She explained her friend’s predicament and was asked to have a seat. Eventually Byron agreed to see her anyway, despite the deception. He told her later it was because he found her confusing in a fascinating way. When I looked at you, I was just delighted. I had no idea what to think of you. I could tell you were wearing another person’s clothes but I didn’t know why. I couldn’t imagine who you were or what you wanted.
Here was the thing: Hazel had not delighted her parents, ever. Nor had she delighted herself. But when she walked into the room and Byron had said, “Hazel Green,” her name sounded new coming out of his mouth. Upgraded. Precise and scientific. “I wasn’t expecting you. Hazel Green.” He said her name like she was a species of rare insect.
Hazel had never intrigued her parents or herself either. But Byron couldn’t stop asking her questions—although she was supposed to be interviewing him, things soon took on the feel of him interviewing her.
“Is that a Band-Aid?” He pointed to her panty hose. She’d cut herself shaving before putting them on and hadn’t been able to wash off the bloodstain—Jenny had given her only one pair—so she’d tried to cover it with a flesh-colored Band-Aid. “You placed it on top of your stockings,” Byron had said, amused. “You’re a little remarkable.”
“No one has ever said that to me,” she told him. “I cannot believe the most important person I’ve ever met just told me that.” He laughed and tilted his head, staring at her like she was someone familiar whom he hadn’t seen in a long time. It was satisfying the way she could give him false praise and his attention to her automatically seemed to deepen. Soon she was acting like he was the most enthralling person she’d ever met.
Hazel was twenty-two; he wasn’t that much older than she was, twenty-seven, but he felt older by decades. It was hard to explain. Part of it was just success and power; Hazel had never been so close to someone so successful before. Byron’s looks weren’t anything special—he was a rather plain white guy, tall and thin with long fingers whose tips were oddly circular. When he placed them on the table and slid them back and forth while talking, they reminded Hazel of the suctiony paws of a tree frog. Was he good-looking? Would she like to have his fingers perform an adhesive walk down her leg? She couldn’t decide. But she loved how happy she was making him just by appearing to have a great time.
His haircut creeped her out the way freshly hedged lawns sometimes did, making her feel like life was already over and she’d arrived on the planet too late: people had tamed everything wild, which was the same as destroying the wildness since taming it turned it into something so different. We pretend when we want to forget things are dangerous, she thought, though she immediately failed to apply this concept to herself or reflect upon why she was pretending to be super taken with Byron when she wasn’t.
One of the only things Hazel knew herself to be great at was concealing her true feelings, so it made sense for her to showcase this talent front and center whenever she needed to impress others. It was a skill she’d learned early on. Sitting there with Byron, she began remembering how she’d often wanted to scream when lining up for the bus at elementary school because everything felt so artificial. No one was okay, but it was not okay to say that. There they were, ages five to ten, most of them in brightly colored clothing with cartoon backpacks that seemed designed for a utopia in an almost-mean way. They were all emotional messes, especially Hazel. She watched the news with her parents at night and hardly slept because of it. She had a hard time playing in large groups of friends because her own house was so quiet that recess overwhelmed her—she was romantic and would’ve preferred just one special friend, but this was not how social dynamics worked. One of her classmates had a brother with cancer. Others were mean, shy, hungry, sad. By the age of nine, Hazel sometimes had a fantasy daydream at school where the teacher walked into the classroom and yelled,
ISN’T EVERYTHING HORRIBLE? DOESN’T THE PAIN OF THE WORLD OUTWEIGH THE JOY BY TRILLIONS? WOULD YOU LIKE TO PUSH ALL OF THE DESKS INTO THE CENTER OF THE ROOM AND BURN THEM IN A GIANT BONFIRE? THEN WE CAN RUN AROUND SCREAMING AND WEEPING AMIDST THE SMOKE IN A TRUTHFUL PARADE OF OUR HUMAN CONDITION. SINCE YOU ARE SMALL STATURED, CHILDREN, IT MIGHT HELP OTHERS TO FEEL THE FULL BRUNT OF YOUR AGITATION IF YOU WAVE STICKS AND SHRUBBERY OVER YOUR HEADS ALL THE WHILE. WE DON’T WANT TO KILL ANYTHING WE DON’T HAVE TO KILL; EVERYTHING LIVING THAT WE’VE EVER SEEN OR KNOWN WILL DIE WITHOUT OUR INTERVENTION, OURSELVES INCLUDED; THIS IS A PSYCHOLOGICAL LEAD BLANKET THAT EVEN OUR MOST PERVASIVE MOMENTS OF COMFORT CANNOT CRAWL OUT FROM UNDER AND ONE UNEXTINGUISHABLE SOURCE OF DESPAIR, SO WE WON’T BE PERFORMING ANY RITUALISTIC SACRIFICES; THAT’S NOT THE DIRECTION WE WILL GO IN JUST YET; HOWEVER, ASSISTANT PRINCIPAL LAWRENCE IS ON THE PROWL FOR A ROAD CARCASS WE MIGHT BE ABLE TO USE AS A REPRESENTATIVE PROP BECAUSE NOWHERE IN OUR AUTUMN-THEMED POSTER BOARD DéCOR IS MORBIDITY OR DECAY SYMBOLIZED. OUR SCHOOL BOARD MEMBERS CANNOT AGREE ON HOW BEST TO ACKNOWLEDGE THE BOUNDLESSNESS OF HUMAN CRUELTY. IN OUR SOCIETY SOME OF YOU ARE FAR SAFER AND MORE ADVANTAGED THAN OTHERS; AT HOME SOME OF YOU ARE FAR MORE LOVED; SOME OF YOU WILL FIND THAT CONCEPTS LIKE FAIRNESS AND JUSTICE WILL BE THIN, FLICKERING HOLOGRAMS ON THE PERIPHERY OF YOUR LIVES. OH, LOOK, CHILDREN—I SEE MR. LAWRENCE IN THE DISTANCE DRAGGING A PORTION OF A HIGHWAY-SLAUGHTERED DEER. LET’S GO HELP HIM LUG IT INSIDE AND BE REMINDED THAT WE TOO INHABIT BODIES MADE OF MEAT-WRAPPED BONES; LET’S MEDITATE ON THIS CORPOREAL TERROR.
Whenever her mother had asked, Hazel always told her, School is great.
Byron didn’t seem to feel any corporeal terror. Hazel felt like he must know all kinds of calming, existential secrets that she didn’t, which only strengthened her urge to win his favor so he’d share them.
At the end of the interview, Byron took her right hand and clasped it between both of his. This superrich person really likes me, she realized. Her adrenaline spiked and she felt an invigorating wave of accomplishment surge over her; her chest filled with a sensation befitting the visuals of an effective mouthwash commercial. An outbreak of goose bumps bloomed over her body.
In hindsight, Byron’s cold skin might have had something to do with this. Or maybe it was his parting words to her, addressing a subject she hadn’t told a single person about.
“I’m so sorry,” Byron had said, “that your mother is dying.”
THE DAY AFTER INTERVIEWING BYRON, HAZEL WOKE TO HER PHONE ringing. This was a surprise since it had been shut off for nonpayment for over three weeks. Who calls on a dead phone, besides a dead person/ghost or a spiritual higher power, and which possibility was more frightening?