“None of us knew that was going on,” my mom said this morning, looking at me with red-rimmed eyes across the kitchen table. “She must have been feeling so much pressure. We never want you to feel like you’re under that kind of pressure, Sunshine.”
I let out a shaky sigh. There was no chance of that happening. Sure, they’re always telling me I have to “live my ideals,” but I don’t think the words “parental pressure” are in their vocabulary. Not the way Uncle Randall put pressure on Shiri. They’re probably just glad I’m not like they were at my age, ditching school to smoke pot at the nude beach or whatever. They have nothing to worry about. I’m a swim jock, not a hippie. I have popular friends. I fit in at school. I’m happy there. I am nothing like them.
But they’ve always supported me. I’m lucky, I guess. We don’t have money to throw around like my aunt and uncle do, but we live in a pretty nice neighborhood and I go to Citrus Valley High, which is a college-prep magnet full of the “right” kind of kids, as Uncle Randall would put it. The kind of kids that parents love.
Kids like Shiri.
I reach the front of the room. The sickly sweet smell of the flower arrangements almost overwhelms me, but I step up to the coffin, trying to swallow past the huge knot in my throat. I force my eyes to stay open, force myself to look at her. At her body. This isn’t really her, says a little voice in my head. She’s still back at school, studying in the library or throwing a frisbee with her hair flying in the breeze. Not lying here, her lips artificially pink and her skin powdery and dull with makeup. Not dead.
—dead. no no no—
I grind my teeth. I don’t want to remember the voice. The swim meet. Not now.
My limbs feel jerky, like they aren’t attached to me, as I step down from the dais and stand near the end of the front row of seats. My dad is off to one side, talking quietly with Grandma and Grandpa Pryce, Mom’s parents. Cassie’s older sister Tessa is on a bench about halfway back, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. She used to be one of Shiri’s best friends in high school. It was because of Shiri and Tessa that I met Cassie, the summer before freshman year. Shiri brought me along to a swim party at Tessa’s house, and there was Cassie, who loved swimming as much as I did and invited me to go shopping with her for first-day-of-school clothes.
I search for Cassie. She’s in the very back, next to Spike, who’s looking uncomfortable, and Marc, who’s texting somebody. She’s frowning at her mother, shaking her head, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Some people might think she’s being cold not coming up to me, but I know Cassie—she’s not hard-hearted. She always remembers things like my birthday, like my cat’s birthday. She’s detail-oriented like that. But she’s never been a touchy-feely person. She’s not good with tragedy.
Who is, though?
Still, I have the urge to run over there. Rip the phone out of Marc’s hand, put my head on Cassie’s shoulder. Listen to Spike make a dumb joke. But I can’t.
I move away, cross the burgundy-carpeted funeral parlor to the ladies’ room in the back. There’s a small cushioned bench in there, plush like the carpet, and I sit. I stare at the beige-painted wall but I can’t bring myself to cry. I feel abnormal and disloyal, but I can’t help it. I shake my head, almost violently. That’s not her out there.
And she didn’t commit suicide. Suicide. It’s something that happens on TV. Not in real life. Not to her.
I can’t grasp it. I may not be a religious person. I may not know what I believe. But I can’t believe she’s gone.
three
I go to school on Wednesday in a fog. I missed Monday and Tuesday. Of course, everyone knows what happened. Gossip spreads quickly at our school.
Failing that, there was always the local newspaper: “Suicide Suspected in Teen Overdose Death.” Just in case you hadn’t heard.
While I was gone, the school counselor held one of those excruciating assemblies where they talk about “what you can do if you think someone close to you might harm themselves.” Today, everybody asks if I’m okay. I just nod, keep walking. I feel like they’re all staring at me, at my disheveled hair and shifty eyes, trying to figure out if I’m “thinking of harming myself.”
When I walk into my second-period Honors American Lit class there’s a sudden uncomfortable silence, though I can still hear the clamor, the echo of voices in my head. I feel like plugging my ears. It’s as if people were talking about me in their little pre-class groups and then zipped it the minute I showed up. Even Cassie won’t quite look at me.
Eyes-Front—a.k.a. our friend Marc—does his usual chest-level stare. I automatically cross my arms. At least I know the world hasn’t gone entirely nuts.
Mr. Patrick says, “Welcome back, Sunny. We all hope you’re feeling better.” He puts the emphasis on feeling better, just in case there were one or two people still left who didn’t have a clue. I duck my head and slouch into my seat, but I’m sure they can all read it on my face. Still, I try to stuff down my emotions, swallow them so that I can get through the day and go home.
Lunch is even worse. I buy a bottled water from the cafeteria, trying to hide from the curious stares that seem to be everywhere. Then I go back outside to the table where I usually sit with Cassie, Eyes-Front, Elisa, James, Spike, and a few other people from swim team, at the west side of the quad near the popular crowd.
One table away is where Shiri always used to sit before she graduated. Before she left us all.
I try to pretend everything’s normal, but Cassie can’t resist talking about it.
“Oh, Sunny … we all miss her so much. It must be so awful for you.” She flips her perfect straight blond hair back, reminding me that I’m a few weeks overdue to lighten my own hair. I could see the dark-brown roots in the bathroom mirror this morning when I was getting ready. “Dark Chestnut Blonde” is still sitting on the side of the tub, but I haven’t had the energy.
“Yeah, everyone’s been talking about it while you were gone,” James says through a mouthful of fries. “Even some of the teachers were crying when they found out.” He leans against the picnic table, his tall, skinny frame towering over the rest of us.
“At first all we talked about was how you freaked out in the pool,” Cassie says. “That was totally weird enough.”
“Mr. Lopez asked me if I was okay.” I sigh heavily. “I’ve never even had a class with him. People I don’t even know keep coming up to me and talking to me about Shiri.” I stare at the ground.
“Doesn’t that drive you nuts? I’d be so sick of it,” Cassie says in an irritated voice.
I look up at her, curiously. “I guess so. They’re just trying to be nice.”
“Yeah, whatever. Like they care.” She turns away, takes out a tube of lip gloss and starts reapplying it, casually, as if this is the kind of conversation we have every day.
“Harsh,” Spike says, laughing. We exchange a wry smile. Classic Cass.
Like last year, when James took a spill that time we all went mountain biking at Lake Arrowhead. All she could do was stand there and pretend she wasn’t freaked out by the whole thing, even though everyone else was gathered around James and fawning all over him to make sure he hadn’t broken anything.
Still, Cassie’s sister was one of Shiri’s best friends. I saw how unhappy Cassie was at the funeral. And she knows how I feel about Shiri. I expected she would have something more to say.
The last two classes of the day pass in a blur, all concerned faces and hushed whispers whenever I walk into a room. When the final bell rings, I leave campus gratefully. I get into the Volvo and start driving.
It’s too quiet, so I turn on the radio. Dad or Mom must have been using the car last because it’s tuned to a classic rock station. I hardly notice the music, just head for home on autopilot, until the Beatles song “Yesterday” comes on. Just like that, there are tears streaming down my face and I’m remembering Shiri’s note. We’ll always have yesterday … Maybe one day you’ll figure it out.
&nb
sp; Mascara runs down into my eyes, making them sting. It was one of Shiri’s favorite songs. She loved the Beatles. Her other musical tastes came and went, usually according to whatever group of friends she happened to be hanging out with at the time. But the Beatles always stuck around. She was always trying to get me to listen to them, copying playlists onto my computer when I was out of the room: “Wistful Beatles.” “Happy Beatles.” “Funny Beatles.” “Trippy Beatles.” On and on.
I went to my first concert with her when I was thirteen and she had just turned seventeen. It was just a cover band playing at an all-ages beach party, but we spent over an hour getting ready, Shiri helping me with my makeup and brushing my hair until it shone. By the time she was done, I looked almost her age. Almost as pretty.
But, squished into the back seat, tall tennis-team guys to either side of me, I still felt small. Shiri sparkled in the front passenger seat, smiling and laughing. I scratched at my eyeliner surreptitiously, pressing my knees together to avoid too much contact with the guys next to me. But it didn’t matter. I was going to a concert with high school kids. When I went back to middle school the next Monday, my friends were in awe.
My stomach hurts. I’m having trouble concentrating on the road, so I pull into a Target parking lot halfway home. I drive to a space at the very back, where it’s less crowded, and sit there taking gulping breaths until I finally calm down again.
I glance in the rearview mirror. My eyes are puffy and red-rimmed, with traces of makeup giving me raccoon eyes. I pull my hair out of its elastic and try to arrange it around my face so that my eyes don’t draw as much attention. I look awful with my hair straggling down like this, like one of the stoner kids who hang around the convenience store near school, but at least nobody can see my face.
I start the car again and head for home. Traffic is heavy and I keep my eyes on the road ahead, the white lane-lines, the light turning from green to yellow to red.
At home, I eat half a small container of fat-free vanilla yogurt before feeling gross, my stomach turning over like I’m going to throw up. I toss the rest of the yogurt, go upstairs, and turn on one of the playlists Shiri left me: “Wistful Beatles.” Then I lie down on my bed. The strains of Paul McCartney singing “Let It Be” whisper softly out of my computer speakers. Mom and Dad aren’t home yet and the house is still. My tortoiseshell cat, Pixie, hops silently onto the bed, settles next to my shoulder, and starts kneading my upper arm, purring loudly.
I don’t know what I would have done the past week without Pixie. That’s one thing I always had that Shiri didn’t. Her dad doesn’t like animals in the house.
When we were kids, Shiri spent months asking for a pet rabbit. Uncle Randall smiled and said he had something special planned. When her eleventh birthday came around, she was positive she was going to get a rabbit. Instead, Uncle Randall gave her an investment portfolio.
Shiri burst into tears. Uncle Randall didn’t get it.
“A rabbit only lives for ten years if you’re lucky,” he said, a frown creasing his forehead. “I’m planning for your future. Your college education. Maybe even a house, if the stock market goes up.” Shiri cried harder. Uncle Randall got up and stomped out of the room.
“I can’t believe he would say that,” Shiri said, wiping her face with her sleeve. Auntie Mina hugged Shiri and whispered, “I know. I’m sorry.” I just huddled in the corner of the couch, wishing I were somewhere else.
Later, that type of thing made Shiri frustrated, not sad. Last winter—after taking a women’s studies class—she said her mother was still too traditional, that she wouldn’t know what to do with her life if there weren’t a domineering, paternalistic male in it.
Uncle Randall hadn’t wanted Shiri to take that class. He was always trying to butt into her college life, telling her what she should be studying and interrogating her about her grades after every test, just like when she was in high school. I didn’t realize this until I started reading her journal. She always acted so happy when she called or visited, telling me stories about late-night pizza outings and loud college parties with live bands.
But the stuff in her journal—she didn’t tell me any of that.
The last time I saw her—just a couple of months ago, before she left for the fall semester—she was giving me advice about college applications for next year. I’ve gone over the conversation a million times in my head, wondering if I should have guessed something was wrong.
“Don’t worry, you can always call me if you need help with the essay, but I know you’ll do great,” she said, her brown eyes lighting up. Then the light died and she broke into a brittle smile. “Just pretend you’re trying to impress my dad.” She shook her head. I laughed, a little tensely, and flopped back across my bed, eager to change the subject.
“So how about Blackwell Cliffs? What was the application like?” I asked. Her eyes strayed off into the distance and her smile disappeared.
“Blackwell’s okay, I guess.” She bit one fingernail unconsciously, though it was already down past the quick.
“What, do you not like it there?”
“I don’t … No, it’s great. I just think you’d prefer someplace else,” she said, still not meeting my eyes. It sounded like she didn’t want me there at the same college with her, and I felt confused and hurt. Then the moment passed and she pulled a smile back onto her face. “I know you’ll find the right school. You’re popular and friendly. You’ll fit in wherever you go,” she reassured me.
Yeah. Popular. Friendly. Those were words I would have used to describe Shiri. So, why?
Why?
Why?
That one word pounds into my brain like a jackhammer. My lips, my jaw tense into an unfamiliar-feeling rictus, almost a snarl.
Suddenly I’m furious. I pound my fist into my pillow, over and over. I want to scream. I want to yell at Shiri. I had so much I still wanted to ask her about, to talk to her about. I thought she cared about me. Enough to stick around.
I should have known after she left us the first time.
I grab the pillow and throw it as hard as I can. It hits the glass of water on my nightstand. The glass falls. Water stains the beige carpet. I pick the pillow up and throw it again. The bedside lamp tips, crashes to the floor. Pixie streaks out of the room and runs downstairs. My face is hot and I’m breathing hard.
“Sunny, is everything okay?” My dad comes stomping up the stairs, rushing into the room with a look of panic.
“I’m fine, Dad,” I say. Strangely, I do feel calmer. Dad picks up the lamp, puts it back on my nightstand, and replaces the shade. Then he turns to me and puts his hands on my shoulders.
“What happened here?” He squeezes a little, gently.
“Nothing.” I look down, avoiding his concerned gaze. Water’s still seeping into the carpet. What can I tell him? I lost my temper? I’m mad at Shiri? No. I can’t. I can’t bear to have that conversation yet. “I scared Pixie. She knocked everything off the nightstand and ran out.”
“Okay,” he says, doubtfully, brushing his disheveled black hair out of his eyes. “If you’re sure. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.” He looks like he wants to say something more, but he just squeezes my shoulders again. I close my eyes. He must see something in my expression, because I feel his hands lift, hear him walking softly out of the room. Thank God. I just want quiet. I go over to my computer and turn off the music.
Usually I like the sound of voices and music around me. Sometimes when I’m home alone I switch on cheesy comedies about high school, the kind my parents hate. Cassie and I watch them while we’re doing homework, cracking up at the idiotic one-liners and making fun of how the actors are obviously way too old to be in high school. We haven’t done that in a while. Not since the beginning of the school year.
I pick up the now-empty water glass, wondering what Cassie is doing right now. Then I remember I’m currently missing swim practice. Ever since that disastrous meet and everything else that’s happen
ed, I haven’t felt like swimming. After the funeral, I emailed Coach Rydell to tell her I needed some time off the team. I felt a little guilty, but it seems like too much energy to get my arms and legs to function in tandem.
My body is tensing up again, so I lie back down. Mom is always trying to teach me deep-breathing meditation techniques and I try some of those, inhaling slowly through my nose and visualizing my breath filling my body all the way from my toes to the top of my head. I hold it for a moment and then gradually exhale, trying to imagine the tension in my body leaving along with the used-up oxygen.
After a while, my mind drifts and I lie there in a stupor. Images swirl through my head, but I keep going back to one memory: Shiri and me as little kids, hiding in a backyard fort made of chairs and bedsheets, dressed like superheroes in pillowcase capes and safety goggles from the garage. She was Wonder Nerd and I was Super Dork, fighting to rid the world of “dum-dums.” Alone and silent in my room, tears flow down my cheeks.
I can’t handle this.
I suck in air, desperately at first, gasping, then more slowly and evenly. After a few minutes, my thoughts are quiet again. I focus on the catch in my breathing until it finally goes away, too.
That’s when I hear the voice in my head.
Not her, no, no, why? I don’t understand why she—
It bursts in like static and then fades away like a radio station, leaving me with only the surge of emotion that accompanied the voice, all grief and pain and loss. My eyes sting, and I feel a pain in my chest like my heart is breaking.
And then my mind is silent again, and I can hear the usual noises of the house and smell some kind of spicy re-heated chicken dish my Dadi sent over, and it’s like I’m waking up from a bad dream. I almost felt disembodied for a minute—the voice in my head seemed so not me. But it sounded familiar. I must have been dreaming.
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