The House of Tomorrow by Peter Bognanni Page A

myself.
    “You urinated . . .”
    “In my pants,” he said. “That’s what stinks in here. I lied when I said there was no smell. There’s a smell. It’s my pissed pants. They’re in the closet.”
    Jared let escape a short laugh, then punctuated it with a sniffle.
    “How did this occur?” I asked.
    “Meds,” he said. “It’s this new med I’m on. It makes me go to the bathroom all the time. I got tired of it, so I tried to hold it in, you know. And . . . I fucking couldn’t.”
    He sat down on the floor now in front of a box of compact discs. He lifted up a few and pulled out a package of cigarettes.
    “Would you put a towel at the bottom of the door, Sebastian?” he asked.
    I laid the humming guitar on the bed and found a towel, hanging on a hook near the closet. I covered the bottom of the door. Jared lit a cigarette.
    “My mom wants me to try going back to school soon,” he said. “How am I supposed to do that when I’m pissing in my pants? How is that going to work?”
    He took a long inhalation and spit it back out.
    “How old are you?” I asked.
    “Sixteen.”
    “How did you learn to smoke?”
    “A kid at the hospital showed me,” he said. “This eighteen-year-old in for back surgery. He was really into the Dead Kennedys. Anyway, he taught me. Any other questions?”
    The smoke crept up and gathered around the light.
    “Why were you in the hospital?” I asked.
    “Do you want to see?” he said.
    “See what?”
    “I can show you what I was in for.”
    “I want to see,” I said.
    Jared extinguished his cigarette in a nearby soda can. He rose to his feet and walked to the stereo. He fumbled with the switches again. I watched him push track number five again on his disc.
    “Take a good look, okay?” he said. “I’m only going to do this once.”
    The opening drumbeats of “Teenagers from Mars ” began again. Jared closed his eyes. I saw his eyeballs fluttering behind his lids. The humidifier was still going in the corner, and I noticed now how the room seemed to be alive with shiny droplets of moisture. It glistened on the front of his music posters. On his disc cases. On the frames of his black glasses. Jared pulled an arm inside his shirt. Then he pulled the other arm in. He wriggled for a moment and then lifted the skeleton shirt over his head.
    He held onto his shirt, and I could see his hand shaking. On the stereo the song was in its rollicking chorus again.
    Teenagers from Mars, and we don’t care.
Teenagers from Mars and we don’t . . .
    Right in the middle of Jared’s chest was a long thin scar. It was purplish and perfectly even. An entirely straight slice.
    From downstairs came Mrs. Whitcomb’s voice, scarcely audible over the music.
    “Sebastian, I can take you home now if you’re ready!”
    I didn’t answer. The stereo kept playing.
    “I have someone else’s heart,” said Jared.
    I stared at his hunched pale body, his ribs like metal struts. I tried to imagine the heart in there, an enlarged tangle of blue and purple valves. I thought of the scar opening up like an eyelid to show me.
    “I’ve only had it for a couple of years,” he said, looking down toward his chest.
    I walked over to Jared. He didn’t move. He just watched as I reached out a finger to touch the scar. At the last minute, though, he grabbed my hand. He gripped it for a moment then let it go.
    “Jared!” shouted Mrs. Whitcomb. “Did you guys hear me?”
    “He’s leaving right now, Mom!” Jared yelled.
    He moved away from me and started carefully pulling his shirt back on. I retrieved my helmet from the bed and stood watching Jared for a moment. He did not face me. I could tell he was waiting for me to exit the room. So I just walked out, and he did not follow. We didn’t say good-bye. I made my way down the hallway and back downstairs. Mrs. Whitcomb was waiting by the front door with her van keys in hand. Meredith was nowhere to be seen.
    “C’mon,” said Janice. “Let’s get