off God knows how far in the future and feel my forehead, where I find a sheen of sweat. Another heat wave washes over me.
My pulse is still thundering against my ribs. Jesus, what do I say to Scoop? If he thinks I’m skipping work to go to a concert, what kind of person does he think I am? Does he trust me? Has he ever trusted me? What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck?
I type, then erase, then type, then erase. Then type. And send.
I breathe in, and breathe out, surprised when my own voice escapes as a whistle. Or a wheeze. I don’t know what that was.
“Hey.” I hear a voice behind me and let out the sharpest gasp. More like a yelp. Whatever you call it, it doesn’t sound human. I spot Isaiah’s head peeking out from behind the door. Not his door. Mine.
“What are you doing in my room?” I ask, a bite to my voice that even I didn’t expect. The moment I say it, his smile disappears and he looks at me like I’m someone he doesn’t recognize.
“What?” I ask, wondering why I’m suddenly out of breath.
“Uh,” he says, easing his way out into the hallway. He’s already changed into gray basketball shorts and taken off his socks. He’s back in Dad’s sweatshirt. “Are you okay?”
I don’t remember the last time he asked if I was okay, and suddenly I feel guilty all over again. How did I somehow screw this up so bad that Isaiah’s spending the last of his time worrying about me?
“Hey,” I say, shutting off my phone and slipping it back into my pocket. My pinky finger slips and I touch the pocket of my jeans, and cancel the vision of me walking into my own room wearing them. Fuck, visions, stop it just for a second while I try to get my thoughts out.
“Isaiah,” I say, catching my breath. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t believe me. I can see it in his face.
“I, uh,” I continue, still wondering why he’s in my room instead of his own. “What’s… what’s up? Ready to talk? And when did we decide to meet in my room?”
He shrugs.
“Just thought you… wouldn’t mind? Y’know. Since we’re friends and everything now?”
My pulse is still racing, unnaturally fast. But the word “friends” repeats over and over in my head. He’s looking up at me with confusion and timidity that I’m not used to seeing in him. It breaks me.
“Come on,” I say, squeezing my hands over and over, wishing I could pull Isaiah under my arm and give him one of those extra-spirited big-brotherly hugs. But my power. Holding me back. It’s always my power. “Let’s go.”
I usher him back into my room and cancel the vision of the door behind me before shutting it.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. It’s weird seeing him inside my room. He looks oversize in here, like a chess piece in the middle of a checkerboard. And then I realize, it’s probably because he hasn’t been in my room since we lived in our old house.
“So,” he says, hopping up onto my bed and reclining exaggeratedly with his hands behind his head. “What’s my future like?”
“What?”
“You said you can see the future, right?” he asks, holding out his hand to me. “Touch my hand and tell my future! What am I going to be when I grow up? Where will I live? Will I have kids?”
“Isaiah—”
“Am I going to get married? Is she pretty?”
Oh God. What do I say to any of this?
“Isaiah,” I say, sinking into my desk chair across the room, careful not to touch it because my thoughts already feel like a tower of cards, fragile enough to fall if I add one more.
He looks up at me in confusion, his dark eyes studying me.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Why are you sweaty?”
I’m sweaty because I can’t fucking take this. It feels like my brain is attacking me when things get this bad, when I get this anxious. Do I take on the weight of explaining to Isaiah what an anxiety attack is? Why would I do that when we have so little time left?
“I don’t know,” I say. “It doesn’t feel hot in here to you?”
“Nah,” he says. He’s silent for a minute, and I latch onto the hope that he’s dropped all the questions. But then, “So, can you tell me what happens to me?”
No, I absolutely cannot.
I don’t even know if I can make up something convincing. And he’s still holding out his hand to me, because like an idiot I told him exactly how my power works, so he knows I have to touch him. But there’s no way I’m doing that. I don’t want to know what happens to him. I can’t know what happens to him. And since I can’t know how, all I can do is keep him from any danger possible. Illogical or not, I’ll take steps to avoid whatever kills him. I’ll keep him out of my car, I won’t let him go into the kitchen, I won’t let him leave the house if that’s what it takes. And I don’t want anything getting in the way of him having a fantastic time. I couldn’t live with myself knowing I got in the way of that.
“Listen, man,” I say, leaning forward in my chair and focusing on my breathing. “You don’t really want to know what’s going to happen, do you? I mean, what’s the fun in that?”
His eyebrows flatten. “Nah, I want to know so I can plan for it.”
“Since when do you plan for anything?”
He shrugs. “Maybe I would if I knew what to plan for.”
Wow. I didn’t expect that from him. He’s still staring at me, bright round eyes full of life, studying my face. His chest rises and falls with his breathing, and I can’t imagine how anything but a freak accident could be his end. He’s so young. So bright.
“I’ll make you a deal,” he says. “If you tell me my future, I’ll tell you how we got our powers.”
That gets my attention. If we’re going to try to figure out how to get rid of our powers, we’d better start with how we got them in the first place. He crosses his arms and gives me the proudest smirk I’ve ever seen on him. I have to smile. Little negotiator.
“How about I tell you the future of anything else in the world?”
He thinks for a minute, staring off into space before turning back to me. “Mrs. Zaccari?”
“Why do you want to know her future?”
He shrugs. “I want to know if her petition goes through.”
“Why?”
“Just ’cause. I don’t think it should.”
I’m curious now. “Why not?”
He’s quiet for a moment, before clapping his hands once and leaning back into a shoulder-shrug dance while rapping, “Redeemed! My brothers! I been, I been what? I been redeemed!”
In keeping with our new tradition, I jump into the second line with him.
“Recovered! Twelve years, did my time. But man, I’m clean!
Discovered! The most important people on my team! My brothers!
Recovered, nigga, I have been redeemed!”
“Yeah, boi!” laughs Isaiah before throwing his arms up in a dab.
“Bruh, no,” I say, waving my hand. “Get your 2016 dance moves out of my room.”
“Whatever,” he says, tossing a pillow at me. “I’ve never even seen you dance.”
“You never saw me rap Shiv before today either.”
“True,” he says, sitting up and resting his hands on his knees. “My point is, if Mrs. Zaccari gets her way with that petition, Shiv himself wouldn’t be allowed to stay in this neighborhood. And I thought maybe he might stay around here and I might see him, without having to go to the concert?”
Sadness melts through my chest, cold and unwelcome. He really loves Shiv, even more than I do. I study him as he stares at the floor, and I suddenly wish so badly that I wasn’t cursed and that I could take him to the concert tomorrow. We’d waltz in there like kings. I can picture it now—Isaiah on my shoulders, fist pumping, rapping along to every song with me. It’s what should be happening tomorrow. We should both be blissfully unaware of the future, and going to concerts like normal kids. This isn’t fair.
My phone buzzes again, and I sigh. I blink away the vision of me unlocking my phone and unlock my phone, preparing to face Scoop again.
