Schizo Read Free

sky.
    The ocean like a fire.
    People watching the ocean like that, lying on their beach towels.
    Teddy was seven then.
    He was small—frail—with a whole mess of freckles and red, curly hair.
    We went out wading in the water, which was cold and burned like a fire would. But the more we ran, the less it burned. And so we ran, chasing each other until I had to pee and so I went back over to my dad and Jane, who is two years older than Teddy. They were throwing a Nerf football back and forth on the hot sand—Janey with her long white-blond hair and my dad with his shirt off and his big belly hanging out over the waistband of his shorts.
    When I reached the place where they’d set up camp my mom waved me over, but I ignored her and continued on toward the public bathrooms. I ran through the sand and climbed the crumbling concrete steps, up the breaker wall where a bunch of kids I recognized from my school were standing around. They were older, though, like, juniors or something—three boys and two girls. And they were smoking a blunt.
    I’d smoked weed a few times before, and so I went over and they thought it was cool—some incoming freshman wanting to smoke pot with them.
    The one girl, Angela, she had long dreads tucked away in a knit Rastafarian-looking hat. And then there was Pierre, who was short and a little heavy, and then Heroji, whose father was a famous Black Panther. I’d actually met them before at the end-of-the-year picnic; they’d all been playing in the Stanyan Hill funk band, and I’d been hoping to try to audition on guitar for them once I started in the upper school.
    Heroji was the one who passed me the blunt. I inhaled it deep in my lungs and held it in and then exhaled.
    At the time, it really didn’t seem like a big deal. I mean, like I said, I’d smoked pot before, and it wasn’t like my parents would be able to see me, since we were well hidden—and the spot where they’d set up camp was a good quarter mile down the beach.
    So I hit the blunt again and exhaled and I passed it back, thanking all three of them. Heroji and I did a sort of slap, snap, handshake thing, and then I ran across the parking lot to the bathroom.
    I peed for a long time facing the dull-colored wall.
    And then . . .
    It was as though someone was there, next to me, speaking, almost whispering in my ear.
    The voice was like my voice, but deeper, more grown-up sounding.
    It was like my adult voice, telling me not to go back outside.
    â€œDon’t go, Miles. It’s not safe. They’re coming. Don’t go!”
    I laughed at that.
    I laughed and wondered how those couple of hits could’ve gotten me so goddamn high.
    I walked to the door of the bathroom.
    Reaching out for the handle, I tried to turn the lock, but it was like my hand couldn’t quite grab hold of it.
    I turned, and everything—the door, the walls, the scratched mirror, the sink, the urinals—was all covered in some kind of thick grease—like congealed fat, like wax, like Vaseline—pooling sweat, and beading in the heat of the tiny bathroom. I grabbed the handle, and my hand slipped. I called for help, but the voice was there again, telling me not to go out.
    â€œThey’re coming for you, Miles. You can’t go out there.”
    But I had to.
    I had to get out.
    I pounded on the door.
    I screamed and screamed.
    â€œHELP! PLEASE! HELP ME!”
    But no one came.
    There was only the voice.
    And that’s when I saw them: the crows—black, fat, grotesque, the biggest I’d ever seen—trying to break in from all sides through the sealed plastic windows and vent openings. They cawed and cackled, and I knew that the voice was right. I couldn’t leave. I had to stay locked inside or the crows . . . they were going to tear me apart.
    I lay on the ground and held the palms of my hands pressed against my ears. I screamed and screamed as they clawed