“You don’t like Cassidy.” He wasn’t asking a question.
I remounted the toilet seat I was using as a stepping stool and paused. “I—who said that?” One of my shoes slipped on the seat, and I grabbed Adam’s shoulder to right myself, knees wobbling for balance. “We’re not in the same group,” I explained, blowing a strand of hair from between my eyes.
“What group are you in?”
“Me? I don’t know. I prefer to think of myself as an individualist.” When Adam looked confused, I continued. “Fine, I guess you could say I’m a nerd, a geek, first stop on the train to Dork City. That’s what you get for not wanting to peak by the twelfth grade.”
“And what group am I in?”
I smiled. “You, my friend, are Dork City’s newest resident. You’re one of—” But a knock at the bathroom door interrupted us. I froze, remembering where I was and who I was with. Girls’ bathroom with a definite nongirl. Not an ideal scenario.
I held my breath. The hinges creaked open and a man’s rusty voice ventured a hello.
“Hell—” Adam responded loudly before I jammed my hand across his mouth, muffling the rest of the word.
Shuffling. “Who’s in there?” From outside the stalls there came the sound of wheels rattling across the grout and then the thwack of a wet mop. The sopping yarn of the mop head dragged closer with each of his footsteps. “Who’s there? This is a ladies’ room.”
I peered down at the dusty workman’s boots of Old Man McCardle, the school’s janitor, now pointed directly underneath our stall. He rattled the door. “Open up.” He pounded his fist. “Who’s in there?”
Seeing no way out, I piped up. “It’s me,” I tried.
The door stopped rattling. “I heard a boy’s voice. There’s someone else in there with you. Don’t play me for stupid, young lady. I’ll call the principal if you don’t open this door right now.”
My thoughts switched quickly to Adam’s tenuous acceptance into Hollow Pines High, and my mind formed a snapshot of the walkie-talkie strapped to Old Man McCardle’s uniform. I stifled a curse word and hopped off the toilet seat. Holding my breath, I slid the lock free. I was met with a view of the janitor’s dingy brown uniform. Kids liked to say that Old Man McCardle was crazy because he yelled Bible verses at students who drew male genitalia on the lockers and didn’t bother to make sure their empty bottles wound up in the trash cans, but really, it was just the fact that he was a janitor and smelled vaguely of gasoline and pickled eggs. My eyes traveled up to his cragged face. He blinked and took a step back when our eyes met.
“It’s fine, really,” I said, opening the door wider. “My friend here just bumped his head, and I was helping to clean him up. I’m sorry. It was just the easiest place to do it and, if we’re being honest, aren’t fixed gender identifications becoming a little passé anyhow?” McCardle looked from me to Adam, back to me again, then to Adam. His gaze lingered. I rolled my eyes. “Look, I promise, if I want to engage in any funny business, I will keep it to normal teenage locales. Back of cars. Movie theaters. Under the bleachers. That sort of thing.”
Then, like a windup toy, Adam started his monologue. “Hello. I’m Adam Smith from Elgin, Illinois. I am sixteen years old.”
McCardle’s gummy lips worked without forming any words. He backed up several paces, and before I could say another word, he had turned with only one last swift glance over his shoulder and was gone.
I grabbed my bag from the floor. “I would say that was weird, but, well, he’s weird. We should go, though,” I said. “He could be heading for reinforcements.” I rummaged around the front pocket of my bag until I found a Band-Aid. When I pulled it out, I saw that the pattern on the bandage was of tiny green Yodas, which I recognized from a pack that Owen had received from his mom as a stocking stuffer last Christmas. “This will have to do.” I motioned for him to bend down and then flattened the sticky parts to his forehead. I stood back to admire. Adam Smith was now tall, dead, and held together by a Star Wars–themed Band-Aid. And it was only 8:00 AM.
ELEVEN
A congenital insensitivity to pain may be caused by increased production of endorphins in the brain, a problem in the voltage-gated sodium channel SCN9A, or lack of certain neuropathies. Children with insensitivity to pain experience various problems, such as biting off the tip of their tongue, untreated fractures, and damage to the eyes. While the subject's pain insensitivity is likely not congenital, I’ve marked the causes for further study.
*
“You’re late, Ms. Frankenstein.” Dr. Lamb’s hand hovered over the whiteboard, gripping a green dry erase marker. Turning, she peered over her glasses at me.