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Hyperbathygammic.
I stare at the screen. This information has always been available to me with only a few clicks of a mouse, and yet I never really thought about it. Sitting here, I try to figure out why I handled the situation in the doctor’s office so badly. I wasn’t cunning. I panicked. My mother instructed me over and over again not to tell anyone anything about the family—not what I knew and not what I guessed—so it’s awful to realize that nothing needs to be said. They could know through your skin.
And yet. And yet there’s a pathetic part of me that wants to call the doctor and say, You almost finished the test. Did you get a result? And he’d go, Cassel, everyone’s wrong about you. You’re the awesomest worker on Awesome Street. We don’t know why you didn’t figure it out. Congratulations. Welcome to the life you’re supposed to have.
I have to push those thoughts out of my head. I can’t afford to get any more distracted. Sam’s waiting for me at Wallingford, and if I want to do more than visit the campus over and over again to sort out his messes, I have to fix a letter.
First I scan in the stationery. Then I find the font that the address is in, use the photo editing program to get rid of the old information, and type in the phone number of my new prepaid cell. I erase all the text about the office’s holiday hours and type my own words in their place. “Cassel Sharpe has been my patient for several years. Against the strict orders of this office, he discontinued his medication, which resulted in an episode of somnambulism.”
I’m not sure what to type next.
Another quick Google turns up a bit of likely doctorish mumbo jumbo. “The patient indicated a stimulant-dependant sleep disorder that induced bouts of insomnia. He has been prescribed medication and is sleeping through the night with no more incidents. As insomnia is often causal for sleepwalking, I believe there is no medical reason for Cassel to be restricted from classes or to be monitored at night.”
I smile at the screen, wishing to grab hold of one of the businessmen getting pie charts printed and show him how smart I am. I feel like bragging. I wonder what else fake Dr. Churchill could convince Wallingford to believe.
“Furthermore,” I write, “I have eliminated any outside assault as a cause for the patient’s sleepwalking.”
No point in them worrying about something that’s probably just my crazy self-immolating guilt. No point in my worrying about it either.
I print my letter out on the fake stationery and print myself a fake envelope. Then I lick it and pay my bill at the copy shop. As I drop the letter into the mailbox, I realize that my plan better have a second prong if I’m going to stay unsuspended.
Stop sleepwalking.
* * *
I get to Wallingford around four, which means Sam’s at play practice. It’s easy to slip into the Carter Thompson Memorial Auditorium and sit in one of the seats in the back. The lights are dim there, all of them flooding the stage, where the cast are blocking Pippin murdering his dad.
“Stand closer to one other,” Ms. Stavrakis, the drama teacher, says, clearly bored. “And lift that knife high, Pippin. It’s got to catch the light so we can see it.”
I see Audrey standing next to Greg Harmsford. She’s smiling. Even though I can’t see her face clearly, memory tells me that the blue sweater she’s wearing is the color of her eyes.
“Please try to stay dead,” Ms. Stavrakis calls to the kid playing Charles, James Page. “You only have a few moments of lying there before we bring you back to life.”
Sam walks out on the stage and clears his throat. “Um, excuse me, but before we do this again, can we at least try out the effect? It looks lame without the blood packet and we need the practice. Uh, and don’t you think it would be awesome if Pippin shot Charles instead of stabbing him? Then we could use the caps and it would really splatter.”
“We’re talking about the eighth century here,” Ms. Stavrakis says. “No guns.”
“But at the beginning of the musical they’re in different historical costumes from different time periods,” he says. “Doesn’t that imply—”
“No guns,” says Ms. Stavrakis.
“Okay, how about we use one of the packets? Or I could attach a blood capsule to the end of the retractable blade.”
“We have to run through the rest of the scene, Sam. See me before rehearsal tomorrow and we’ll talk about this. Okay?”
“Fine,” he says, and stalks backstage. I get up and follow him.
I find him standing by a table. Bottles of red liquid rest on it next to scattered condom wrappers. I can hear Audrey’s voice somewhere on the other side, yelling something about a party on Saturday night.
“What the hell goes on back here?” I ask him. “Drama club parties hard.”
Sam turns around suddenly. I don’t think he had any idea I was there. Then he looks down at what’s in front of him and laughs nervously.
“They’re for the blood,” he says, but I can see red creeping up his neck. “You fill them up. They’re pretty sturdy, but they pop easy too.”
I pick one up. “Whatever you say, man.”
“No, look.” He takes it from me. “You rig a small explosive charge onto a foam-covered metal plate, and then you cover the charge with the blood pack. It’s powered by a battery, so you just have to tape it and thread the trigger down the actor’s body to somewhere out of sight. Like, with gaffer tape. If it’s for a video or something, seeing wires doesn’t matter so much. You can just edit them out. But onstage it’s got to look neat.”
