Empty (21 page)

I sit straight up in bed.

The blanket falls onto my lap. I know the place. Of course it’s the place. My clock says it’s close to three now, and I do not want the sun coming up until I’m gone. I’ve gotta hustle. My pajamas are replaced by a T-shirt and a fresh pair of jeans.

The thought of dying ignites me. It’s like the Grim
Reaper has given me mouth-to-mouth, filling me up with a dark purpose. I am in control. A flood of peaceful excitement makes me smile. I’m happy now. I have maybe an hour or so to live, and I’m happier than I’ve been in two years. My fingertips tingle as I stroke Meggie’s blanket. A sense of contentment crawls up my arms and settles in my heart.

I want to die.

I’m ready to let everything go and release it back into space. The bad and the good. I hope the crap energy evaporates. I don’t want it to survive without me. But all the good must go to my little sister. I want every bit of my soul’s residual goodness to land on Meggie like tiny sparkly feathers. Then I’ll always be with her.

I somehow pull on a pair of socks and slip my feet into my slides. I’m dressed to die. This thought sends a fresh shiver of excitement up my spine. I’m doing this. My shit life will no longer be connected to me. I can float up with the stars. Weightless. Free. Happy. I dump my backpack onto my bed. I stare at my math textbook. I’ll never have to do trig proofs again. I shove in the pills, my cell, and Meggie’s blanket, then zip it shut.

I’m ready to write my letter now. I grab my pen and notebook and let it out.

Dear Mom,

All that matters is that you loved me the best way you knew how. Tell Meggie I love her. Tell Cara I’m sorry and that I was telling the truth. Tell Dad he’s a motherfucking selfish asshole.

Please don’t be mad at me for too long. This is not your fault.

I love you,

Adele

I quietly rip the page from my notebook and fold it in half. I’m close to the door when I realize that I want to take one last look at Meggie. I turn around and walk to her crib. Her butt’s still in the air. This makes me smile.

I whisper, “Bye, baby girl. I will always love you. Be good to Mommy. I’m sor—” I choke. The rest of my words will never leave my throat. I have to go now.

I stand at my mother’s closed door and lightly put my open hand on it. I shut my eyes, let the tears roll down my cheeks, and create our good-bye. . . .

Mom, things will be all right. You’ll see.

I understand, Adele. I love you.

I love you too.

I mouth “I’m sorry.”

In the dark kitchen, I add a water bottle to my backpack and lay my letter on the table. I unfold it and flatten it out with my hands. I hate the frayed edges. It looks sloppy. I want it to look perfect. I carefully tear off the ugly part and then reflatten it.

When I’m satisfied, I grab my mother’s car keys and limp out the door. I take a few long and drawn-out breaths before I start my trek down the stairs. I’m good. I can do this. I will never have to look at Brandon Levitt or Taryn Anderson again. They can have their beautiful, popular life, get married, get old. Then he’ll get fat and lose his hair and she’ll get stretch marks and a fat ass.

“Go to hell,” I whisper to no one.

I make it to my mother’s car, but I’m dripping sweat by the time I get there. As soon as I’m behind the wheel I have to wipe my hands on my jeans and mop off my face. I get the key in the ignition, and the car comes to life. Before any late-night
nosy-bodies look out of their windows, I drive.

Not a single car passes me on the road. Every stoplight is blinking. I like feeling as if I’m the only person awake. It’s fantastically peaceful. I roll down my window and let the cool air whoosh against my flushed face. I let the car idle at the
stop
sign next to the softball field and stick my arm straight out my window and give it the finger. My cheek rests on my shoulder and I gaze at the dugout. It wasn’t that my teammates never meshed with me—I never meshed with them. I never gave any of those girls a chance.

My foot releases the brake, and I slowly accelerate. I un-stiffen my middle finger and form a fist. I punch the top of my thigh with everything I’ve got. With gritted teeth I take the pain; the sting will have to count as my apology to my team.

I pull into the parking lot and drive around the back of school. Crap, I forgot about the lights. They’re always on in this parking lot.
Doesn’t matter,
I tell myself,
no one’s here.

As soon as I park the car, the smell of trash invades my nostrils. I make no move to roll up the window. Instead, I close my eyes and let filth and rot slide into my lungs, where they feel right at home with my decomposing heart.

My buzzing phone makes my eyes snap open. Cara is still at it. I unzip my backpack and am about to turn off my phone when I’m face-to-face with her latest text.

We have to talk. I’ll call u in morn.

I stare at her text and realize that I feel nothing. Cara will call me in the morning. I will not answer. I won’t see her ever again, and I’m okay with this. I leave my phone on the front seat. I’ve gotta get in there. It’s almost four o’clock.

I use the shoulders of my T-shirt to de-sweat my face again, then roll up the window. I grab my backpack.

Time to die.

I leave my mother’s keys on the front seat and the car unlocked. I don’t want her to have to pay some locksmith jerk to get them out. I don’t slam the car door, but gently click it shut. The loud noise would break the tranquility.

The stairs down to the dark hallway underneath the stage are directly in front of me. I hope the door is unlocked like Cara said. I loop both arms through my backpack, like a five-year-old, and limp down the stairs. The metal doorknob is cold to the touch, and it turns all the way. Score.

I look over my shoulder with one last glance to make sure that I’m alone. I am. I push the door open, hop inside, and close it behind me.

I am in complete darkness.

“Ohhhh,” I exhale. I have no phone. No flashlight.
How the hell am I going to make it to the stage? It’s like construction-paper dark down here—thick and pulpy and heavy. I lean my head back and gently gong it on the door once, twice, three times. How could I have forgotten how dark it was down here?

I wait until my eyes adjust. After a minute or so I can actually see. Who needs a flashlight? I have good eyesight. I go slowly because I don’t want to knock into anything and make any more noise than I already have. I don’t know if the custodial staff works on Saturdays, but I think I’d freak out if one of them stopped me from doing what I came to do. Now that I’ve made my decision, I can’t go back.

I can’t go back—I don’t
want
to go back.

The pills I took earlier dull my pain, so I quicken my pace. I reach the top of the stairs leading to the stage.

I ease the side door open and listen. I am alone. Only the red
exit
signs are illuminated, and compared to the darkness I just navigated, it seems as bright as day up here.

I make my way onto the stage and squint.
Where’s my traffic cone?
I scan the space. Someone put it back in its original place. How nice. The curtain is still closed. I was hoping it would still be closed.

I stand in the exact spot where I sang and take off my backpack. What happened on this stage floods my brain, but I
remain calm. I let each moment replay as I breathe in and out. I want to remember it all: the fizz of the soda on my lips, the blood trickling down Kim’s cheek, the few seconds of stunned silence before the rush of applause. The mooing. The airborne traffic cone. All of it. Each instance proves I was alive, that I lived. I did exist on this planet, even if it was only for seventeen years. I was here.

Will I be remembered?

I roll my eyes. I don’t care about that.

I try to sit down on the stage, and I cry out in pain. Toe still broken. Body still obese. I stand there, out of breath. If anyone is in this building there’s no way they didn’t hear me scream. I strain to listen for footsteps. All is silent.

I am not dying in a chair. I’d be slumped in some ugly position or fall flat on my face. I have to get down on the stage floor somehow. I want to lie down. I lift my one leg out in front of me and go into a squat. Gravity and fat girls are a lethal combination, because it feels as if someone pushes me. I slam onto my ass, and the back of my head smacks the stage. Hard.

“Ow. Shit. Ow.” I reach back and check for blood. My hand is dry. At least I’m lying down now. My chest heaves as I get my bearings. I lift up on my elbows to locate my backpack. I must’ve kicked it across the stage by accident, because it’s five
feet away from me. God, my butt hurts. I went down hard. I roll over onto all fours and crawl to my backpack. Each time my hands make contact with the stage, I see white spots. I probably have a concussion. I crawl back to my spot, dragging my backpack.

I want to die where I sang. It’s stupid, but it’s what I want to do. This is the spot where I was the happiest. I’m hoping the wood floor has leftover energy—blissful energy—that will penetrate my skin and lift my soul from this world. Lift me up to the stars.

Even though I didn’t put anything about it in my note, I know it won’t take that long for people to find me. School will be filled on Monday, and my mother’s car is out back. They’ll look around in here.

I unzip my backpack. I wish magic was real. Gazing into David Blaine’s or Criss Angel’s eyes as they did their magic and made me vanish into thin air wouldn’t be bad. I smirk.
Thin
air.

There aren’t sexy magicians here. All I’ve got are pills.

I hold the pill bottle in one hand and the water in the other. I know I have to take every pill or it won’t work. Some senior girl tried to kill herself with aspirin and allergy medication, but she didn’t take enough of either and ended up with a pumped stomach and a bunch of finger-pointing and whispering.

I have to do it right.

Five pills down. I look up into the shadows of the stage lights above me. I’m relieved they’re not on, because dying while cooking underneath hot lights like a convenience-store breakfast sandwich does not sound appealing to me. I sweat enough as it is. Five more. Deep breaths. Then another five. I inspect my water bottle—I don’t have much left. Why didn’t I grab two bottles? Stupid. I swallow more pills with less water, and one gets stuck in my throat. I gag a few times, and then it’s down.

I look inside the pill container to count how many groups of five I have to take. I dump what’s left onto my palm. I’ve got twelve more to go. Three more swallows. I lift the water bottle up to my face. I think I can do it. The first group goes down easy. The stage lights are so big up there. Five more. My stomach twists. Is it happening already? It can’t be; they’re capsules. I swallow the last two and marvel that I still have a sip of water left. I finish it and lie back on the stage.

I don’t feel good.

I feel like I’m going to throw up. I can’t do that or everything will be ruined. I left a note. I can’t throw up.
Don’t puke!
I shout in my head. I don’t.

I close my eyes. I am relaxed. I want this. I imagine the stage suddenly shooting light from underneath me, microscopic
particles of happiness releasing from the floor and penetrating my skin. Through my layers of fat, I feel it. I swear I can. A warm sensation tingles up my legs. Are the stage lights on now? My eyes droop. It’s still dark. But I can feel the happiness. It’s real.

I lie perfectly still for a while. The absolute silence is calming.

A sharp prickle starts in my fingertips and pulses with each heartbeat. I open and close my hands a few times, then rub the smooth, shellacked wooden floor beneath me. I can’t feel anything. My hands are numb. I slowly lick my lips. Or do I? I can’t tell.

Meggie! I forgot her blanket. I want it around my neck.

Shit. I don’t feel good. I have lost all sense of time. It takes a tremendous amount of effort to pry my eyelids open. They form slits, but refuse to stay that way. I give in and just close them. I fish for my backpack, pulling it to my side. It’s still unzipped. I fumble around. Where is it? How could I have forgotten to take out Meggie’s blanket? Stupid. I can’t find it. My stomach really hurts. I can’t puke.

I love my sister.

I try to remember her smell. I can’t do it. My eyes won’t open. I love my sister. She smells so good. I love you, Meggie-bedeggie.

My sister smells like lo . . .

DEAR READER,

I did not write this book to sensationalize or shock. I intended Dell’s story to serve as a window into her soul—the soul of a broken human being. I wanted you, precious reader, to feel the pain of the bullied, the neglected, the heartbroken, and the humiliated. I wanted you to experience the absolute power of hateful words—whether said or typed online. Words count.