The Girl at the End of the World Read Free Page B

remember it wrong, remember them showing the full uncensored version that I actually played in my head.
    After getting used to the surreal images, and my mom’s and sister’s gasps as we watched together, the weirdest part was seeing myself in the background of some of the videos. People who’d been a row or two below the dying man had filmed the whole thing, and there I was, two rows up beside my dad. A few minutes into the coverage, I began watching myself on the screen more than the spectacle of the dying man. I knew that I was the blonde girl standing next to her father, wearing the red t-shirt and jeans, but at the same time it was hard to believe that girl was me. She looked so scared and confused by what was happening in front of her. She cringed and clung to her father’s arm and turned her head away a few times as the man went through his final moments. I didn’t remember doing any of that, but there it was on the screen for anyone to see. No arguing with video.
    Along with endless variations of the scene, the newscast included several interviews with witnesses. They made me glad my dad and step-mom had hustled us out of there so quickly. I was glad not to have been one of those nervous, freaked out people with cameras and microphones in their faces. After that, the news switched to “experts” and medical correspondents and other people speculating on what had happened to the man.
    This I wanted to hear, but it was difficult because our phone had started ringing.
    “Reports are that the victim has been positively identified, but his name has not yet been released pending notification of his family,” said the newscaster, an overly sincere brunette who’d probably practiced her catastrophe face before going on the air.
    “She’s okay, yes,” my mom was saying in the background. A friend of hers had called after seeing my dad and me on TV.
    “The Los Angeles County Coroner’s office has announced that an autopsy will be performed and that there will be a news conference tomorrow morning.”
    “I don’t think so, no,” my mom said. She sounded annoyed, wanted to be off the phone.
    “Our medical correspondent”—I forget the man’s name—“joins us now to try and shed some light on this horrific scene.”
    “I will. Thanks,” my mom said and hung up. The phone rang again before she’d been able to put the receiver back on its charger.
    “It’s difficult to know exactly what took place at Dodger Stadium this evening based solely on the images we’ve been seeing,” the medical expert was saying.
    “Hello? Yes, yes, it was her.”
    “But the evidence suggests that the victim was afflicted with some sort of parasite. The erratic behavior before his death would indicate that the parasite was putting incredible pressure on parts of his brain.”
    “No, she’s fine.”
    “Have you ever heard of anything like this?” the anchor asked.
    “Really. No, I don’t think she should. But—”
    “Not in my experience, no. But we have to remember that there are countless new discoveries every year of insects and microbes and all manner of things. This could be something we’ve known about previously, but in a mutated form.”
    “I have to go now. I’m sorry. Yes, yes I will. Bye.”
    “And it could be something undiscovered up to now, maybe the kind of thing that doesn’t normally attack human beings.”
    The phone rang again. My mom unplugged it and then gave my knee a squeeze. I tried to smile.
    “Frightening,” said the anchor. “Have health officials made any announcements about any danger posed to fans at Dodger Stadium who may have been exposed to the same parasite?”
    “No official word yet, but it would still be a good idea for anyone who witnessed this incident to get checked out by their doctor as soon as possible.”
    For the second time that day, I felt all the blood drain out of my face. The television was still on, but now it sounded like I was listening to it with pillows