The Nobody People by Bob Proehl (manga ereader TXT) 📕

“So put on something else.”

Carrie pulls the iPod out of her pocket. It’s an old one, seventh generation, objectively the best. Last model with a click wheel. She scrolls through artists’ names, trying to find one that’s safe, something she knows he’ll like. But she keeps coming back to a song that feels unsafe, too weird. It’s one of her favorites, but she’s never played it for anyone, not even Hayden. She hops down and plugs the iPod into Miquel’s speakers, then clambers back up as the song starts. A cello line trips through the air, spirals downward, and recovers. The singer’s voice trembles as if he’s making up the words.

“What’s this?” Miquel asks.

“Arthur Russell,” Carrie says. “He’s good.”

The song fills the room with negative space pinpricked with cello and horns. Carrie waits for Miquel to say something smart-alecky about whether this even counts as music, but he doesn’t. He listens, and she wonders if he hears the same magic in the song she does.

“It’s good,” he says as the song fades. “Sad somehow.”

“Yeah,” Carrie says. When she’s high, she flickers. It’s difficult to keep a clear picture of herself. She starts to think of herself as an echo, the idea of herself more vague until she’s in her resting state: barely perceptible. The next song starts, and her heart speeds up because she’s secretly thought of it as their song and it feels like Miquel will know. “I should get ready for class,” she says. “I’ve got History of Revolutionary Thought with No-Fun Novak.”

“Get ready how?” he asks. “You look great. Want to hang out here? I’ve got a free period anyway.”

“I guess,” Carrie says, trying to sound casual. First period is breakfast, but upperclassmen use the unsupervised time for sleeping, fucking, and recreational drug use. Wanna come over first? is a crude pickup line at Bishop. Miquel asking her to stay carries an implication even if it’s there only because Carrie wants it to be. She examines the stuccoed ceiling, each little stalactite of it looking as if it might drip down onto her.

“You’re not angry anymore,” Miquel says.

“Don’t do that,” she says, blushing. “It’s as bad as Waylon.” Sometimes Carrie works so hard to keep how she feels from Miquel. Other times it’s like she’s silently screaming at him, wanting him to hear.

“Waylon goes into people’s heads,” he says. “That’s fucked up. This is how I see. You were all red when you came in. Now you’re like a light orange. Sad, a little. Like this song.”

When Miquel is high, he takes deep breaths and blows them out like he’s thinking the deepest thoughts. His breath is out of sync with the music. She likes listening to him breathe. She thinks of his chest rising and falling, and it seems impossible that he doesn’t know what she’s feeling, that she hasn’t turned the neon equivalent of whatever color Miquel sees as desire, want.

“I should go find the reporter,” she says. Ask me to stay, she thinks. Keep me here with you.

“You should,” says Miquel.

“I don’t know what to say if I find him,” Carrie says.

Miquel lets out one more deep breath, and Carrie can almost feel it passing through the air between them, through the stink of Waylon’s mattress and into her lungs, filling her with calm, confidence.

“Tell him something that only you could know, that only you could tell him,” Miquel says. “Tell him what it feels like not to be seen.”

—

Third period, and the reporter is visiting Sarah Davenport’s Artistic Expression class in the black box theater on the fifth floor. Carrie knows because Hayden told her. Not to make Carrie jealous but in a sincere effort to help with whatever Carrie has planned. Sometimes Carrie pretends she’s resentful of Hayden because Hayden is prettier, more confident. Because Hayden makes music and Carrie just consumes it. But the resentment isn’t real. Hayden is someone else to imagine being, but only because Hayden imagined themselves into someone better to begin with.

She sneaks in before anyone else arrives and takes a seat by the door. There are two microphones set up in the center of a circle of chairs, along with a stereo on a cart and the odd collection of AV equipment that accumulates in any room that isn’t regularly used. Carrie has Sarah for Psychic Defense last period, and she knows there’s a risk that Sarah will spot her mind in the room. Carrie pushes herself way down, basically invisible. Invisibility is a strain. It’s like screaming I’M NOT HERE I’M NOT HERE I’M NOT HERE as loudly as you possibly can. The cloud of weed lingers in her brain, and she flickers back into visibility every now and then.

A dozen students file in, and Carrie recognizes each of them, even the younger kids she’s never spoken to. Bishop isn’t that big, and they’re all trapped in one building together. An island floating in the middle of Manhattan.

There’s Isidra Gonzales from Carrie’s year. She makes metal sculptures that respond to touch, or time, or light. They’re made of a silvery substance Isidra literally spits up from her guts. Last semester, she made a semi–perpetual motion sculpture: shiny silver koi that circled the fountain in the front lobby for two weeks before slowing like a dying watch and losing definition. By the end of a month, amorphous blobs of mercury traced a zombie circle in the water, then sank.

Darren and Lynette Helms, twins, both with the same jet-black, ruler-straight hair, file in behind Isidra. They’re arguing about their weekend plans, something involving skiing. The Helmses come from money, and their parents are both Resonants. Lynette is sort of useless, but Darren is actively the worst. He’s a drinking habit away from committing date rape. They’re a year ahead of Carrie. After fifth year, students can opt to leave or can stay for two “postgrad” years. She hopes if one of the Helmses decides to stay, the other one will leave. The