A Thousand Doors

by J. T. Ellison

  “It doesn’t matter. I just needed to get out, I guess. I was hiding in your shed because I thought no one would find me, and I don’t want to explain myself to anyone.”

  “That’s exactly how I felt before I found you in here. I didn’t think I was ever going to see anyone again after I got home from school today. So, you have to tell me.” I smile, trying to show him that I’m not going to judge.

  “You wouldn’t understand. It’s stupid.” Vince pulls at the cobwebs in the corner of the shed and twirls them together between his fingers. Dante is staring at the peanut butter jar.

  “I think if anyone can understand it’s probably me. And hey, you know your secret is safe. A dead girl can’t tell secrets.” My defense wanes as my mind drifts to the scene I was trying to set upstairs in my bathroom. The tub filled with bloody water. I wonder if anyone will see the significance of the water. I wish I could just drown myself in the pool. Maybe the bathtub scene will be too difficult for anyone to understand. Maybe it’s too subtle and nuanced.

  “I’m failing school,” Vince says.

  “Wait.” I’m distracted by my own thoughts and I’m not sure I heard him right. “Did you say you’re failing school?”

  “Yeah.” Vince pulls a stick of beef jerky from his backpack and starts peeling off the wrapper. My stomach growls, I haven’t eaten anything tonight. “When my parents get my grades at the end of term, they’re going to lose it. I’ll be held back, and I won’t go to high school next fall.” Vince’s voice is defeated. “You’re like a straight-A student, right?” he asks.

  “Yeah, pretty much. I’m getting a B in physics right now.”

  Vince tears into his Slim Jim. “Doesn’t really matter, though, right? I mean, if you’re killing yourself.”

  “Right, I won’t need to worry about that.” I lean back and examine the superficial wounds on my wrist. “I didn’t think of it like that. If I kill myself tonight, I won’t have to hand in the statistics test I have due on Monday, either.”

  My watch says 10:36 p.m.

  I still have time.

  “You just said ‘if’ you kill yourself tonight. I thought you were definitely going to do it.”

  “I am,” I say, suddenly feeling unsure. “I am. It’s just that I’ve never skipped an assignment before. It sort of feels weird.”

  “I skip them all the time. You’ll get used to it.”

  Vince chews his jerky, and I unscrew the cap of the peanut butter. I scoop out a dollop for Dante and smear it on the back of my left hand where he can lick it off, then take one for myself. I am thinking about the statistics test. It’s already finished. I did it yesterday after practice. I know I’ll get an A because statistics make sense to me. I’ve been accidentally doing them since I started swimming competitively when I was five. Comparing my times to the other kids’ times. Figuring out how many milliseconds I need to shave off to make some team or impress some coach. I know statistics too well.

  “What will happen if you get left back?” I shake the thoughts from my head and try to focus on Vince’s problems.

  “I don’t know for sure, but I know I don’t want to find out. That’s why I left. My parents went to this event tonight, so I figured I would have a big head start. They might not even be awake tomorrow morning when I’m supposed to be getting up for school.”

  “You mean the spring benefit at Willow Ponds, right? My parents are there, too.”

  “Yeah. I think they’d be really disappointed to tell their friends that I got held back and didn’t even make it to high school. Especially since my older sister just got into Yale.”

  “That’s rough,” I say, mouth sticky with peanut butter. “How come you’re failing?”

  “I just stopped paying attention. I didn’t do the readings anymore, and my assignments weren’t good. Mr. Reilly sent me home with my last exam. My parents were supposed to sign it to prove that they know I’m failing. I forged my mom’s signature.” Vince seems disappointed and hurt like a good kid gone wrong.

  “I had Reilly for history, too. He’s such a jerk. How come you stopped paying attention?” I hand him the jar of Skippy, and Vince takes a scoop with his fingers.

  “My parents got separated. My dad moved into the little apartment above the garage. It used to be where our nanny lived when I was younger, but she left last summer. They didn’t tell anyone because they didn’t want to look bad, you know how people are around here. They barely talk to each other, and they’re both angry all the time.” Vince starts shaking his head and wringing his hands together. His eyes are watering. “My sister is going to leave for Yale in August, and I’ll be alone with them. And they’re gonna be so mad at me.”

  “Where are you going to run to? No offense, it just doesn’t seem like running away from home is going to fix your problem.”

  “Yeah, I realize that. It just got to be too much. Sitting at home, listening to them hating one another, and knowing that when I admit I’m failing, they’ll both blame the other one and hate each other even more. I don’t want to do that.”

  “You know it’s not your fault, though, right? I mean, you didn’t make them break up.”

  He looks at me incredulously. This is the kind of thing a grown-up would say to him, and I don’t think he believes me. “How come you’re talking to me?” he asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, how come you decided to stay here and talk to me instead of throwing me out, or calling the cops or something?”

  I can’t tell him that I want him to prove that the world isn’t as hopeless as it appears. I can’t put that burden on him. “Maybe I wanted to have one last conversation with someone.”

  “Sounds really final when you say it like that. You sure you’re going to do it?

  “I already made the decision.” I scratch Dante’s wide head, and his eyebrows twitch at me. “It’s too late now. I thought that if I just pleased everyone enough, then they would notice me. If I could just swim fast enough, they would let me stop. Then they would let me be me, and not just a swimmer. It’s empty. There’s no peace.”

  Vince stares at me with his eyes in slits. Examining me. “You shouldn’t kill yourself,” he says. “You should quit swimming.” He tears open a bag of M&M’s and throws a handful into his mouth.

  “I’ve already made this decision, Vince.”

  “Maybe you should wait, though. Quit swimming and see what happens. If you’re not a swimmer anymore, then you can actually see if they care about the real you or not. It won’t be a question.” He shrugs his shoulders. Nonchalant. Like this is the perfect solution.

  “I can’t—I can’t do that.” I reach out toward his package of M&M’s, and he shakes a few into my palm. “It’s not a question, anyway. I know they don’t care.”

  “Do you even like swimming?” he asks, suddenly seeming like a Magic 8-Ball, filled with frustrating answers.

  “I used to love swimming, but I don’t like what it’s turned into. It’s like a business more than a sport. It’s never enough. They just want me to go to the Olympics, so they can say they are the parents to an Olympian, or the coach of an Olympian.” I’m afraid I sound like I’m whining. Like my reasons aren’t good enough. It’s not about what happens to you, it’s about what happens inside of you. Something inside of me died, and I can’t explain it to Vince, or to anyone else. This isn’t some teenage tragedy you see on television. Since I made this decision, I’ve stood a little taller, felt a little freer, and the fog has cleared. Now that I’ve made this decision, I feel better for the first time.

  “Maybe it won’t feel so empty if you’ve got nothing to fill, you know?” He doesn’t understand that it’s too late now. I know it’s the only way to find peace.

  “You’re really smart, Vince.” I steer the conversation away from me. “I can’t believe you’re failing out of school.”

>   “Yeah, I can’t, either.” His demeanor shifts when we return to talking about his problems as opposed to mine. “How are you going to do it? Slit your wrists?”

  “I feel stupid talking about the details. It’s embarrassing.” The last piece of my still-beating heart is breaking. I want Vince to hear me, but he’s just offering alternative solutions. I already have a solution.

  “I’m hiding in your shed because I’m failing out of school. You think you’re embarrassed?”

  “Ugh.” I take another deep, swimmer’s breath. “Yes, I’m going to slit my wrists, and lie in the bathtub so the hot water helps me bleed out faster.” I never thought I would be saying these words out loud. It sounds so graphic. I hear myself say “bleed out” and all I can imagine is the feeling of my body shriveling up.

  “What are you going to wear?” Vince asks.

  Instead of answering, I pull up my sweatshirt to show Vince the Olympic logo on the chest of the swimsuit I have on.

  “Wow, dead swimmer in a pool of blood.”

  We both fall silent and drop our heads against the rotting walls behind us. Dante stirs, noticing the discomfort in the air, and turns to look at me. Those big brown eyes I was afraid would stop me from killing myself are looking at me, showing me the love I always wanted to find. Only Dante understands me.

  Whatever glimmer of hope I had that Vince would prove that someone gets me is fading away. Even a teenager, someone unwilling to face his problems, even he can’t support me in my decision. If Vince didn’t show up in my shed tonight to convince me not to kill myself, then maybe there’s another reason he is here. Maybe he is giving me an opportunity for one last act. One last show of good faith. Something to remember me by.

  “You know what I’m thinking about right now?” I ask, shifting my head to look at Vince.

  “What?” He blinks and rubs his eyes.

  “I can help you. I had Reilly for history in eighth grade. I got straight A’s in eighth grade.”

  He shakes his head, knowing exactly where I’m going with this suggestion. “It’s way too late for that now. I would have to get an A on every assignment and every final in every class just to get passing grades for the semester.”

  “I can get you A’s.”

  “How?” He flops his arms in his lap. “Not if you’re going to kill yourself.”

  “I have a file in my room upstairs with every assignment I ever did in school. I have everything from eighth grade up there.”

  “Why would you do that for me?” His eyes widen, looking at me like no one has ever offered him a helping hand before.

  “Why wouldn’t I? It’s not like those are going to be useful now, anyway.”

  “Yeah, but it’d be cheating. I don’t want to cheat, that would get me in just as much trouble.”

  “You’re not cheating. It’s not like the tests are going to be exactly the same. I’m just giving you a head start.”

  “How am I going to get away with that?” He’s sitting at attention now, and it looks like the idea is beginning to appeal to him.

  “We won’t have to tell anyone, so your parents will never find out that you’re failing. You’ll pass your classes and you’ll make it to high school. I promise.”

  I don’t want Vince to feel inadequate. I don’t want him to feel the pain I’ve felt and know the suffering I’ve known. I can see a reflection of myself in him. A kid who wants to live up to impossible expectations.

  Vince fiddles with the strap of his backpack. He tucks the Slim Jim wrapper into a mesh pocket and nibbles on the stumps of his fingernails. “Are you going to quit swimming?”

  I have imagined many times before what it would be like to quit. I wouldn’t have all the eyes on me, the pressure to perform. But I wouldn’t have the only identity I know, either. “I don’t know,” I respond, knowing full well I could never stop swimming.

  “I can’t take your old work if you’re just going to kill yourself tonight. That’s not right.” The excitement I thought I heard in his voice wanes, and his rigid body collapses back into a familiar posture of defeat.

  “Where do you live?” I ask. I’m not going to let him leave here tonight without a way out.

  “At 407 Wallace. It’s on the other side of town, near the 7-Eleven on Smith Street. Why?”

  “I have a plan.” I stand up, hitching my pants, and gently tug Dante’s collar.

  Vince takes my lead and rises to his feet. “What do we do?”

  I check my watch: 11:37 p.m.

  I still have time.

  “Do you have your own phone in your room?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Go home. Call me as soon as you get there, so I know you didn’t just run away to a different shed or something.”

  “How will you know it’s me?”

  “I have caller ID in my room.” My voice is getting louder. “If you call, I’ll know that you made it home. And if I answer, you’ll know that I didn’t kill myself tonight.” He gives me a pen from his backpack, and I write the number to my private line on one of his paper napkins.

  “You won’t do it?” His eyes are hopeful, and his voice is excited again. He writes down his number and hands it to me.

  “Just call me when you get home. We don’t have time now, but I will get the file to you.”

  Vince straps his backpack to his back. He holds out his pinkie to me. “Promise me you’ll never tell anyone I was in your shed tonight.”

  I loop his pinkie in mine. “I promise I will never tell a soul.”

  We kiss our fists and swear on it that our secrets will forever stay in the shed.

  He scans the floor and gathers his things to leave. “You’re not going to do it, right? I mean, if I leave here, you won’t go back upstairs and slit your wrists, right?” He’s worried.

  “There’s still twenty minutes until midnight. If you run, you can get home before your parents do. I’ll send you the file. Run. Call me when you get to your room.” I don’t quite answer his question. “Go,” I whisper and gently push him out the door.

  “I’ll call you when I get home.” He slowly backs away from me, hesitating.

  “Go, Vince. Hurry.”

  He draws in a deep, shaky breath and jogs out past the part of the yard illuminated by the pool lights. I can hear his footsteps as they break into a run on the pavement.

  I look into the shed and feel the warmth from our body heat escaping through the open door. I hope he makes it home before his parents, and he’ll never have to explain where he was tonight. I hope these secrets are buried with me.

  As I walk back toward my house, I feel like I’m approaching the end of a book that I didn’t quite like but didn’t quite hate, either. Tonight has become the last page of that book, and Vince became the epilogue. It was already over before I walked into the shed, and he just wrote the last lines.

  Dante lumbers through the porch door that I left open when I went to investigate the barking. We walk into my bathroom together, and I blow out the candles and unplug the lava lamp. Nirvana is still playing. “All Apologies” comes on as I turn on the faucet, and I rest my head against the tub and listen to the words.

  I think of Vince and his innocence and wisdom. He’ll call me soon. I want to make sure he gets all my work, no matter what happens tonight. All the assignments I ever handed in, all the tests and notes from every class I’ve taken since fourth grade are organized and filed in hanging folders under my window seat. I pull out the file marked “eighth grade” and wrap it in brown packaging paper. I write Vince’s name and address on the package, add a couple of stamps, and walk down the stairs to the front door. My dad’s car isn’t back in the driveway, so Dante and I hurry to the mailbox. I flip the red flag up and hope the mailman comes before anyone else notices that I left a package here tonight.

  Dante whines as we g
et back to the front door, and I bend down to kiss him. Growing up in a house with no siblings, a dog who is bigger than I am became the only living thing that I trust. I have never used that word to describe a relationship with a person. I trust this dog and he trusts me. I look into his huge brown eyes and press my face against his snout. He licks my cheeks as the tears start falling. “I love you, you silly dog.” I push open the door, and he sits on the front step. He doesn’t stop me from going upstairs alone. Dante is the only one who understands me.

  I look at my watch. 11:54 p.m.

  I don’t have any more time.

  I take off my jeans and sweatshirt and fold them delicately on top of the toilet tank. Little splinters of rotten wood sprinkle onto the white tile floor. I pick up Jordan’s butterfly knife and start flipping it around like he used to. It’s weighty and the blade is sharp. It feels dangerous in my hand.

  I wasn’t looking for answers tonight. I wasn’t looking to be convinced otherwise. I guess I just wanted to talk to someone one last time. As I slide into the hot water running into my bathtub, I hear the phone on my bedside table begin to ring.

  The Primatologist

  Heather Gudenkauf

  It’s my last day in the Congo, and a rare sound catches my attention. It’s not Matthieu, who has had his fill of kfumo leaves and now has turned his attention to Kibibi and Odette, an adult female bonobo and her two-year-old daughter who are searching for grubs.

  It’s not the familiar chatter of the other rescued bonobos talking to one another, nor the buzz of mosquitoes dancing past my ears. It’s not the whoosh of a flying squirrel gliding from tree to tree, and it’s not the crash of juvenile bonobos tumbling around the undergrowth in play, but something much more substantial, unsettling. I hold my breath.

  Someone not familiar with the area might think it’s a troop of gorillas. Rarely confrontational, Lowland gorillas’ aggressive display of tearing branches, hooting, and pounding their chests is terrifying, not to mention they can weigh up to four hundred pounds.