Somebody Up There Hates You by Hollis Seamon Page A

That’s not like you.”
    I roll over and glare into his round face. “I just wanted to eat, man,” I say. “I wanted to, you know, get stronger. And all it did was make me puke my guts out.”
    He nods. “Right. I get it. You want to eat, good. Just don’t be a total jerk about it. Think, man. You can’t just start scarfing down everything in sight, out of nowhere, after so long. Got to start small. Jell-O. Soup. Apple juice. Ginger ale.”
    I think about it. “Sylvie’s dad drank all the ginger ale. Every single can from the whole freaking fridge. Prick.”
    Edward laughs. “Richard, there is an endless and everlasting supply of ginger ale around here, trust me. So sit yourself up and I’ll bring you some.”
    I elbow my way into a sitting position. “The Big Nurse said I can’t get out of bed.”
    He packs pillows behind my back. “Mrs. Jacobs went home early,” he says, all low-key and no-blame. Then he whacks me upside the head. Gentle, but still, a substantial whack. “She’s a good nurse, Richard,” he says. “A really, really good nurse. And she’s had a rough time, and you go and remind her of it. Everybody’s got troubles, you know that? The world’s a universally sad and fucked-up place. People hurt, all of them. You beginning to get that? Or do you still think it’s just you, man? Only you that suffers? Like you’ve been singled out?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just heads out the door. Then sticks his head back in. “I forgot. You got a visitor. Been waiting a while for you to wake up. You up to it?”
    I look up. “A visitor? Who?”
    He winks and waggles his eyebrows. “An interesting girl, young Richard. My, my, my. You are turning into quite the rock star.”
    I sit up straighter, and before I can think how to get out of the dorky gown—this one has cowboys on it, like it escaped from pediatrics—and into a T-shirt, this interesting girl sticks her head inside the room. She’s got black, black hair—like she dipped it in tar and spiked it up in points—and black eyeliner an inch thick. She’s wearing camouflage pants with a bright orange vest. It’s like she’s copied her outfit from Field & Stream. Like she’s just stopped by on her way to the woods, got her rifle in the pickup, got doe pee sprayed on her neck. I haven’t a clue who this is, but what the hey? I try to be charming anyway— because it is a female of the species, after all. “Hey,” I say. “Got your buck yet?”
    She blinks those black-lined eyes. “What?”
    I point toward her vest. “It’s deer season. Started yesterday. And you’re wearing . . .” I can see that she hasn’t got a clue what I’m talking about and she’s ready to back right out of the room, so I give up on being clever. “Never mind.”
    She hovers in the doorway and then holds out a shopping bag. “Your cape, Your Majesty, washed and all.” She makes a little awkward bow.
    I get it, finally. “Marie! You look so different. Hey, come on in.”
    She smiles then and walks over to the bed. She shakes the bag and out falls my starry night blanket.
    I sweep it up and try to cover up the fact that I’m ready to cry at the sight of it. I hold it to my nose. “Smells nice,” I say. It does—all clean and fresh. “Thanks.” I swing it up around my shoulders like a cape again. “Have a seat.” I wave, regally I hope, toward the chair next to my bed.
    â€œIt was all crumpled up in the bar,” she says. “I had to look for a while. I took it to the Laundromat, used fabric softener and all.” She puts a hand on the bed rail. “Listen. I want to say I’m sorry. I kind of freaked, you know, when I heard you were sick. I thought—well, it doesn’t matter what. I’m