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  Praise For

  THE FIVE STAGES OF ANDREW BRAWLEY

  “The Five Stages of Andrew Brawley broke my heart, then put it back together again. I truly loved this book.”

  —Bruce Coville

  “A wonderfully written book that is more proof that the genre of ‘LGBT YA lit’ simply knows no bounds.”

  —Brent Hartinger, author of Geography Club

  “The Five Stages of Andrew Brawley is as inventive as it is moving. A beautiful book.”

  —Trish Doller, author of Where the Stars Still Shine

  This one is for Nara Star, my own personal superhero

  The boy is on fire.

  EMTs wheel him into Roanoke General’s sterile emergency room. He screams and writhes on the gurney as though the fire that burned his skin away burns still, flaring deep within his bones, where the paramedics and doctors and nurses crowding around him, working desperately, will never be able to extinguish it.

  The boy looks my age, seventeen. His hair, where it isn’t singed, is the color of autumn leaves. The kind of leaves I used to rake into piles with my dad and take running jumps into.

  I can’t see the boy’s eyes from where I’m hiding, but his voice is a chain. It grates as agony drags it out of his throat. The skin on his legs and part of his chest is charred black.

  The scent of burning lingers in my nose, and even as bile rises into the back of my throat, I can’t help thinking of all the times I barbecued with my family during the summer. Mom would squirrel away extra food in the back of the fridge because Dad always burned the chicken.

  It’s late, and I should be gone, but I can’t take my eyes off the boy. I’m a prisoner of his animal howls. There is nowhere in this hospital that I could hide to escape his screams.

  So I stay. And watch. And listen.

  A girl runs in, arms windmilling about. Screaming words that I barely hear over the sound of my own heart thudding. “. . . in the pool . . . party . . . he was yelling . . .” The paramedics restrain the girl, and she shrinks. She’s a broken mirror. The pieces are just reflected bits of us: our anger, our horror, our fear, borrowed and returned. She can keep mine.

  I focus on the boy.

  The biggest concern is protecting his airway. I know that. It’s basic stuff. If the boy breathed the fire, it might not matter what his skin looks like. That his screams reach every corner of Roanoke’s claustrophobic emergency room is a good thing. When he stops screaming is when I’ll worry.

  The doctors and nurses huddle, discussing their plan of attack, maybe; praying, maybe. Mourning, maybe. The boy needs miracles. The storybook-magic kind.

  One of the doctors—an octopus of a woman working with all eight arms simultaneously—cuts away the ruined bits of clothing and peels them back like ragged strips of wallpaper. The boy moans.

  I turn away. I’m not prepared for this. I only came to the ER to say hi to the nurses and see if anyone had blown off a finger while lighting fireworks. Today being the Fourth of July made my chances of seeing a grisly Roman candle accident pretty good.

  But this is bad. This is so much like that night.

  The small emergency room can hardly contain all the people crowded in it. The walls are white. The floors are white. The drapes that cordon off the exam rooms are eggshell, except for one space reserved for small children. That curtain is decorated with tiny faded yellow ducks. The nurse’s station is a stumbling block perched in the middle of the ER, and all the doctors and nurses are forced to dance around it. The nurses complain, but it’s a fixed point in space. Immovable.

  Like me.

  My calves ache from crouching, and my shoulders are stiff. I fear that if I move, I’ll be seen, and tonight I want to remain invisible. The boy on fire needs me to stay. He needs me to be witness to his pain. It’s an odd thought to have, but I’m growing used to the odd thoughts that invade my brain these days. Every day.

  Like how the ER smells remind me of an Italian grinder. The kind that’s smothered in vinegar and mayo and too much oregano. Usually the emergency room is a stew of bleach and blood and whatever rotten odors the patients carry in with them. But not tonight. The boy isn’t just burned. He’s cooked.

  I turn back to the scene, hoping that they’ve finished peeling him. He moves less than before. He cries less. Maybe the doctors gave him something for the pain. Except he and I know that some pain burrows so deep, no narcotic can ever soothe it. It’s etched on your bones. It hides in your marrow, like cancer. If the boy survives, this pain is a memory he won’t want.

  I’ll remember it for him.

  Steven startles me from behind. “Drew? What’re you doing here?” Steven is twiggy, with a bulbous nose and a hairline that he left in high school, along with the rest of his good looks.

  “Hey, Steven,” I say, playing it nonchalant. I stand up slowly, not taking my eyes off the burning boy, and hide my anxiety behind a lopsided grin. “I was on my way home, and I thought I’d stop by and say hi.”

  “Bad time, kiddo.” He’s cradling an armful of sterile gauze and looking where I’m looking. The boy screams. Steven flinches. Sometimes I think he’s too sensitive to be a nurse.

  I nod my head absently, letting Steven’s words settle into my ears but not really hearing them. I try to reply, but the fire in the boy’s screams sucks all the oxygen from the room.

  Steven glances at the bandages in his hands and says, “I should go.”

  “Me too,” I say. “I’m working breakfast tomorrow. See you then?”

  “Sure.” Steven’s blue eyes light up at the mention of food. “Tell Arnold not to undercook the eggs. Runny eggs are disgusting.”

  The boy screeches, and Steven goes. He walks apologetically and disappears into the tumor of people surrounding the boy.

  I stay. The doctors and nurses press bandages to seared skin. After his airway, fighting infection is their next priority. I can’t tell how much of the boy’s body is burned, but it’s enough. Soon they’ll wheel him to another part of the hospital. I might never see him again. I don’t even know his name.

  But I have to go. Death will appear soon, as she always does. She might take the boy, she might not, but I can’t be around when she comes. She arrived late before and didn’t get me. But she won’t make the same mistake twice, and I’m not yet ready to leave.

  No one sees me take off. I navigate the hospital on autopilot. There are doors through which only hospital workers are allowed to pass, but I make my way invisibly. I imagine I can’t be seen, and I am not seen. The hospital walls have no memory. They would crumble under the weight of so much suffering. It’s better that they forget.

  On the first floor, far past the surgical ward, is a section of the hospital abandoned in the middle of renovations, left to decay when the economy collapsed and the money ran out. Naked beams and partially erected drywall rot like forgotten bones. Dust and neglect fill the air. No one comes here except me. No one even remembers it exists.

  I grab the flashlight that I leave by the door. It casts a shallow sphere of illumination. Enough to drive the shadows back, but not enough to banish them completely. Sometimes I try to trick myself, imagining that I’m at my old house in my old bed and that the others are asleep in their bedrooms, dreaming sweetly.
But it’s an illusion that rarely lasts long.

  This is home now.

  I trudge to the farthest corner, to the only room that’s even remotely finished. It has four walls and a knobless door that I tape shut. Most nights it feels like a prison.

  My bed against the far wall is a pile of lumpy, stained sheets that embraces me with all the comfort of a sack full of rocks. My pillow is a laundry bag stuffed with discarded scrubs.

  I pop in my earbuds and play some music. It’s in Spanish, so I don’t understand the words, but the lazy, metallic twangs of the guitar are soothing. The sounds of the hospital can reach me even here, and I can’t sleep with the gasping and wheezing all around me, with the wraiths that haunt the halls, chattering through the night like a million cicadas.

  Today was long, and I’m tired. It’s barely eight in the evening, but I can’t keep my lids from sliding closed. More often it’s the reverse, and I stay awake all night, begging for sleep to take me.

  Exhaustion is a relief.

  Before I lie back and let reality slip away, I retrieve a small tin from beneath my pillow. It’s the color of sun-kissed skin and weighs less than it should. I dig my fingers around the edges and remove the lid.

  The first thing that hits me is the rich scent of leather. Old leather. Leather that was loved. I open the faded brown wallet and linger over the picture in the plastic window. Then I fold it closed and put it beside me. Scattered at the bottom of the tin are two gold rings, one toy horse, and a gold cross. I don’t touch those.

  I replace the lid and settle against my makeshift pillow, clutching the wallet and gazing at the picture until I fall asleep.

  But my last thoughts aren’t of the smiling family in the photograph. They’re of the boy on fire.

  I don’t dream much anymore; I draw instead.

  I spill my graphite nightmares onto rough pages that I scavenge from recycling bins in the billing department. And I listen. I listen to the scraps of words and whispers that float about on the cool, antiseptic air. I watch the flickering images that appear and disappear at the corners of my eyes. Sometimes I hear nothing for days, and then it’ll all rush in like a tsunami that washes over me and never recedes. Reality becomes twisted until my world and the world of memories, where my family is still alive, blend together and I don’t know what’s real.

  And then there’s the world I create.

  My superhero has a name: Patient F. Before I arrived at the hospital, I barely drew at all. Just doodles on the edges of textbook pages. But now I draw constantly, filling the gaps between minutes with stark lines and harrowed eyes. Even when I don’t want to.

  I’ve been working on Patient F’s story for about a month. It begins before Patient F is captured by the RAND Corporation for experimentation. It begins when he’s still a man in a suit, doing the kinds of boring things that men in suits do. The things that no one writes about because they know that boys don’t really have nightmares about clowns or three-eyed tentacled beasts that rise from deep within volcanoes. When boys wake up screaming in the night, it’s because they know that, one day, they’ll have to grow into men who wear suits and spend their days doing boring things that cause them to rot from within, so their skin withers and blackens and cracks, leaking out their juices until they finally lie decaying and putrid, forgotten by a world that deemed them unworthy of remembering.

  It begins there because it’s important to know that a superhero with no past began as a man with no future.

  Patient F is unstuck from time. Temporally freed as a result of the pain inflicted upon him by the doctors in red lab coats with the six-inch needles and the shiny bone saws. He sees what he was and what he will become and all the moments that connect those two points. Patient F sees the whole of his existence spread before him like dots on a Pac-Man board that must be devoured before the ghosts catch him and end the game.

  When Patient F opens his eyes for the first time, he’s been Patient F for his entire life. He knows who these men are and what they’ve done to him. He remembers the man in the suit, even though the rest of the world has forgotten him. He knows every person he’s lost and every person that they’ll take from him. Patient F has a list of people to kill. He begins with the doctors in the red lab coats.

  And he moves on from there.

  • • •

  The hospital is quiet this early in the morning. It’s sleeping. Despite that, there are always a few people shuffling about—nurses and doctors and orderlies—but I’ve learned their routines. Heisenberg searched for the chaos present in ordered systems, whereas I’ve found the order in chaotic systems. Chaos is an excuse for people who don’t have the patience to see the patterns.

  There are showers not far from my room that are usually empty. They smell of feet and deodorant, and steam lingers in the air like a persistent fog. Despite the emptiness, I wash up quickly to avoid being caught, and then ransack the lockers. I tell myself I’m not a thief, even as I thieve a white T-shirt from locker 13 and a tiny iPod from locker 33. I only steal out of necessity. The iPod I have is almost dead, and no one ever thinks to bring a charger. I got that iPod from locker 21; tomorrow morning, I’ll return it. Doctors have more important worries on their minds than misplaced gadgets.

  I dress in the white shirt I liberated from the locker and jeans that I took from the lost and found. Sometimes I think of myself as a savior of the lost, a caretaker of the found.

  When I’ve dressed and brushed my teeth and raked a hand through my increasingly unruly hair, I sneak through the hospital and head for the cafeteria. Roanoke General is a sprawling, lazy building that suffers from lack of planning. Unfinished wings sit forgotten, wheezy and sick. There are so many hallways, new nurses and doctors are jokingly given a spool of thread on their first day. They laugh it off but surely wish they’d paid more attention when they receive their first emergency page and spend ten minutes trying to escape the labyrinth.

  I have a map in my head so that I never get lost. I know where all the abandoned rooms are, where the maternity ward is, where the ICU is, where they keep the sick kids, and where they hide old people who probably won’t ever again see the outside world. The hospital is my ocean, and I am its Sir Francis Drake.

  No one pays attention to me. I walk with my hands in my pockets and my head down, and people pass without a second glance. Some know me, some are too busy reading charts or tapping away at their phones, but most are indifferent. I have a theory about that. I think that people who help others for a living—doctors and nurses and firefighters and police—carry only so much goodwill inside them. Once it’s depleted, they have to wait for the well to replenish itself, so they use it sparingly and only on those who need it most.

  A young man walking down a hospital hallway at five in the morning isn’t anyone’s priority. Sometimes, though, I wonder if people can see me at all. Occasionally I consider standing in the middle of the emergency room, waving my arms and screaming as loudly as I can just to see what would happen. But I never do. It’s far too risky.

  Arnold is waiting for me when I slip under the metal gate and into the dim cafeteria. He insists that everyone call him Arnold instead of Mr. Jaworski, and he pronounces it Ah-nold when he’s trying to be funny. He’s rarely funny, though not for lack of trying.

  “You’re late,” Arnold says. He fakes anger but can’t pull it off. It’s the beard and the belly. Even as he stands by the deep fryer with his hands on his hips, trying to frown, he looks more like a swollen pink Gumby than the man who pays me cash on the sly to serve reheated hash browns.

  I don’t answer him, just get right to work refilling the condiment containers and turning on the heat lamps. The caf smells like fried bacon and eggs, and possibly marinara. The blend of aromas makes my stomach rumble. If I could sleep here, I would. The rest of the hospital reeks of that antiseptic tang, but the cafeteria is an oasis in a desert of smells.

  Aimee is in the back doing prep work. She hardly ever says two words to me
and doesn’t eat where anyone can see her. I had a dog like that once. We adopted him from a shelter the day before he was going to be put down. The workers said he’d been abused.

  I’ve never seen a mark on Aimee’s whip-thin body but, like her eating, I’m sure it’s happened, whether I see it or not.

  Arnold is whistling this morning. Sometimes he sings; sometimes he hums. This morning, he’s whistling. He makes up tunes from scraps of songs he hears on the radio. The notes are never quite right but somehow sound okay together. Not that it would matter if they didn’t: Arnold is as shameless as he is tone deaf.

  I work quietly to avoid having to talk to Arnold. Even more than singing, he loves to talk. During my interview, he didn’t ask me one single question that he let me answer. Instead, he filled the time telling me about his wife, who is a lawyer, his son, who is going to be a doctor, and his master’s degree in literature. The only thing I found especially interesting was that Arnold spent six years in college yet works in a hospital cafeteria. I haven’t asked him why, though. We have an unspoken agreement about secrets.

  When it’s time to open up, Aimee works the cash register while I serve the food. It’s a thankless, boring job that allows me to spend time listening. Despite being in plain sight on the other side of the sneeze guard, ladling watery eggs onto plates, the moment I don the ridiculous hairnet Arnold insists I wear, I become nobody. It’s better than being invisible.

  Most of the talk revolves around which doctor is sleeping with which nurse, or who accidentally left a sponge in a patient, or how many times patient so-and-so rang the call button in the middle of the night when they should have been sleeping. It’s mundane stuff that I don’t care about, and today I use the repetitive movements of filling trays to work myself into a trance as I sift through the buzz of conversations, listening for any mention of last night’s burned boy.

  He’s been on my mind since I left the ER. Carved into my brain and left to fester.