I moved right from destruction to a daredevil stage, by climbing anything and everything. I became an expert at scaling heights. My mom would find me perched on top of the fridge, the top shelf of my closet, and my all-time favorite, the roof of the house. The first time I climbed on top of the house she called the fire department to get me down. The kind fireman who scaled the roof plucked me up like a sack of potatoes and carried me down. He lectured me on safety and the harm I could have come to. I soaked his words up like a sponge, and the next time I scaled the roof, I waited for one of the tragic events he'd claimed would occur, but after an hour had passed without a sudden
fall resulting in multiple broken bones, I was highly disappointed. None of his prophecies came to pass, so I was once again plucked off the roof by another fireman. This one wasn't so kind and told my mom to keep a better eye on me since their services were needed for real emergencies. I guess I should have expected bars on my window after that, but Mom solved the problem by limiting my time at home, which meant more time at church. So, in a way, she found the ultimate punishment. Church always won. It stole every hour I was supposed to have with my parents. I hated the thieving bastard.
"So, what do you think?" James asked, breaking through my thoughts.
"I'm sorry, what did you say?" I asked.
"I said
,
do you want to hang after school? My dad's working double shifts all week, so I'm free. Maybe we can hang at your house. You know, talk about
'it'
.
"
"It"
was how we referred to our pact. We always avoided the word
suicide
, feeling once it was uttered someone would somehow find out and try to intervene. Who would have ever foreseen that the actions of one would be the very thing that would seal my fate? For four years I had done nothing but contemplate snuffing out my existence. No more judgments, no more glares and most of all, no more gossip surrounding things I had done. All of that was swiped away. In the end, they would still win. They always won.
"Can't, I have freaking tutoring," I said, finally answering his question as I grimaced at the idea of staying at school a minute longer than I wanted to.
"Tutoring? I thought all your teachers had given up on you," he said, trying to hide his disappointment. He hated his house even when his father wasn't home.
"Not that
bitch Ms. Jones. It's either tutoring with some know-it-all, or she wants to schedule a meeting with my mom.
"Would she even show?" he asked.
"Probably not.
You know her rules though—either I keep my nose clean here and my grades passing, or she's sending me to that bullshit trade school for troubled teens in Jackson County."
"I can tutor you," he said as a last-ditch attempt.
"I told Whore Cat that, but she said either I used her approved tutor or it was conference time. I'll try to duck out early and we can meet at my house. I'll give you my key and you can head there to wait for me."
"Nah, that's okay. I can go to my house," he said reluctantly.
"James,
it's
fine. Hang at my house."
"You sure?"
"Sure. No one will be home. You'll have the house to yourself until I get there."
"Thanks, M," he said, looking almost happy at the rare solitude he'd have.
In our own demented way, we were made for each other. He craved solitude while I felt solitude was a just punishment.
"So, who's your tutor?" he asked, laying back down next to me.
"I'm not sure. Whore Cat was pretty much closemouthed about it. Knowing my luck, it'll be some eager beaver freshman."
He nodded. "That sounds like something she'd do."
"Strangle me now," I said sarcastically, wrapping my fingers around my throat to emphasize my point.
"M, can I ask you a question?"
"Um, yeah."
"You think you'd still go through with
it
?" he asked.
He didn't need to clarify.
"I want to. I mean, I just want to disappear, leave nothing behind, but today showed me that's not possible. I don't want anyone here to falsely mourn me. I don't know. Maybe if I make it to grad, I can disappear and no one here will ever give me another thought once we walk out the doors the last day of class. What about you?"
"I guess I feel the same as you," he said, sounding anything but sure.
"At least we have each other. One day you'll be away from your dickhead father and I'll be away from my void of a life."
"If I make it that long," he said, running the stick in his hands against the metal railing of the walkway.
I didn't comment. Our friendship was formed on non-probing. He didn't ask about my lack of parental involvement or my inability to touch other people, and I didn't ask about his father or his bruises. We weren't typical friends. We were silent comforters. I felt his pain and he felt mine. We'd been friends since the start of freshman year when we both headed out to the portables during lunch to escape the crowds. It took almost six months for us to talk to each other the first time, and another six for us to actually hang out. He was the only friend I had and yet, there was still so much I didn't know about him.
The bell ending lunch interrupted any further conversation as we gathered our belongings.
"See you in a few," I said, heading toward the math building. Out of all my classes, I minded math the least. The teacher, Mr. Carson, was pretty straightforward. He'd cover the day's material for the first fifteen minutes of class and then give us the remaining thirty-two minutes to figure out the problems for the day's assignment. I usually spent ten of those minutes blowing through the problems, really not caring how many I missed, and would spend the rest of the time doodling in my notebook. I would have preferred to read, but I'd learned long ago that when teachers saw that you liked to read they started to expect more from you, so I doodled. I was a terrible artist, but the monotony of drawing helped make the hours slide away and gave me the excuse of not having to look up. Not that I had to worry about anyone looking at me.
When I first started freshman year, the stares of the other students followed me wherever I went. I could tell they already knew who I was. Maybe I should have been upset that my spotty reputation had followed me, but instead, it gave me the cloak of deception I yearned for. I was no longer the same person I'd been in junior high, but they didn't need to know that. I was fine with their assumptions. I didn't hang with anyone, and my appearance didn't tie me to any particular group either. My never-changing dark wardrobe, sometimes color-streaked hair and tattooed wrist were nothing that you would consider flamboyant. I didn't talk unless I had to, and I definitely didn't participate in anything. The part of me that would have cared died a long time ago.
Mr. Carson started the class off like every other teacher that day by bringing up Mitch's untimely death. "Mr. Wilson wants us to remind each student that grief counseling is available if you need it," he said, sweeping his eyes over us. No one moved. After four class periods of the same exact announcement, we all knew grief counseling was available. It was as if they were waiting for someone to break. To lose their shit, but that wasn't going to happen. No one really cared. Mitch wasn't an athlete, he wasn't a
scholar, and he wasn't a geek. He had been nothing but a shadow.
A shadow like me.
A shadow like James.
The school didn't lose a student, they lost
a nobody
.
Sixth period sucked ass. Mrs. Harrison, my language arts teacher, decided that we should get our feelings about Mitch's death down on paper. She assigned a five-hundred-word essay on what we thought about suicide. I stared at my blank page for more than twenty minutes before finally scrawling out "Suicide Equals No Peace" a hundred-and-twenty-five times. I was quite certain Mrs. Harrison had something else in mind for the assignment, but nothing summed it up better for me. I was now in the sound frame of mind that I would have to poke my eyes out if I heard the word "
suicide
" one more time. Months of thinking it was a viable option for me to disappear without a trace had melted away as quickly as ice on a hot summer day. There would be no escape for me.
The bell rang, ending sixth period, and for the first time in my existence, I was actually relieved to be going to P.E. class. P.E. meant running laps. No essays, no group talk and no grief counseling. No talking. Just running shoes pounding the track.
I placed my fraud of an essay upside down in the basket on Mrs. Harrison's desk before shuffling out the door. I was the last to leave the room. The jostling of the students in the halls made my "
no touch
" policy tricky, so I waited against the walls of the hall until most of the students had scattered to their appropriate rooms. I would then sprint the distance to my next class, always sliding in just as the tardy bell would chime.
P.E. was easier since we had five extra minutes to dress-out, but I would have gladly given up that five minutes in exchange for never having to dress-out again.
I hated it. Whoever came up with the idea should be hooked to Times Square's New Year's Eve Ball in their underwear. It was criminal to make teenagers strip down in front of each other. Was it too much to ask for privacy booths? Nothing
elaborate
, but something that would at least help the students keep their sanity. As wrong as the teenage "striptease" seemed, the communal showers boarded on medieval torture. I was pretty sure I would have preferred ancient thumbscrew torture over showering with my classmates. If I was thankful about anything about my time in this institute they liked to call high school, it was the ability to switch our schedules around. I'd managed to manipulate my schedule, making P.E. my last class of the day. No public showers for me. I headed home every day in my sweaty gym clothes, feeling my damp clothes were a small price to pay to avoid the communal watering hole.
Standing in front of my gym locker, I pulled my freshly laundered P.E. shorts out of my worn-out backpack. I had five pairs. Anal retentive yes, but I didn't care. I liked pulling on fresh shorts every day. With my back to the wall, I stretched down the waistband of my plain black t-shirt so that it covered my ass, and then used the toe of each foot to remove my black Vans. Placing my shoes on the bench in front of me, I pulled off my black jeans in one fluid movement. Within seconds, and without looking around, I yanked on my generic P.E. shorts and straightened up. I was putting my Vans back on when a conversation five lockers down snagged my attention.
"I heard they're planning the memorial service for Friday. It would be some sweet shit if they let us out early for it.
Nothing like starting our weekend off with a half-day."
Obviously the grief counseling had worked wonders on Megan considering she was bawling her eyes out in first period.
Ignoring her today was harder than it normally was for me. I wanted to knock her down on her skinny-iced-latte-drinking ass, but I fought the urge since it would most likely require me touching her. Instead, I kept my eyes down, and hurried out of the locker room before I did something stupid.
Coach Clark was waiting by the track with clipboard in hand.
"Madison, no gym shirt again?" he asked, shaking his head.
I shook my head, not bothering to watch as he added a mark by my name. It was an automatic ten-point deduction off your grade if you didn't dress out. I dressed out halfway so I lost five points. Not having to pull my shirt off in front of anyone in the locker room made the five point punishment totally worth it in my book. Even with the deduction I still got an A in P.E. every quarter. Coach Clark and I had an unspoken agreement. I would run laps the entire period without complaint, and he would allow me to skip out on any group activities he might have planned for the day. We'd reached this agreement when I flat-out refused to participate in basketball, volleyball or God forbid, field hockey. As punishment, Coach Clark would make me run laps, but I actually didn't mind. Laps became my norm. I wasn't a fast runner, but I could handle long-distance running without having to work at it. Running was the one thing I felt I could control. Coach Clark had tried to hit me up to join the track team when I was a sophomore. I shot him down before he could even get the words out. There was no way in hell was I going to join an organized sport. I shuddered at the forced camaraderie that would accompany it, like butt slapping, chest bumping and group huddles. The mere idea of it all made me want to hurl. Solitary is all I wanted. Solitary was what I deserved.
P.E. passed in a blur for me as I circled the track over and over again, matching my breathing with my pace. The track belonged to me today. The rest of the class was divided up into teams that chased a black-and-white ball across the soccer field. I didn't glance their way, continuing my way around the track as I processed the radical turn of events my life had taken in the span of
a
day. My future seemed uncertain and hazy as I contemplated making it through the rest of the school year, and then from there, the rest of my life. I had clutched at the idea of suicide being a viable out for so long that I felt shaky and strung out as the idea of actually living loomed in front of me. The class period ended, but even as I walked off the track the shakes persisted, following me like a dark cloud. I yearned to be home so I could curl up on my bed and put the awful day behind me, but I still had the tutoring session that Whore Cat had set up to attend first. I was stuck here.