by Lindy Zart
“Tell me.”
I turn my gaze to Alexis, the girl who suffered at the hands of people I used to hang around. People I used to be like. I even briefly dated Melanie before moving on to Jocelyn. It makes me sick. I was one of them, and after I left, they continued on as if nothing tragic had happened. As if Jackson never mattered, and to them, Alexis never did either.
If not for what this will do to Alexis, I would say everything the kids at Enid High School get from her is warranted.
I roll my shoulders and I harden myself to the girl who made me want to live again. If I don’t forget what she means to me, I won’t be able to do this. It was stupid of me to think I deserved any kind of happiness after what I did. Borrowed happiness. That’s all it was. A boy died because of me. I might as well have been the one to steal the scalpel from his dad’s office and place it in his hand. I just as assuredly slit his wrists as he did. My hands shake and I pull a shell of self-preservation around me.
I start to talk.
“Jackson Hodgson was a geek.” Even my voice is hard. It has to be, to talk about my past. Once, I spoke of it without holding anything back. Just once, and that was when I was first admitted to Live. But I was numb then, and I didn’t feel the careening emotions like I do now.
“He played the trumpet and watched Pokémon—he even collected the cards. His black hair stood up around his head like he didn’t know how to brush it, and his face was a mess of acne. Braces covered his teeth, and he always had food from his last meal stuck in them. He walked like a stork, his head bobbing forward and back, his eyes on the floor.”
I laugh darkly. “Really, he made it too easy.”
Her eyes throb with black fire.
“You can’t hate me any more than I already hate myself,” I tell her gently.
“I can try.”
I nod and swallow against a hundred apologies I’ll never voice. I’ve said them all, and they never changed anything. “I suppose you can.”
“Keep going,” she says flatly.
My fingers clench, and I stare at the slanted raindrops as they pummel the ground, creating pools of water. “We would make fun of his clothes, call him names. Brace Face was the most commonly used one. The girls thought it was fun to act like they liked him, and then laugh about it later.”
“The girls.” Bitter, she sounds so bitter.
I open my mouth to say their names. Melanie. Jocelyn.
“Don’t. I already know who you mean.” Disgust takes over the bitterness.
“I didn’t know the teasing bothered him as much as it did, but even if I did know, I don’t know that I would have stopped. He was there to be picked on. I told myself if he didn’t want to be made fun of all the time, then he needed to stop looking and acting the way he did.”
“Because he could help it.”
Having no reply, I continue. “He asked me one day why I did it, why I chose him to pick on so relentlessly.” My throat tightens. “You know what I told him?”
Alexis says nothing.
I smile cruelly, and my stomach painfully twists. “Because he was born.”
Face stricken, she stares at me like I’m a monster. The coldness of the rain shifts my way, freezing me where I stand. With sickness in my soul, and leaking from my eyes, nose, and mouth in unseen disease, I know it too. I am a monster. Or I was. But if I once was, am I not still?
“Years, Alexis, it was years of bullying for him.” I see the damnation in my eyes in the reflection of hers.
“Why did you do it?”
“I don’t know.” I run fingers through my hair in frustration. “Because he was different. Because it was easy. Because hurting him made me feel powerful. I don’t know. And I should. I should know why I thought it was okay to make another person feel like shit.”
The scent of damp earth blows our way with a sudden change in the wind. It makes me think of death, and graves, and I squint into the gray atmosphere, expecting to see Jackson. He isn’t here. I visited his gravesite once, in the days before I was dragged to this place, and I wept. I lost my mind a little bit in the aftermath of the boy’s death.
I’m not sure I got it all back.
I turn my attention back to Alexis. Even now, with the detestation emanating from her to me, I want to gaze at her. For a brief moment, she cared as much for me as I do for her. I know she did. I’ll hang on to that in the black loneliness of nights to come, when the reality of all that’s passed sinks in, and I know, in the end, Jackson won. I don’t even feel bad about it. I’m glad. For him, I’m glad.
Penance for my sins, right?
“I suppose you want the bear back?” It’s a stupid question, and I don’t know why I ask it.
She snorts bitterly. “The person who gave it to me betrayed me. So did the person I gave it to. Keep it, and think of how much I don’t think of you back.”
Even though her words sting, I’m relieved that I can keep Rosie, however weird that is. My feet lead me closer to Alexis, and I watch her stiffen. Inches are all that stand between us. Inches and truth. Revulsion clings to her like a dark smudge upon her aura. The fruity scent I associate with her stands out, like something sweet among the vileness. Peaches, and blamelessness that will never be mine.
I look into her eyes as I tell her the worst of it. I want to see the moment she truly detests me. “I started a rumor around the school that he was gay. It didn’t take long before everyone was talking about it, and you know the really macho guys? The homophobes? They beat him up one day after band practice. Cracked a few ribs, his nose, even broke his fingers so he couldn’t play trumpet anymore.”
My words are garbled as I say, “They carved the word ‘faggot’ into his forehead with a pocketknife.”
A hand goes to Alexis’ mouth, and her eyes are wide and filled with disbelief and agony. She looks like she’s going to be physically ill. I see her expression change. The eyes narrow, the mouth hardens. Something dark glitters from her eyes. There. There’s the look I imagined, only actually seeing the utter loathing in the eyes of a girl I cherish, hurts more than I could have thought possible. My heart is torn in tiny pieces.
“He was hurt bad.”
Nausea hits me hard at the memory of finding Jackson in the school parking lot after they were done with him. Disgusting as it is, when he was broken and bleeding, I finally saw him as a human being. I was horrified at what they’d done, at what I’d put into motion. I called for help and a teacher dialed 9-1-1. An ambulance came to the school and took him away.
I drove to the hospital and paced the halls once he was admitted. I took the looks of hatred from his family with clear eyes and a clear head. I knew what I’d done, and I was sickened by my actions. When Jackson got out, I was going to make it up to him. That was my vow. That was my plea. Let him live so I can make this better.
I never got the chance.
I briefly close my eyes, everything inside me a pile of brokenness. “Turns out, the rumor I started was true.” I open eyes that burn with misery, and shame. I didn’t know. I didn’t know Jackson was gay.
“The night he was discharged from the hospital, he snuck into his dad’s dental office after hours, took a scalpel from the supply of them, and went home to kill himself. I stopped by his house to apologize, to just talk to him. His mom didn’t want to let me in, but she finally told me he was in his room.”
I blink my eyes, and tears drop. The memories haven’t faded. I don’t think they will. I don’t know that I want them to. I need to remember this. I need to live this, and breathe this, and never forget. If I forget, Jackson’s life has less value. If I forget, his death means nothing.
“I found him. He was lying on his bed, blood surrounding him, eyes staring at the ceiling. He’d slit his wrists, written on the wall with his own blood, and died in his bed. He wrote ‘I wish I’d never been born’. And I knew, when I read those words, that it was my fault.”
I look at the water on the ground, seeing blood in its stead. It’s
soaked through the soles of my shoes. I can never escape the blood. My throat is closing in on me, and I want to weep, but even that gets choked somewhere in my throat. “I have nightmares about it—and, sometimes, you. I guess maybe I always knew you and I were doomed.”
“We weren’t doomed, Nick. We were—are—nothing.” Her words are vicious, and her tone is unrecognizable. “I could never feel anything for someone who could do the things you did to that poor kid. Anything I felt for you…it’s gone.”
“Right.” My whole body gets heavier. The rain comes harder, sounding like millions of needles slicing into an unsuspecting victim. I refuse to think of her words, and how hopeless they make me feel. “I see Jackson, even when I’m awake.”
“Good.”
Half of my mouth lifts in mockery of a smile. “I stopped talking after that. I wouldn’t eat; I couldn’t sleep. The shock of it, of my role in his death—it was too much. I had a breakdown. Most days, I felt like I was drowning in remorse. Most days, I hoped I would. I hated myself. I hated the kids I used to call friends. My aunt brought me here, and I never once thought of leaving, of going back to face it all.”
I look up. “Not until you came here.”
Alexis slaps me, the sharp sting of her palm against my face welcome. “Forget I was ever anything to you, because that’s what I’m going to do,” she hisses. “I wish I’d never met you.”
“I wish you’d never met me too.” I smile sadly.
Nineteen
Melanie
WHEN OUR NAMES ARE CALLED, I turn to Jocelyn and Casey. Something warns me against this, tells me it isn’t a coincidence that Lexie Hennessy isn’t here on the day we are to read our group stories. Plus, she has been disturbingly quiet since last week, and anytime she looked at me, it felt like she was seeing someone other than me. She wasn’t really here, but somewhere else. It was creepy.
I don’t trust her silence, or her absence. I especially don’t trust her.
Then there is the fact that the three of us never had any real part in the writing process of our project. I now realize how very, very stupid that was of us. What’s even stranger than Lexie being gone is that three copies of our assignment were magically waiting for us on Mr. Walters’ desk.
Like this was planned.
Am I overthinking this? My friends don’t seem concerned, and I follow them to the front of the class. But my stomach roils, and my palms sweat, and this feels really, really wrong. I shouldn’t be up here. I know I shouldn’t read the words before me. Someone coughs, and I cringe. Get it together. Lexie isn’t even here, and it still feels like she is in the room, watching me with wicked promises in her eyes. They’re all watching me. All the kids are watching me, waiting for me to screw up.
You have two more days of school, and then you’re free. Get a grip, and get through this. Remember who you are, and smile.
But I can’t smile.
When did I long for the school year to be over? Not once, not ever, not until now.
With her black curtain of hair framing her bold features, and the red sundress that shows more than it covers, Jocelyn has the arrogant look of a queen ruling over her subjects, and Casey looks as ridiculously clueless as ever. Things have been tense between me and them over the last week. Especially with Jocelyn, who acts like kissing me on the lips in front of everyone wasn’t a big deal, or like she isn’t seeing Jeff. It doesn’t do any good to hide it—I saw them making out by his car during lunch yesterday when I went outside to get some fresh air. Plus, the whole school knows.
When I saw them together, I expected to feel anger or hurt, but all I felt was empty.
Maybe I never really liked Jeff. The only boyfriend I’ve ever been serious about was Nick Alderson, and he dumped me for Jocelyn. That hurt. For months, I happily envisioned various ways of getting back at both of them. A lot of the daydreams ended with Nick begging me to take him back, and me shoving him into an unforgiving ocean full of hungry sharks, or off a cliff with jagged rocks below. Jocelyn lost her hair from a bad dye job, and got fat on protein bars, or was horribly disfigured in a knife fight over something ludicrous, like a tube of lipstick at the mall. The details depended on my mood at the time.
And then a boy died, and Nick went crazy before he altogether disappeared. I was glad about his mental breakdown, and I was glad that Jocelyn was boyfriend-less. Not that it lasted for long.
“Go. Read your part,” Jocelyn whispers, nudging my side with her elbow.
“Don’t touch me,” I snap, thinking of the kiss, and what everyone is probably thinking as they look at the two of us. The gossip’s died down, but there is still talk. And when a smooching sound breaks the quiet, and laughter follows, I know it hasn’t died down enough.
Jocelyn purrs, “Careful, Melanie, it looks like you have competition.”
Turning to her, I ask, “How can you joke about it?”
“Why are you so uptight about it?” she retorts, adjusting the strap of her dress.
Shooting her a dark look that she meets with a challenging one, I focus on the papers in my hands, scanning the part beside my name. Lexie assigned us roles? I look over the first sentence, my nerves whiplashing. If we don’t read it, we’ll get an incomplete for the assignment, and it will affect our final English grade. If we do read it, we’ll be the laughingstocks of the school.
“This isn’t right,” I murmur, glancing at Casey. “This isn’t what was originally written.”
Lower lip locked between her small, white teeth, Casey stares back with wide eyes.
“Who cares?” Jocelyn answers with her gaze trained forward. “Just read it before we all get Fs on it.”
“Miss Mathews, did you suddenly forget how to read?” Mr. Walters calls from his desk. “Too much time spent on fashion and not enough on books?”
Snickers erupt in the classroom.
I look around the room, and see kids who usually cower in my presence, or at least avoid eye contact, staring back at me like they see me as nothing special. My lack of importance has slowly progressed over the last month. It chafes like my lips having gone too long without lip balm. I can’t take this. I can’t do this. I need to leave this room; I want to get away from all the eyes. My hands shake around the papers they hold.
Don’t look at them. I drop my eyes to the floor. “No,” comes out weaker than it should.
“Then get started. I know it’s hard for you to believe, but there are others in here, and they’d like to read their projects as well. Today. Before class is over.”
Where is my snide comeback? Where is my head toss and eye roll? Where is my indifference to how I am viewed by others? Gone.
I don’t know why I look up, but I do, meeting Jeff’s eyes. He hurriedly focuses on his desk, his hands splayed across its top. Jerk. He didn’t even bother telling me he was no longer interested in me. Like Nick, he just went from me to Jocelyn. At least Nick broke up with me first.
“I’ll—I’ll read it,” Casey blurts, somehow standing taller and looking stronger than she ever has. She appears to have the backbone I lost. How did that happen? When did that happen?
“Fine. As long as someone reads it,” is the teacher’s exasperated reply.
This story is about us. I saw the names of the characters: Mel, Joss, and Cassie. The names are changed, but it’s us. I want to tell Casey to not read it, but my lips won’t open.
Her voice wavers on the first word, and Casey clears her throat. “My name is Mel. I think I’m perfect, but even I get pimples.”
Clint guffaws from the back of the room.
“Quiet, Clint,” Mr. Walters warns.
I turn to stone, even my lungs refusing to work.
Casey gives me a nervous look, and continues. “I’m not any better than you, but I act like I am. I tell myself everyone likes me, but I know, that really, even my friends…don’t.” She lifts her gaze to me as her pale face reddens, admitting her thoughts mirror the words she spoke.
I almost want to te
ll her it’s okay, that I know I deserve this, and her fake friendship.
“What kind of a story is this?” the teacher demands, looking from the seated students whispering to one another to us standing near the blackboard. His eyes are suspicious, like we all planned this confusing scene merely to dupe him.
“It’s an autobiography,” Timothy Green, a kid with a pink Mohawk who spends more time on his skateboard than his schoolwork, says, and high-fives the boy sitting across from him.
“Keep going,” Jocelyn urges, looking like she’s enjoying this. The only thing I can hope for is that Lexie’s written words are as true for her as they are for me.
“I’m a bully, and I like to hurt people so that I feel better about myself. You see, I don’t like myself. But what I like even less, is that other people might notice.”
It’s true. It’s all true.
My fingers unclench and the papers drop from my hands. The insides of my stomach spin, and the few grapes I ate this morning threaten to come back up. My eyes dart around the room, colliding with the sympathetic ones of the smelly kid, and it’s the end for me. Seeing that look in the eyes of someone who is the lowest of the low is the point where I know there’s no use in…anything.
It’s over.
I briefly close my eyes, and take a long, cleansing breath.
Jocelyn clamps a hand around my forearm when I turn to flee, her long nails digging into my skin like tiny blades. Her brown eyes hit mine, and they are knives of contempt. How did I ever think she ever looked at me with anything but rivalry and malice in her eyes? “If you walk out of here now, you will lose any semblance of popularity you have left.”
“I don’t care.” I wrench my arm from her grasp, her nails slicing open my skin. An ache forms where her nails marked me. “Don’t you get it?”
I throw my arms up and spread them wide, encircling the room in my gesture. “None of this matters.”
