Authors: Susan Vaught
“Hit me.” The red spots faded. Black and blue, too, and the heat went away faster than fast. All drained out. Blowing up was done. Empty and cold inside now. Shivering cold. No more volcanoes. Just ice. Ice like Mom, out on her beach, trying to get warm again. “Hit, hit, hit, ears, beach. Mom.”
The bell rang.
Over that loud sound, the Wench made another try. “There won’t be any hitting here!”
She sounded lots like the bell, all high and ear-hurting loud until it stopped. Only, I could still hear the bell and the Wench a little, ringing in the back of my brain.
Leza punched my shoulder, but not hard. Then she started to cry. “Your mom left—your mom—God!” She sobbed. “Now you’re scaring girls you don’t even know and daring my brother to hit you? I
swear
, Jersey, somebody should hit you.” She wiped her eyes real fast with both hands. “Todd was
this
close to talking to you. If you’d just—oh, never mind. I’m done for now. I’m just done.”
The Wench didn’t even try to talk. Her face froze up worse than Mom’s and she looked around a lot, like she hoped somebody else would show up and take me away.
Leza ignored the Wench. She wiped her eyes again, and I had a sudden picture in my head of Leza with her braids
and Rollerblades and skinned knee, crying and not letting anybody see. She was tough. She could handle anything. Leza with her braids, turning to clay and breaking all apart, just like everyone else.
She looked down, then straight at me again. Tears. So many tears, slow, swelling up in her eyes, running down her cheeks. “I was glad you lived, you know? I felt so bad for what I did, and I always wanted to be your friend. I thought you’d be nicer now, but you’re still just a big, selfish moron idiot. God, I’m stupider than you are.”
You’re so self-centered I bet you think I’m mad at you
.
Two voices in my head now. Mom’s and Leza’s. Maybe three. Maybe more. Faces. All those faces. Girls I didn’t know.
You left me first …
I felt so bad for what I did …
But what did Leza do? What could she have done?
Leza was still crying. I started crying, too. I wanted to hug her. I reached for her, but she just shook her head, turned around, and walked off down the hall.
My insides banged around, then fell all the way to my toes. I hurt everywhere, like my heart was falling out. Why? What was wrong with me? I couldn’t stand her walking away. It was too fast, too big, too much.
“Wait,” I called after Leza. Tried to go after her, but the Wench grabbed my arm.
“Been there, did that,” Leza shot back over her shoulder. “And I don’t even know why.”
“Let her go,” said the Wench. “She just needs a little time.”
“Everybody needs time!” I jerked my arm away, banged a
locker with my elbow, then sat down in the dirty hall. Leza turned the corner. Gone. All gone. I shut my eyes. Ears. Selfish, selfish ears. Maybe when I opened my eyes, I’d wake up, and I’d still be at home, and Mom wouldn’t be at the beach, and Dad would be there, and everything would be okay. I didn’t care if I had scars. I didn’t care if I was stupid, as long as this was the dream. Let it be a dream. Ears, ears, ears.
I opened my eyes.
Dirty halls. Lockers. The Wench.
Fast like a finger-snap, everything went away. Snap. Poof. No insides, no outsides. No hurts or happy or tears or anything. Just nothing. Empty and cold and ice and nothing.
No wonder Mom went to the beach. Anything was better than ice and nothing. Anything was better than here.
“Wench. Halls. Ears.” I banged my head on the locker behind me. The hurt helped a little, but it went away too fast. Back to ice and nothing. I banged my head again, harder. More hurt. I could think some when I hurt. “I want to go home, okay? Mom’s at the beach and we haven’t been to the police station, and I want to go home. Ears. Police station. Mom’s at the beach. I’m not. I’m cold. I’m ice. Take me home.”
Home. Nobody. Nobody but me. Nobody home. Quiet, cold empty, inside and out. The Wench brought me here herself. I think she was glad I wanted to leave school.
I’ll make sure to get your assignments…
.
I’ve left a message for your father…
.
You get some rest…
.
She even tried to buy me a snack first, but I wouldn’t let her. Plenty of food at my house. At my empty house, with nobody home. Nobody, nobody.
I walked into the kitchen carrying my memory book. Walked straight to the trash can, to the oatmeal paper towels and crumpled up bread wrapper, and I threw the memory book away. Sick of carrying it, looking at it with its white cover and smeared letters and pen on a dirty string. Sick of writing in it, reading it. I didn’t want to remember anything, anyway. Good-bye. Go away. Nobody.
Now it was me, just me with no memory book, and I sat down at the kitchen table alone. The kitchen table was good.
The kitchen table was safe. Sitting to stay away from upstairs. I needed to stay at the table. We hadn’t been to the police station. Upstairs, the gun was waiting. The police kept the bullets, but I knew my dad. He kept everything. He forgot lots of stuff. Somewhere in some box or corner or drawer, there were bullets. I just had to look. But I didn’t really want to look, only I did want to look. I wanted the gun and the bullets, but I didn’t want to hurt myself, only I did want to hurt myself. Bullets. But not really. I really wanted to be able to stop. Just … stop. Quit worrying and trying and screwing things up. Quit everything. Be still in my head.
I wanted to think right. I wanted to feel right and walk right and talk right and smile right, only I ruined all that. I blew it all away. I blew me away. Bullets. I could blow it all away better. Do it right. Not mess it up this time and really die and I wouldn’t be a geek-freak anymore, and I would be still, and people could live without me lots easier than with me. Bullets. Nobody, nobody. I was nobody. Nobody home.
Mom gone. Leza. And Todd, and I didn’t even know where Dad was. Mama Rush—she didn’t want to talk to me anymore. Nobody. Nobody home. My stomach twisted up. For one second, I felt something more than cold empty. Then it was gone. I put my head down. The table felt hard and cold empty under my cheek. It was still, quiet, so quiet. Inside and outside. Cold empty. Quiet. Bullets. Maybe I could sleep. But if I slept, I’d have to wake up. If I woke up, everything would start all over again.
Was it like this?
I blinked.
Maybe I wasn’t mad and upset when I shot myself.
Maybe I was tired and quiet, tired of the quiet, tired of the
cold empty. Maybe I just felt tired when I pulled that trigger. Bullets. Maybe I didn’t feel anything at all. God, I was sick of thinking about the gun, about shooting myself, and Before and now and everything, everything, everything. Elana was the last thing on my list. I’d messed up with her last. And messing up with her messed me up with Todd and Leza and the Wench and school. Messing up. Up and forward. All the rehab didn’t help much, did it? So I could walk and talk and be stupid even bigger and better. Bullets. Bullets were upstairs. Bullets and the gun and I could do it right this time.
I covered up my head with my good arm. Tried to think about other stuff. When I thought about school I thought about Todd and Leza. When I thought about home, there was J.B., Dad, and Mom. No Mom. When I thought about Mama Rush, there was The Palace, Romeo man, taxis, broken presents, and she didn’t want to see me much anymore. When I thought about Before—no. Then I stopped. No Before. Before made me think about now. Now made me tired.
“Stop it.” I sat up.
The table rattled when I banged it with my fist. My hand throbbed. It felt good and bad at the same time. Something different from cold empty.
The hurt made me move. When I hurt, I felt less tired. When I moved, I felt something, at least. So I got up and didn’t think about Before or now or Leza or Mama Rush or Mom or anybody else.
I just went upstairs.
J.B.’s voice caught me as I limped by my closed bedroom door.
Hey. Moron. What are you doing?
For some idiot reason, I stopped. I felt like killing something. Maybe I could finally kill the ghost. “Shut up. You want me dead, anyway. Bullets. Die, die, die.”
Stupid. I never wanted you dead. I never hurt you
.
“You shot me.” I banged on the closed door with my fist. It hurt, and that felt good, and the door rattled. “You ruined everything!”
But … when I tried to lower my arm, I couldn’t. My hand just stayed stuck against the door wood, fingers all curled up to make a fist.
“You shot me,” I said to the hand and the door and J.B., but not as loud this time. I felt a little hot instead of cold. Wrong and upside down inside. The door looked funny. My hand looked even funnier.
You’re an idiot and a moron and a ruiner and a Big Larry. You’re selfish and self-centered and I bet you think I’m mad at you. Shoelaces. Bullets. Ears. Peanuts. Cheerleaders. Up and forward. You threw away your memory book. You threw everything away
.
J.B.’s snarl made me want to snarl back, but I still couldn’t move my hand. I kicked the door. My hand didn’t come loose.
“Let me go.” Whispering now, but I didn’t know why.
You let
me
go
, J.B. shot back.
It’s you, not me
.
My hand got bigger in my brain, like some kind of giant’s fist. I stopped trying to move. It was me. It was always me. My hand. I shot myself with the hand stuck to my door. The giant, giant hand. It was always me. Nobody. Nobody home.
That upside down feeling got lots worse. I felt dizzy, then sick, then all of a sudden, nothing again. Cold empty. Quiet empty.
And I knew.
Oh, no. Please. Please?
“Don’t go away,” I whispered to J.B.
Nothing.
I jerked my giant shooting hand back so hard I almost fell, then I used it to open my door.
Sunlight lit up dancing dust all around my bed with the green bedspread. The football rug lay neatly on the floor. Nothing sparkled. No shadows waited in the corners.
“Don’t go away,” I whispered again, then I yelled it until my throat hurt. But it was too late.
J.B. was gone, too. He left because he hadn’t ever been there, not really.
Please. Not really. Gone. Gone. Nobody home. Nobody. I shot myself, and there was nobody here but me. I did this. I did it all. Bullets. Bullets. Bullets.
I couldn’t be crying. J.B. wasn’t real. But he sort of was, and he talked, and when I saw him in my head, he looked at me. He didn’t count my stupid-marks and look away. But it was always me.
When I shut the door, I felt emptier than ever. Cold empty. Quiet empty. And really, really tired, way down deep, where the volcano used to be. Where it blew up and left me here with nothing inside.
It was easy. Really easy.
Gun in the bedside table—Dad was Dad.
Bullets in a junk box way in the back of the closet—Dad was Dad.
We needed to go to the police station, but we never had
time. There was never any time. Our family ran out of time, or something. No way to buy more or work for more or find more. Now we hadn’t gone to the police station, and I still had the gun, and I was glad. Bullets. I had bullets, too.
Made a mess getting them, but I got them, and I left the mess. Didn’t care as I put the bullets in the holes. Wasn’t easy with one hand, but up and forward, up and forward. Left the box and extra bullets on the bed. Then I took the gun back downstairs and put it on the kitchen table.
When I sat down, I felt better. I wasn’t alone now. I had the gun, and it had bullets, and if I got too tired or too mad or too cold empty, then I could have another blowout and just be finished. Being finished didn’t seem too bad. I wouldn’t screw it up. Not this time.
“What are you doing, moron?”
I kept asking myself that, since J.B. was gone now, and he wasn’t there to ask me anymore. “What are you doing, moron? What are you doing? What, what, what?”
Looking at the gun, that’s what.
Feeling tired, but not so tired.
Feeling scared, but not so scared.
A little mad. A little hot-cold.
But feeling something, at least. Something was better than nothing. Something wasn’t so awful.
“What are you doing, moron?”
My eyes went back to the trash can, to the memory book, to the oatmeal paper towels and crumpled bread wrapper. Dad made me breakfast this morning. Bad, bad, bad oatmeal. But he made it for me. If I shot myself, I needed to keep it clean this time. No me-mess at the table. No me-mess in the house. No me-mess anywhere.
This time, I’d go over to Lake Raven, to the place where the benches faced the little fence. I’d climb the fence and do it there, so I’d just fall in the lake. Bullets. The lake would cover up everything. No me-mess at all.
“What are you doing, moron?”
I picked up the gun, fumbled to open it. One at a time, I took out all the bullets. Dropped some on the floor, picked them up. Then I tucked the gun in my pants and put the bullets in one of my pockets. It took a while, with just one hand. But now I couldn’t shoot and I couldn’t see the gun. Good. Right? Or bad. Maybe?
My breath came out fast, all at once.
Did that feel better or worse?
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
My insides were breathing now, in and out, in and out. Breathing wasn’t so bad. The gun pressed against my belly wasn’t so bad. I didn’t feel blank, but I didn’t feel sick. Not so bad. Sunshine came through the kitchen window. Afternoon sun. My memory book was in the trash on top of oatmeal. Dad made me oatmeal.
“Oatmeal.”
Was Dad at his desk? I could try to call him. Mom’s number at the beach was somewhere. And Mama Rush. I could call any of them. When Leza came home, I could call her, too, and say I was sorry about Todd and stuff.
If J.B. were still here, he’d tell me none of that mattered. He’d tell me they’d all be mad and hate me. But he didn’t have to be here, because he wasn’t real, and I told myself that stuff. Only not so much this time.