Recently refurbished was how she described her new liver at the holiday party. She laughed something braying and long. Better to make light of an otherwise deeply grim situation: cirrhosis had nearly killed her.

From a tiny glass saucer, Vita sipped something brown and milky. This is my first time drinking in who knows how long, she said. Bailey’s.

I shifted in my seat—had she told others this? or was she confiding in me, a new teacher, practically a stranger? Everyone else had slinked away from our corner of the house, either to warm up by the fireplace or play beer pong in the back.

When she asked how I was holding up, I gave her a response that had become all but rote: Everyone is so great, I said. The students are great. The teachers are great. Everyone has been so supportive. I smiled.

It gets easier, she said.

So the teaching isn’t what drove you to the bottle? This came from Gino, emerging from the patio door. Vita laughed—something short and thin this time—before punching him on the shoulder.

Around the kitchen island, other teachers spoke about Vita’s situation. Apparently, she’d been having her first drink of Bailey’s for weeks now. I’d seen her refill her glass once already. And it didn’t help that her boyfriend was young and wild, I thought. At the party, he spoke at length about the times he was too messed up to drive. Too many to keep track of. I remember this one time, he said, I could only keep a single eye open. The other was shut. I mean, I was half-asleep.

Near the bonfire, someone asked how their trip to Mexico went. The boyfriend said he didn’t want to talk about it. He’d gotten so mad at Vita he drove off without her, blackout. No one asked how Vita made it to the Airbnb afterwards, not when the boyfriend had taken the car. They both returned to the US separately. Most likely, she didn’t remember either.

Later, I walked the perimeter of the party and found Vita where I’d left her, alone. I sank back into my spot, no longer so warm. Vita asked about my own health. She asked about my disease, the mysterious one, the one doctors hadn’t managed to figure out. Are you any better? she asked. Have they cracked the code?

I blew air at my mug—someone had made a large bowl of spiked hot chocolate in the kitchen—and told her I was doing much better. Thanks for asking.

I wasn’t sure how Vita knew about my issue, I’d only told a teacher or two during my first happy hour, but they were talkers, I understood that now. There were no secrets at school.

Vita patted her stomach. She’d peeled off her socks and shoved her pale, bloated feet near a space heater. This is what it was like during our short Florida winters, when nights rarely went below sixty. Our bodies needing the heat we’d spent our lives growing accustomed to. Will you explain it to me again? she asked. What exactly was the problem to begin with?

I took a long sip from my mug, the chocolate scalding my tongue. It’s hot, Vita said, unhelpfully. The roof of my mouth screamed.

All I can say is it ruined my life, I said, running my tongue against the singed skin.

But you’re better?

I finally found a doctor who understands.

Eastern? Oriental?

I shook my head. He administers Botox to the area, a kind of treatment he’s spearheaded. And then the physical therapist does the rest. I do exercises at home too.

It was like a blockage, Vita said, massaging her feet. I understand.

I haven’t been intimate in so many years because of it, I said, staring at the smoldering fire.

A rectal blockage?

I cleared my throat. Vita saw that I was uncomfortable and said, It’s such a strange coincidence that I’ve run into you.

Why is that?

We’re both healing, she said, raising a glass that had been refilled once more during my absence. In our own ways.

 

Here was Jacob, wanting to know if he could sing. Paper-thin and hairless from alopecia, he liked to lift his hands up during class and wave them around like the inflatables from the car wash. No, Jacob, I said. You can’t sing right now.

Can I go on a walk?

His para Yessica and I exchanged a look before I agreed, and from the door I heard Yessica ask if he was feeling anxious or calm. A little anxious, Jacob sang. But also excited.

The school I worked for in downtown Miami was a charter school, though the teachers were veterans, and seemed to love it, which I thought meant it wasn’t one of the bad ones. We were the best in the network, so people from headquarters were constantly dropping in, filming our classes to help better the teachers at their other schools, all of which seemed to be underperforming. As I walked around the room, I tried ignoring the six-people huddle perched behind the tripod in the back, the camera’s blinking red dot.

On his Chromebook, here was another student, searching: What is the body shape of a female alcoholic person?

I lowered myself to his ear. Is this about Vita? I asked.

Who is Vita? the student asked. He had gunk diamonds latched to the corners of his eyes. I had the impulse to brush them away, the way some people do with their dogs and others with their children. Sorry, I said, Miss Sanchez.

Yes, he said. Doesn’t the shape of her seem different to you?

She’s bigger, I said, that’s all.

She’s only fat?

We don’t say fat.

She’s bigger. Okay.

Here was Eugene now, rocking back and forth, his gaze aimed at the ceiling and away from the para reading for him. He was nonverbal and required a small laminated alphabet chart to communicate.

Once Eugene touched a teacher, on the hand, and the teacher said it left her feeling transformed. It’s hard to explain, she’d said, but my entire perspective changed. She quit shortly after.

Sometimes I walked close to Eugene, closer than I should have, all with the strange hope that he’d touch me too. That I, too, could feel changed. I was hungry for a new perspective.

 

With her fist Dottie pounded her blubbery thigh. Nerve damage, she’d said once. Fat varicose veins rose from her legs. But I liked how she smelled. I’d once seen the slim glass bottle from which she dropped fragrant beads all across her neck and chest. Months of searching and I found it in the Dollar Store. Rose water. That’s all it was.

Dottie lived below me. A woman who wore floral nightgowns and never left the building, though she often lounged in the hallway, the way she did now, dragging a chair to her door and planting herself there, watching the people come and go, making conversation. How’re the kids? she asked.

I’m shaping the minds of our next generation.

We’re doomed.

How’s the leg?

Asleep.

Might be time to saw it off.

When she laughed, her mouth opened so wide I could see the smoothness of her gums. She never plopped in her dentures.

One of the new tenants from her floor, Charles, squeezed in behind us, and when he was no longer in earshot, Dottie told me he was an odd one. He has visitors coming and going at all hours of the night, she said. Very suspicious types.

Dottie, I said, do you know what casual sex is?

This is darker than all of that. I have my suspicions on what they do exactly. But that’s one secret I’m not sharing.

After begging with my eyes Dottie said: Pay attention to the trash room. He deposits his materials there when everyone’s sleeping.

I asked what she meant by materials.

Tarps, she said. Who needs so many tarps?

Upstairs, a pot of soup roiled over the kitchen stove. My roommate Emerson loved making soups. Every day of the week he made them. Tossed in a whole chicken, unintentionally letting it boil for hours until it was more of a puree. He was forgetful like this. Often more invested in the alien videos on his phone. He was obsessed, and had recently joined an exclusive Discord channel through which he’d gained access to hours of videos of alleged real life alien dissections. He refused to show these videos to me. According to him, I didn’t have the proper clearance.

I complained about my blockage in bed—on Emerson’s suggestion, we’d decided to split a king as a cost-cutting measure. The spare room would become a shared office, though so far it was only a place for Emerson to store all his alien paraphernalia. Articles and maps of UFO sightings coated the walls. Posters of David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson too.

Emerson was an asexual orphan, which I thought made the bed-sharing less extreme. Once, when he was young, the nuns at the orphanage found him wandering the nearby desert in a state of total delirium. When asked about it afterwards, he said he couldn’t remember why he’d gone out. Someone was calling for me, he’d said. Someone in the sky.

Though this wasn’t proof that aliens existed either, I thought it explained his fascination with them.

Emerson rubbed his small belly. From beneath the covers, his feet stuck out, perfect little feet. He nodded at my complaints—by now, several years in, he’d stopped asking after my blockage—while he scrolled through his phone. When I tried peeking at his screen, he tilted it away. You don’t have proper clearance, he said.

 

At the trampoline park, the group of cutters met in a corner. There were four of them, girls and boys. They bounced up and down listlessly while comparing their most recent wounds. Often, a social worker called them out of class one at a time. This did little to stop them.

Gino sidled himself beside me, the only other chaperone. His was a protuberant nose, which made his whole face seem a little swollen and crooked. You’re not running away from me, he said, inching close, so close I saw his barber had cut some sort of design into his fade. Briefly, I imagined it was a portrait of me.

Don’t act like you don’t know, he said. You always run away from me when I approach. He had his arms crossed, and he turned his head left and right, giving a quick inspection of the kids jumping up and down. I told him what he said wasn’t true.

You did it at the party, he said.

I was refilling my drink.

We really should be friends, he said. You know why. Besides, I think we’d be good friends anyway.

Gino pointed at Imani, the tiniest of the eight graders, as he spun in the air, doing several backflips before landing gracefully on the trampoline. He’s probably, you know, Gino said.

You can be effeminate and still grow up to be normal, I said.

Normal?

I blushed and blanched. You know what I meant, I said.

Here was Imani, continuing his jumps, his spins, and the more he jumped, and the more he spun, the bolder and more careless he became. He twirled. Sometimes landing on trampoline squares far off from where he’d started. He kept going until he flew past the room divider and onto a concrete spot by the air hockey tables. He cried out.

His legs were bent and smashed. Imani twisted his head while tears poured down his cheeks. I looked at Gino.

I held his arm. I told him the truth.

I’m worried we’ll develop feelings for each other, and I’m not ready for that. It’s been so long because of the blockage. Do you understand?

He was holding Imani down. When he looked at me, he shot me a bewildered, almost offended expression.

Oh, I said, and Imani screamed.

 

The doctor told me to be more juvenile with my sexuality. To rub myself up against furniture. Doorknobs. To mimic the actors on the pornos he had me watch, pushing my ass up and spreading myself wide. He was an amputee. Watching him, I felt an itch all over. Especially around my knee. I said, Look at my fingers, aren’t they swollen?

He brought his eyes up close to my index and said, That’s a sign of heartbreak.

I saw my ex on the subway a few days ago, I said. He got fat in the face.

The doctor tilted his head down so his eyes popped over his glasses. You’re no spring chicken.

When he returned to inspecting me, I asked if I’d get better. He rubbed his half-leg and said, Yes, your bottom is going to be brand-new once we’re done with it. Aren’t you the lucky one?

 

 

 

Because I was one of the teachers on duty during Imani’s accident, I was put on leave after his parents decided to sue the school. The administration needed to investigate if I too was at fault. Everyone was apologetic at the weekly happy hour. I told them not to be. They told me to sue the school too.

Gino cut a curt nod in my direction when he arrived. Like me, he’d also been put on leave.

Vita waved me over. She told me her shaman had given her some extra toad venom, and since I had the time, why didn’t I take a little trip?

I thought of her stay in Mexico and told her I was fine.

You think you’re so above trying toad venom? she asked, pushing a small baggie in my hands.

I don’t think I’m above anything, I said. Besides, did it even help you?

Bailey’s once a week is not the same as before, she said, you know that. Floating above her coaster was a tall glass filled to the brim. No ice.

That reminds me, Vita said. From her fanny pack, she fished out a Ziplock in which drifted several pills. She aimed her finger at each one and listed them: Lactaid, Imodium, Gas-X.

Have you thought of drinking something that doesn’t have dairy?

I like the taste, she said, tossing back the assortment of colorful pellets with a gulpful of Bailey’s.

 

Here was Dottie, on her chair, hammering her leg. The pleasant rose scent drifted forward with every shift of her body. When she said it was a shame what had happened, I told her good things never last.

Bad things don’t either, she said. It’s all about balance.

I really like working with middle schoolers, I said. I never expected to like it so much. It’s come as a shock, how much I like it. And now that it’s been taken from me, I’m sorta at a loss with what to do.

It’s only temporary. They’ll bring you back. And if they don’t, there are other schools you can work at.

I feel like the rug’s been pulled from under me. Another surprising feeling.

You’ll be fine, she said. You’ll always be fine.

She paused, hit her leg. You need to stop thinking about it, she said. Focus your attention on something else. Have you been checking out the trash room?

The trash room?

Charles, she said.

I didn’t care enough about what Charles got to in his spare time, but I told Dottie I’d check it out, and then I floated upstairs, where another pot of soup boiled over my kitchen stove. Tomato. Emerson jumped up to meet me at the door. I’ve leveled up on my Discord, he said, unable to contain his excitement.

What does that mean?

He explained he now had access to live footage of the dissections. I asked how he knew it was live and not prerecorded, meaning not a hoax.

Trust me, it’s live.

But how do you know? I asked. On the table stood Emerson’s bottle of Gold Bond Foot Cream. He’d been moisturizing his feet. A part of me thought he did this because he knew I liked his feet.

You can tip them so they can say something on camera, he said, wiggling his toes before tucking a foot behind the other, half-hiding it.

The aliens can speak?

Not the aliens. The dissectors.

Oh, I said, disappointed.

This is the best day of my life, Emerson said. He beamed.

 

Without school to fill my days, most nights I dropped into the neighborhood bar to strip away that lost feeling with a loving buzz. Here was a group of kids in a corner tapping into their phones, spending tens of dollars to play from the jukebox. Top thirty and nothing else. And here was Gino, at the end of the bar on this particular night, and I sat beside him. Will this be awkward? I asked.

I won’t make it awkward if you won’t, he said. Oil and sweat shone from his nose, the space heaters were nearby, which had the effect under the bar’s dim lighting of softening his features. Gone was the swollen and crooked slant.

You hate me, I said, remember? The ball is in your court.

I don’t hate you, Gino said after I’d ordered a pickleback and he’d made a face.

Have you ever had sex with a tarp? I asked, smacking my lips to the briny hot taste.

I’m into men, Gino said, not tarps.

A few drinks later, our thighs touching, the heat of Gino’s body against my skin, and Gino was saying we should go back to his place. He lived near the bay in a large one-bedroom filled with well-curated, possibly very expensive furniture. You’d be surprised by what kinda money you can make after seven years at school, he said.

Gino led me to his bed, so comfortable my body, unaccustomed to such luxury, began to ache. I said, We should have been paying more attention. With Imani at the trampoline park.

We were doing exactly what was required of us, Gino said.

You were trying to seduce me with your eyes.

Gino gave me a snort.

I’d like a clean conscience, I said.

You’re being stupid. We did nothing wrong. Imani was being a kid. It’s what kids do.

You’re right, I said. I pressed myself a little closer to Gino. I think we should fuck now.

You make me nervous. I can’t ever tell what you’re going to do next.

Do you not find that hot?

It’s scary.

I think you’ll feel better if you put your dick in my butt.

Gino snorted again, but I could sense his arousal returning. He readjusted his body until we were properly facing each other. His palm on the small of my back. Then lower. Lower.

I told him I had a certain issue once, a blockage, but I thought it was resolved now, that I was fixed, but we had to try it, otherwise I’d be done for good. Gino smiled. He didn’t seem to understand. And when he pushed himself inside of me, heat rattled my spine, a painful heat, not the heat I remembered, but I told him to keep going, because I was fine, I would always be fine.

 

The hallway stank of shit or death. Something I mentioned to Emerson when I got to the apartment. A blast of hot air hit me at the door: more soup. From the smell of it, Italian wedding.

Emerson frowned. Do you think it’s Dottie? he asked. The smell? Her chair wasn’t out there.

Now that he was saying this, he was right. She wasn’t sat beside her door the way she always was.

We shot each other looks of alarm, we ran downstairs, we stopped to a gathering of other tenants in the hall. All agreed it must be Dottie. The smell.

Is she dead? Emerson asked. He was clutching at his neck. He could be so sensitive like that. With death, in particular. And kidnappings. And rapes. Though, to my surprise, alien dissections he stomached perfectly fine.

We called the police, and when they arrived, they were quick in tearing the door off its hinges. Not a moment later and here was Dottie, wobbling in from the back, sleep-rumpled. What in the world!

You’re alive. Emerson slid down the wall in relief.

Do you smell that? she asked, directing her attention at me. She shook her head as the police knocked on the other doors in the hallway, and she said that the apartment we were looking for was 5H. Charles’s. The police seemed to hesitate before banging on Charles’s door. Then they banged and banged until Charles, slim body choked by a bathrobe, swung it open. The smell immediately intensified. What’s going on?

We’re investigating a suspicious odor, the officer said. Is everything alright in there?

Yes, he said. Everything is alright. He tightened his bathrobe’s knot.

Do you mind if we come in?

I’m in the middle of something, Charles said. His gaze drifted towards all the other nosy tenants who had packed the hall.

Just let them in, someone said.

You don’t want to come in, Charles said. Trust me.

But he flung the door open wider and winked at the cops, who passed the threshold anyway, here they were plodding down Charles’s hall, the door closing shut.

From the ground, Emerson was back to watching the live feed on his phone. The cops returned a few moments later, lips all disgust-puckered. Never seen anything like that, one of them said.

We all like what we like, Charles said. We all have our private fantasies.

 

Here I was pounding the little gong with the little hammer Vita had told me to buy, and here I was filling a pipe—because school had yet to cut my suspension, and I had nothing else to do, I decided to try Vita’s toad venom—and here I was inhaling.

I rolled on the ground.

I kicked my legs up.

A pure white light lifted me up into space, and a man spoke into my ear. He said beautiful things I couldn’t hear, there was no voice, but he said it all. Behind his presence stood the presence of a dozen other figures. They were long and green and told me they were from another world. And then I stopped being.

 

In our living room, Emerson paced back and forth while I pulled on my coat—the email inviting me back to school came overnight. What do you mean you saw aliens? he asked. I had a vague headache from the night before but otherwise felt normal.

I saw aliens, I said. I felt no need to convince him. These were cold hard facts to me. I told him I was going to be late. That if he didn’t believe me, he should try some toad venom himself.

Has anyone ever died taking toad venom? he asked.

Taking toad venom is like a small death, I said. So you could say people die all the time. That it’s expected. I have to go now.

Also, I said, I’ve been thinking. Maybe you should wear socks in bed. I have a boyfriend now, after all.

But you love my feet, Emerson said as the door closed shut behind me.

In my classroom, the six-people huddle had returned, again clustered behind a camera as I gave my lesson, as Jacob waved his arms around, as one of the cutters had her head on her desk. And when I passed Eugene, he seized my hand.

He ran it up my arm before pressing it down into my elbow’s ditch. He met my eyes, briefly, which he never did, and then the moment was over.

Class ended and I rubbed where Eugene had touched.

I waited for a feeling to emerge. Would my life change now?

Hadn’t it already?

At my desk, I waited, the sun beginning to set. Now that I was back in school I never wanted to leave. And I considered the possibility of doing just that. Staying at my desk into nighttime. Crouching below it for a few hours of sleep. Wandering the halls at dawn. Washing off the sweat in the teacher’s bathroom. Kept in school forever, I’d never have to worry about the blockage. I’d never have to worry at all.

I examined my ditch. The skin looked so normal, but that didn’t mean much. All of us looked normal. Charles looked normal. Dottie looked normal. Emerson and Vita and Gino too. But none of us were normal.

Here I was, still, sat at my desk, with my elbow up.