Big Fat Disaster

by Beth Fehlbaum

  Becca clop-clops quickly past me on the way to the gym. She has her chin tucked into her binder like always, and her eyes are on the ground. She nearly smacks into a pole, and to be honest, I’m disappointed when she doesn’t. She may have felt that she had no choice but to tell what she saw, but she’s right: I do hate her.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The next morning, I have to get through a crowd of people to reach my locker. Then I see why they’re standing around: “Killer” is written on my locker door in blood-red nail polish, and my reaction is the payoff they’ve been waiting for.

  Mr. McDaniel’s voice can be heard from far off. He claps his hands and says gruffly, “Break it up, people. Get to class.” He finally makes it through the throng to see the artwork on my locker. He scowls, turns to my classmates, and bellows, “Any one still standing here in ten seconds will have three weeks of detention!” People take off, and he pivots back to me.

  “I-I didn’t do it—”

  Mr. McDaniel crosses his arms, frown firmly in place. “I know you didn’t.” He steps back and takes in the other lockers, but no one else’s has been painted. “I’ll get the custodian to start working on this immediately.” He turns abruptly and starts toward the office.

  The voice in my head whispers, “I want to die.” I press my forehead against my locker door and answer, “Shut up.”

  Fredrick’s in the middle of presenting his Resolution to our English class when the P.A. speaker beeps.

  “Yes?” Mr. Van Horn addresses the ceiling.

  The secretary says, “I need Colby Denton to come to the office. She’s leaving.”

  Kara hisses, “Good riddance.”

  Mr. Van Horn shoots her a look.

  I gather my things and find my mom standing outside the office door. She’s not wearing makeup, and her hair is pulled back from her face in a ponytail. She looks pissed, and she’s doing the thing where it looks like if she uncrosses her arms, her guts will fall out all over the floor. My stomach clenches: Either Mom found out about the rope in the barn last night, or she found my second snack stash.

  I really don’t want to know.

  We pull away from the curb, and my mother comes unhinged. “Leah told me that she stopped you from hanging yourself in her barn last night!”

  I give the smallest of nods. I reach down, unzip my backpack, and pull my iPod and headphones from it, but Mom grabs them and throws them in the back seat. I turn my body as much as I can toward the car door and pretend that I’m looking out the window, but I can’t see anything because my eyes are full of tears.

  “She also tells me that you two had a long talk, and that she’ll pay for your therapy as long as you need it. Hmph! She doesn’t know you as well as I do; or maybe she does, since you’re just like her. A couple of fat peas in an XXL pod!”

  I turn on her. “She sees you for what you are, Mom. She knows that you don’t love me the same way you love Rachel and Drew!”

  Mom puts the accelerator to the floor. “They don’t put me through half the shit you do, Colby! Is it attention you want? Is that why you pretend to want to kill yourself? Well, she convinced this—this—therapist that it’s for real. You left his business card at her house last night, and when I told her that I didn’t believe for a minute that you’re depressed, she called him and told him about what she saw you doing with that rope.”

  My voice is shaky. “Leah’s not lying, Mom. I’ve nearly killed myself twice now. Maybe you should pull over.”

  Instead, she speeds up and passes some cars against oncoming traffic. We squeak back into our lane at the last minute.

  I yell, “Mom! Please! Pull over!”

  “I can’t take anymore, Colby! Do you understand me? Now, you’re going to straighten up and stop making my life harder than it is!” She speeds up even more.

  The countryside is whizzing by. I’m terrified, holding my breath. I gasp, “Mom! Please! Please, stop this!” I try to think of something to say to get through to her.

  “What—what would all those people who knew you as Miss Texas think if they saw you right now? Would they even recognize you? What would Dad say about what you’re doing?”

  Mom doesn’t answer, but she does slow down. I don’t know if she wanted to or if she eases off because the highway patrol is ahead, shooting radar. Her chin trembles, and she starts to cry. She sounds like a little girl when she speaks. “Why should I care what your father thinks? He doesn’t love me anymore.”

  “Where are we going?”

  Mom doesn’t answer me until we pull up to a stoplight. “Dr. Matthews told Leah that if I know that you’re a danger to yourself but won’t seek help for you, he would call Child Protective Services and report me for neglect. He acted like he really didn’t want to, but he said he would.” She reaches over, pinches the fat on the back of my upper arm, and twists it. “If anyone calls CPS on me, I’ll put you in a group home like the one I grew up in. Then maybe you’ll learn to appreciate what you have with me as your mother.”

  She doesn’t say another word until we bump into the curb in front of Dr. Matt’s parking lot. She pulls a hundred dollar bill from her purse and points it at my door: “Out.”

  I take the money and step out of the car. I barely get out of the way before she throws the car into Reverse and squeals out of the parking lot.

  My heart is thudding hard, and I think my legs may give out on me. Our car is out of sight, and I look back toward the building.

  Dr. Matthews is standing in the doorway. He gives a small wave, then disappears inside, leaving the door open.

  I practically fall onto the sofa in Dr. Matt’s small office and immediately assemble my throw pillow “wall.”

  He sits and pivots his chair to me. “What’s up?”

  I feel like I’ve been hollowed out on the inside, and my hands start shaking. “I—I…I’m not sure. I was at school and my mom picked me up and…here I am.”

  Dr. Matt nods, says, “Hmm. So there’s no reason that your mom might have wanted me to see you today, given that we only met yesterday?”

  There’s a big framed picture of Dr. Matt standing next to a giant petrified tree, and I lock my eyes on it. “W-we left here yesterday and the police chief and—everyone knows that—that it was me. That I’m the one who kil—I mean—that Ryan was trying to save m-me, and I—I…” My throat is dry and I choke on my spit. I take my eyes off the photo for a microsecond, glance at him, and go back to the big tree. I’m shaking all over.

  His voice is gentle. “Are you frightened?”

  I give a tremulous shrug. “M-maybe a l-little.”

  “Why are you afraid? Do you think you can try to look at me?”

  I shake my head, and whisper, “You wouldn’t believe the ride I just got off of. And…I don’t want to tell you about last night.”

  He waits a few beats, says nothing. Finally, he says, “You can tell me. This is a safe place.”

  I look down at the pillow that’s just inches from my chin. Teardrops darken the material. “I know I promised that I’d call you if I…felt like doing something stupid…to myself, but…at that time…I couldn’t think.”

  “So…what did you do?”

  “You already know. Mom said that Leah called you.”

  “I’d like to hear it from you, though, so that we can start working on disrupting the impulsive behavior pattern. What happened just before you went to the barn and found a rope?”

  “My mom found out the truth. Everyone did. A girl who saw ‘The Accident’ tried to get me to tell the truth about it, and when I wouldn’t, she and her mom reported it.”

  Dr. Matt tilts his head. “You call what happened in the road that day ‘The Accident.’ Why do you call it that?”

  I’m taken aback. “What do you mean? Do you think I meant for Ryan to die?”

  “Did you?”

  “No!”

  “Does my asking that question make you angry?”

  I feel myself blush. “No�
��it’s just…everybody’s been telling me that it’s not my fault that he died.”

  He nods. “To make you feel better about it, right?”

  I look down. “Well…yeah. Am I supposed to hate myself for what happened?”

  “Don’t you? Think about it. Isn’t that why you felt that you needed to try again? To pay for his dying instead of you?”

  I’m confused. What does this guy want to hear? What’s the right answer?

  Dr. Matt leans forward in his chair. “What are you thinking right now, Colby?”

  I chew my lip. “I’m…I…” It wasn’t about Ryan. Last night wasn’t about Ryan! Should it have been? Would I be a better person if it was? “Can you repeat the question?”

  “Sure. I asked if you were going to hang yourself last night as some sort of penance for Ryan dying when you tried to kill yourself by being hit by a truck. Does that help?”

  “I wasn’t thinking about him,” I say softly.

  Dr. Matt rolls his chair a little closer. “So, you were thinking about…”

  “Me. And my mom, and how when she found me hanging, she’d be sorry for not coming outside to talk to me when everybody in Piney Creek was watching the video that Ryan made.”

  I sit up taller, shove the pillows onto the floor, and yell, “I wanted Mom to be sorry for decorating fucking day-old cookies with my little sister after she said that it was my fault for the video being made in the first place! I wanted her to hurt as much as I do!”

  Dr. Matt’s voice is quiet. “So, what you’re saying is, both times you’ve tried to kill yourself, you were really, really pissed off. You’re pissed that when you hurt, your mom doesn’t give a shit.”

  “Yesssssssssss!” The same rage that coursed through my veins the day Ryan died is erupting from me now.

  Dr. Matt grins. “That feels good, doesn’t it? Getting that anger out?”

  The tide of emotion is receding, and I breathe in deeply and nod my head. Tears roll down my face.

  He hands me the box of tissues. “I’m going to tell you something about suicide. Are you ready for this?”

  I swipe at my tears and my voice is tight. “Y-yeah.”

  “Suicide is not about pain. It’s about anger. Rage. It’s the ultimate rage directed back at oneself. To stop directing that anger back at yourself, you’ve got to learn some coping skills for dealing with it appropriately. The first thing we need to do is deal in the truth here, okay?”

  I nod and sniffle. My tears won’t stop flowing.

  “One thing you need to do is stop calling what happened “The Accident.” You didn’t mean for Ryan to die. Please hear me clearly: That part was an accident. But you chose to put yourself out there on the road that day, and last night you chose to try to make a noose to hang yourself with. We need to process what got you into that state of mind in the first place so that you don’t find yourself there again. But make no mistake: You have a choice. Always have, always do, always will.”

  I protest, “But the video was removed from Facebook, and now everybody knows that I didn’t try to save him. And…it’s not like Ryan can take back filming me while I dressed!”

  Dr. Matt shakes his head sadly. “Sweetheart, this is about a lot more than one video that your cousin made. You were pissed about a lot more than what your mom said about it being your fault, or decorating cookies with your sister when you were devastated. We need to work on what’s got you so angry, so that you can have the life you want. Wouldn’t it be nice to look forward to your life instead of just hang on?”

  I frown. “I’ve never even thought about having a life, really. I just pretty much go from one day to the next trying not to pig out and doing it anyway when I can’t take it anymore. I mean, I go to sleep hating myself, and I wake up the same way. And…I’ve got this voice in my head telling me that I ought to just die and get it over with.”

  Dr. Matt’s talking alarm clock chimes in, signaling the end of our session. “It’s four o’clock.”

  “Until we see each other again, I want you to remember that you have a choice about how to respond to your feelings. Sometimes the best thing to do is Just Wait. While you’re waiting for overwhelming feelings to pass, write down how you’re feeling. Get the rage out in a healthy, safe way. And: same agreement applies as before—call me if you feel overwhelmed and out of control, and we’ll work together to find a way out of it. Can you agree to that?”

  “Yes. And I will keep the promise this time, no matter what happens.”

  He stands, retrieves a business card from his desk, and hands it to me. “This is going to take some time, Colby, because we’re working on ingrained behaviors. Be patient with yourself, and remember: You have a choice. Always did, always have, always will.”

  Mom is waiting in the parking lot when I go outside. She’s on her cell phone, and from the sound of it, she’s not much calmer than when she brought me to see Dr. Matt.

  She shrieks, “There’s no way to appeal this? Are you sure? Rachel, how could you? How could you do this? I know you were desperate for money, but…what will people think when they find out you’ve been kicked out of Lewis & Clark College for selling essays?”

  They talk a while longer; basically it’s just Mom trying to come up with ways for Rachel to blame someone else for selling essays for fifty bucks a pop. When they finally disconnect and Mom tosses her cell phone in her purse, she sits motionless, hands on the steering wheel, staring into space.

  I reach into the back seat and retrieve my iPod, slide in my ear buds, and push Play.

  I don’t let Mom see it on my face, but inside, I am smiling from ear to ear.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  So, today I arrive at school to find the words “Lying Bitch” in neon orange marker on my locker door. I also find Tina there. She’s gotten to school early for the express purpose of using her phone to take pics of anyone who stands near my locker and gawks at it. For some reason, there’s no crowd present. Just Tina.

  A kid stops near us and she snaps his photo.

  He holds up his hands like she’s got a gun. “Hey, I’m just going to my locker!”

  Tina arches her eyebrow. “Make sure that’s all you do, Alex.”

  “Okay, okay. Jeez.” He retrieves his backpack and hightails it down the hall.

  I smile. “Thanks, Tina.”

  She throws her arm around me. “I’m sticking by your side in every class we have together, and in the hall. If they’re going to mess with you, they’re going to have to take me on, too.”

  It’s pretty cool to have a friend.

  We have a substitute teacher in biology. She can’t get the DVD player to work, so we have to miss out on the video that Mrs. Clay left for us, The Mysteries of Homeostasis. Everyone is extremely disappointed.

  Most people pull out their phones and start texting. My dad took my phone with him when he left. I’d lost it anyway for throwing a bowl of ice cream at Drew and shattering her best friend, the mirror…I guess that’s one instance when I could have written my feelings about my little sister being a brat instead of trying to peg her with a bowl.

  Truthfully, the mirror wasn’t that big a loss. Not to me, anyway.

  I start working on my Resolution for English class. I signed up to do my presentation on Friday, but, for someone who has thought a lot about killing herself, describing how I’ve applied this Resolution to my life is surprisingly difficult. I center it on the page:

  “Resolved, to think much on all occasions of my own dying, and of the common circumstances which attend death.”

  Common…circumstances…which…attend…death. Hmmm. What are those, anyway?

  Tina and I sit together at lunch. She’s finishing her Resolution, too. She chose the one about temperance in eating, and she’s going to come out to everyone about her bulimia.

  “My therapist thinks it would be a good idea to stop hiding my eating disorder. She thinks that keeping it a secret is part of what”—Tina forms air quotes with her
fingers and speaks in a nasally voice—“enables me to continue to perpetuate the cycle of destructiveness.” She rolls her eyes and shrugs. “Also, she thinks that if I know people are watching for it, I’m less likely to bolt for the john after I eat lunch.”

  “I really hope you get better so that you don’t have to go into inpatient treatment,” I say. “I mean…I’d miss you.”

  I’m opening a ketchup packet just as Kara bumps into our table. Ketchup squirts onto my shirt. She dramatically exclaims, “Oh, I’m so sorry, Hallister! Wow, I hope you don’t get any of that on your hands, you lying bitch. Might mix with the blood already on them.”

  “Speak clearly, please, Kara.” Tina holds up her phone.

  Kara looks confused. “Wh-what?”

  Tina calmly repeats, “Speak clearly, please. I’m recording everything you say, and I’m playing it for Mr. McDaniel when he comes through here in about five minutes.”

  “You’re a bitch, too, Tina. I thought we were friends.”

  Tina grins and pushes Stop on the recording. “And…that’ll do it. Thank you, Kara. Thank you very much.”

  That afternoon in English class, I approach Mr. Van Horn. “Is it okay with you if I go last to give my Resolution presentation? Writing it isn’t going so well.”

  He pulls me away from the other students and says quietly, “Given your recent circumstances, if you’d prefer to just turn in an essay, that’d be fine.”

  I think about Tina and her bravery in revealing her bulimia. “No. I think I’d like to say it.”