Catch & Release Read online

  Text copyright © 2012 by Blythe Woolston

  Carolrhoda Lab™ is a trademark of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means— electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

  Carolrhoda Lab™

  An imprint of Carolrhoda Books

  A division of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

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  Main body text set in Janson Text Lt Std 11/15.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Woolston, Blythe.

  Catch & Release / by Blythe Woolston.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Eighteen-year-old Polly and impulsive, seventeen-year-old Odd survive a deadly outbreak of flesh-eating bacteria, but resulting wounds have destroyed their plans for the future and with little but their unlikely friendship and a shared affection for trout fishing, they set out on a road trip through the West.

  ISBN: 978–0–7613–7755–9 (trade hard cover : alk. paper)

  [1. Disfigured persons—Fiction. 2. Automobile travel—Fiction. 3. Fishing—Fiction. 4. Trout— Fiction. 5. Communicable diseases—Fiction. 6. West (U.S.)—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.W88713Tro 2012

  2011009630

  [Fic]—dc22

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1 – BP – 12/31/11

  eISBN: 978-0-7613-8725-1

  I would have recognized the guy even if he hadn’t driven up in a truck with Estes Equipment on the door, wearing an Estes Equipment hat and an Estes Equipment shirt with “Buck” embroidered above the pocket. There’s a family resemblance, after all. He looks like somebody took my beautiful Odd and dipped him in an extra layer of meat.

  I walk out to meet him more than halfway. I don’t want him anywhere near the house if I can help it.

  “Where’s my brother?” says Buck.

  “You know what I know. I saw him three days ago in Portland. He might be headed for the coast.”

  “Look, they’re going to be home soon, and they don’t need this kind of grief,” Buck says while he takes a step too close and drops his hand on my shoulder. He doesn’t grab me or anything; he just lets me feel the weight of his thick hand. “That little asshole needs get his skinny ass back here. Maybe you know more than you think you do. Maybe you remembered something that might be . . . useful.”

  Little Dog Penny comes down off the porch and starts growling and barking. I don’t need her help. I push Buck’s hand off my shoulder and shrug, “Can’t help. Like I told you, you know what I know. That’s it.”

  “Polly?” Mom calls from the porch.

  “I got this,” I say; then I turn my back on Buck and walk away.

  “You let me know if you hear something,” says Buck.

  I don’t say yes. I don’t say no. But, at this moment, I’m not inclined to do Buck Estes any favors. His happiness is not my problem.

  “What was that about, Polly honey?” asks Mom.

  “Odd. He’s not back yet. His brother’s all worked up,” I say. I pick up a glass and open the faucet. I hold my other hand under the water until it runs cold as the river before I steer the glass under the stream and fill it to overflowing. Then I drink it all down. “Some people just have a hard time letting go,” I say.

  “You want me to fix you some lunch? I could make soup . . .” says Mom.

  “I ate before. I’m going to shower, and then I’m going into town,” I can see the question forming on my mom’s tongue, so I answer it, “I’m going to get the car checked out. Dad said I should do that before I go to Laramie to scope out the school. Got to get that done and apply if I’m going there this fall.”

  I can see the worries crawling across my mom’s face. It’s like watching an ant farm. I can’t solve this for her. She needs to develop her own coping skills and strategies. She needs to adjust to her new condition—the situation where I can get in a car and drive off to Wyoming.

  “It’s a long way to drive all by yourself,” says Mom.

  “People do it,” I say.

  The envelope is addressed to me, but the letter inside is for Gramma Dot.

  Odd must have carried it around in his back pocket until he found an envelope and stamp. The pages are lumpy, creased, smudged, and must have been wet at least once, because they stick together when I try to flatten them out.

  Someday soon, I’m going to deliver this letter and the rest. I just can’t deliver them yet, not until I know for sure that Odd’s grandma is back. Then I have to call around to all the nursing-care facilities to figure out where to take them. It would be easier if I could just hand them to Buck and let him take care of it, but that won’t work. Buck’s an asshole. If Odd thought he could trust Buck to deliver them, he could have just sent them to Buck. He didn’t. He gave them to me.

  I pick up the messages I’m supposed to deliver. The edges are fringed with the little ragged circles that get left behind when you rip a page out of a spiral notebook. I hate those raggedy bits. I hate things that are unfinished and half-assed. Odd doesn’t. Odd’s just fine with broken, lumpy, lopsided things.

  I miss him.

  That’s why I’ll read this letter, even though it isn’t meant for me.

  Someplace in the world that isn’t Cape Disappointment, I don’t think.

  Dear Gramma Dot,

  I’m beside the ocean. It isn’t Cape Disappointment though, because I zigged instead of zagged when I was leaving Portland. That girl Polly went back, so I’m alone now and doing my own navigation—and D’Elegance brought me to this place. If it has a name, I don’t know it. And I’m the only one here.

  This ocean is not big the way I thought it would be. I can’t see the curve of the earth, and if there are whales or sea monsters out there, I can’t see them either. Fog. From here, that’s what I see. When I walk, the fog lets me see some new things in the direction I’m going, but if I turn back, the things that used to be there are gone.

  Polly will be bringing this letter. Don’t worry if you don’t recognize her. You never saw her before. But you can trust her. I know that for sure.

  There is one thing I really need to tell you—I’m writing it on another page. You read it every day until I get back, so you always know

  I remember you.

  “You can see fine out of your left eye. Just drive, you pussy.”

  He’s got his foot off and he’s resting his stump on the dashboard. I ball up my fist and hit him as hard as I can. I don’t know where the punch is going to land, because he’s in my blind spot. I don’t care if I club him in the nuts or what’s left of his leg. Either would hurt. Either would be fine. I’ve been listening to him bitch and moan about phantom pains for days and miles, but the asshole still won’t cut me some slack.

  “You hit like a girl,” he says.

  I clearly didn’t hurt him enough. I jerk the gearshift into drive and get my reward: the sound of gravel under the wheels and the loud scrape of car guts on the edge of the pavement as I pull into the right lane.

  “Is that like an insult to you? Calling you a pussy? Saying you hit like a girl?” he asks. It isn’t an apology. He isn’t curious. He’s just probing my defenses. I don’t answer. I d
on’t need to give him a new way to burrow in, under my skin.

  I’m creeping down the blacktop slowly, so slowly, slow as a little old man wearing a hat, and we all know how slow they drive.

  Beside me, the passenger seat makes a familiar purring sound and I know he’s reclining.

  “It’s nice to have a little break from driving Miss Crazy,” he says. He probably been working on that one for days, but he finally got to the punch line.

  The grey-black of the pavement stretches out and away through a whole lot of nothing until it’s no wider than a shoelace. The telephone poles get smaller and smaller as they string out toward the horizon.

  “Just look at the telephone poles,” Odd says. “See how they get bigger when you get closer? You don’t need depth perception out here.”

  Son of a bitch. It’s like he reads my mind.

  It occurs to me that I can push the gas pedal to the carpet and get all two tons of vintage Cadillac up to deadly speed and crash right into a pole if I want. If I want, I can put us both out of my misery.

  If Odd picks up on that thought, he doesn’t mention it.

  A couple things . . .

  1) I am not a pussy. I prefer the term Vagina American. I am not a pussy.

  2) Murder-suicide never used to be my go-to response. I used to see things differently.

  I miss my eye.

  Not as much as I did at first, but I still miss it, especially when it comes to situations like this, when distance and closeness matter. I can’t play ping-pong. I can’t catch a set of keys if you wing them at me. Those are things that Polly-That-Was could do. Not me. I can’t depend on the world, but other than that, I’m doing fine. I’m moving my story down the road. Slowly, slowly, like an old man in a hat, I’m moving my story down the road.

  I’d rather be home on the couch watching a monstrous shark and monstrous octopus locked in mortal combat. When I say monstrous, I mean really, really big—so big the octopus can slap a fighter jet out of the sky. Fireball! Wreckage plummeting down and disappearing into the waves with a pathetic sizzle. Did I mention the shark is so big it can pull passenger planes out of the sky? Well, it can. And it did. And I don’t know how the pathetic humans are ever going to survive.

  Seriously, I don’t know. That’s the question in every monster movie: how will the humans survive? Not if. Not “do they deserve it?” Just “how?” When it comes to this particular shark/octopus/human three-way death match, I don’t know, because my mom walked in before the stupid movie ended and told me I had company. Then she turned off the television and opened the blinds. And I sat there, blinking in the way-too-bright sunlight, wearing a faded “Walk for the Cure” T-shirt and the U of M flannel boxers Bridger had given me when it was true-love-forever and he was going-to-wait-for-me because two-years-isn’t-too-long-to-wait-for-true-love.

  “Want to go fishing?” It was Odd Estes.

  I hadn’t seen Odd since he got out of the hospital, but I’d seen him plenty during those recovery weeks. He was, in fact, my first and only visitor other than my parents. My friends would have come. Bridger would have come. I know for sure he would have come because of true love and all of that. It just wasn’t allowed. I was quarantined to minimize the risk of contagion. Even my dad, when he came, stayed on the other side of an observation window.

  But the quarantine didn’t apply to Odd, because he was Case Three. I was Case Six. Cases One, Two, Four, Five, and Seven weren’t being very sociable because they were dead.

  It killed a lunch lady, a newborn baby, and three varsity football players.

  Football was probably why it killed them, the athletes, I mean. They played hard. I’m sure they were always a little banged up. A scrape, a blister, that’s all it takes. Every little break in the skin is a welcome mat as far as MRSA is concerned. No pain: no gain. Play hurt. It’s just a scratch. They were athletes, members of a team. And since they were members of a team, they hung out together, which made it handy for the infection. By the time they got sick enough to go to get it checked out, it was too late. It was already systemic. The doctors carved the soft, dead meat off those guys like they were boiled Thanksgiving turkeys. The doctors grabbed surgical saws and filled the air with the smell of hot bone during multiple amputations. The doctors poured the best medicine straight into those proud, blue veins. It didn’t help. Three guys just rotted and died.

  As far as the infection goes, the lunch lady, the little baby, and I hadn’t been in the locker room—so we didn’t catch it there. The lunch lady had a lot of little nicks and burns on her hands. Maybe she touched a doorknob or stair rail or a pen in the front office after the bacteria had found its way out into the classrooms and hallways. I could never really ask or get an answer about how it got to the baby. At some level, I just don’t want to know. As for me, I scratched a zit on my face after I touched a desk or a light switch or the handle on the drinking fountain. That’s how it got me. Never scratch a zit, kids; it only makes it worse. Boy howdy. No fucking kidding.

  Oh, I’m way lucky. I didn’t have an embarrassing acne flare-up. Nope, lucky me, I got flesh-eating bacteria—MRSA, the next-gen superbug. It ate my eye and part of my cheekbone. It left behind a mess of bumpy pink scars that twists the corner of my mouth up on one side like I’m a half-finished Joker. But I’m so lucky, I live. That infection should have gone straight to my brain. I should have died quick. But I didn’t. I’m a miracle of modern medicine, only the medicine doesn’t get much credit, I notice. People say I’m lucky, or I’m blessed, and then they turn away.

  I’m not the only miracle.

  There’s Odd too.

  If anybody ought to have died it was Odd. Not because he deserved to die, although, knowing him as I do, I feel pretty confident saying that most of the world wouldn’t miss him. That’s not it. He should have died because he was right in that locker room, snapping towels with those other naked asses. And he had a little raw place on his ankle where his shoe rubbed him wrong. MRSA got in him and started eating him up. Then it stopped. It stopped killing him, and it stopped attacking people altogether.

  The outbreak was over.

  It left behind a sprinkle of new graves in the community cemetery. In fifty years, a historian could walk through and never notice. They will never guess that this was the year MRSA came to town. With nothing but the dates to go on, the future might chalk it up to a couple of rollovers without seat belts, crib death, and a heart attack. As medical disasters go, it doesn’t compare to the bad old days, like the winter when diphtheria killed brothers and sisters so fast they buried them together in one casket like a huddle of puppies.

  But there will be evidence if the historian knows where to look.

  It’s going to be easy to see the tracks of the flesh-eating monster in the win-loss record for the year. And the section of black-bordered pages in the yearbook is a dead giveaway.

  I’m in the yearbook too—just check the index. There are a lot of page numbers after “Furnas, Polly” because I was a very busy person. I also really liked to have my picture taken.

  “Estes, Odd” has even more numbers after his name—what with the rising sports-star thing. I don’t know if he likes having his picture taken, but he has one of those camera-loves-it faces.

  He is not immediately repulsive.

  But he’s got problems.

  We all have problems.

  And, like I didn’t have enough already, Odd showed up.

  “How do I look? Be honest. My mom’s not being honest.”

  “You sure?”

  “I need to know.”

  He took a second.

  “You look like a mummy.”

  I put my hand up to my face. Of course, the bandages. He doesn’t have X-ray vision. He can’t see through that wad of gauze and goo.

  “Welcome to the twenty-first century, Tut. See you around.” I could hear the crutch-slipper shuffle as Odd left my room and moved down the hospital hallway.

  Odd stopped by a couple t
imes a day after that, during little breaks from practicing walking up and down the short hall in the quarantine unit.

  The visits were always short. He was just taking a breather while he worked to get strong again. They promised he’d get a new, high-tech foot as soon as he was strong enough, and he wanted it. The crutches were just temporary. The robot leg, that was the future.

  Nobody promised me a robot eye.

  We never mentioned that we were in the hospital, or why, or that we had never been friends outside of the quarantine ward. It should be obvious why we didn’t talk about MRSA. As for why we hadn’t been friends before, that is simple: I’m a graduating senior, and he was going to be a junior in the fall. Both of us had other, better, options in the friend department. Until we got stranded in quarantine, that is.

  After a few dead-end convos full of long, uncomfortable silences, we found out we had one thing in common. We both like to fish. Neither of us is obsessed or anything, but the occasional day on the river or a spring creek—we’re down. So we talked about fishing.

  The day I got the letter from Bridger explaining that he understood how I needed time and space to heal . . . and so he wanted to do the right thing . . . and so we would kind of take a little break as far as our relationship . . . and so he wouldn’t be coming home for the summer because he was going to go to Portland to work for his uncle . . . kind of like an internship. The day I got that letter, Odd and I talked about fishing. The day I had the video-consult with the plastic surgeon and learned that it might be possible to do some more reconstruction and scar revision in the future, but not soon, Odd and I talked about fishing. The day I got my provisional diploma in a manila envelope and realized I would never be joining my friends when they moved the tassels on their caps from right to left, Odd was with me. We talked about fishing.