by Zac Brewer
“I wish I was.” He looked a little lost and a lot sad. I could relate.
I nodded toward the bridge. “You see that stone bridge over there?”
He looked for a moment before speaking.
“Is that where you—”
“Yeah.” I could still feel the water on my face, the free-fall sensation in my chest as my feet left the bridge. It had been dreamlike.
“That’s not too high.” It seemed a bit like he was criticizing my choices, but I was probably just prickly because of the subject matter. He walked toward the bridge, and I hesitated for a solid minute before following him. As I stepped onto it, my heart felt like it might explode.
He looked at me and said, “What was it like right before you jumped? Were you scared?”
My eyes welled with tears, but I blinked them away. “I was terrified. And relieved that my life was about to be over.”
In complete silence, we both watched the water rushing under us for a few minutes. After a while, he turned to me and asked, “If you were scared . . . then how do you know it was the right choice?”
“I never said I was scared of dying. I was scared that I would fail. And I did. Still feel like a ghost ever since, though. Part of me died that day, anyway. Even though I lived.” I looked at him, curious if he was willing to give up a piece of his past as well. “What were you thinking when the blade first cut your skin?”
He looked thoughtful for a moment before responding. “That it was a lot harder to cut myself than I thought it would be. It’s not like the movies. It’s not like slice, slice, and slip away from the world. When I finally broke through, at first I thought Finally, and then I was surprised that I didn’t just fall over and die right away. But I was more surprised by the pain. I guess I thought it wouldn’t hurt, for some stupid reason.”
“I was afraid of that. The pain. That’s why I took all those pills and decided on drowning. I thought it would be the least painful way to go. Kinda like going to sleep.”
“Why did you do it, anyway?”
“Why did you?” A heavy silence filled the air between us.
“Because I knew death was the only way out for me. Out of the hurt of it all. Out of . . . just . . . everything.” When he said the last word, he gestured behind him with his arm. I didn’t know what it meant. His home life? His past, maybe? “What about you?”
“I don’t know. I just wanted it to . . . stop. Y’know? All of it.”
For a moment, our eyes met, the sunlight reflecting off the water below. He didn’t look terribly bothered by the subject matter. In fact, he looked relieved to have someone to talk to about it. Someone who wouldn’t judge him. I was feeling the same way. It wasn’t at all like talking to Dr. Daniels. Or even like talking to Duckie. They didn’t understand. They couldn’t understand. But Derek did.
As if something had just occurred to him, he raised an eyebrow at me, his eyes brightening. “Are you religious at all? Do you believe in like heaven or hell or any of that stuff?”
“No. Not that it matters.” I wasn’t counting the time my grandmother had forced me to attend a summer Bible-study camp for a week when I was twelve.
“Yeah, me neither. What do you think’s on the other side of death? I bet it’s just black, y’know. Just . . . emptiness.”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“Does that bother you?” He pulled a packet of cigarettes from his hoodie pocket and popped a cig into his mouth. He lit it, then inhaled. The ember brightened. As he exhaled, I tried to ignore the acrid smell of it. Smoking was a disgusting, unhealthy habit. But it did give Derek that bad-boy appeal. I was a fan of that, at least. I just wished he could achieve it with something that wouldn’t make his clothes smell and his lungs turn black.
“It’s a little obnoxious. But I don’t mind so much.” I shrugged, trying to keep things casual, despite the fact that I could feel the unsettling, familiar creep of anxiety crawling its way up my spine to the back of my skull. “Can we talk about something else now? I just . . . I don’t want to talk about my attempt anymore for the moment, okay?”
He inhaled again, watching me closely, as if I were a puzzle that he was trying desperately to solve. He exhaled another puff, the smoke rolling out into the air like an eerie fog, then said, “Why not?”
“Because I’m kinda trying to forget about it.”
“Maybe that’s your problem. That darkness is a part of you, just like my darkness is part of me. You can’t just forget it, Brooke. None of us can.”
I rolled my eyes. Like I needed someone else in my life to analyze my every move. “Thanks, doc.”
“I just know what you’re going through, that’s all.” He inhaled again, blowing the smoke out slowly, thoughtfully. His eyes lowered to my mouth and stayed there for a while, as if he was thinking about what it might taste like. Seeing that sent a delicious thrill through me. When he spoke, it felt like he was standing so much closer to me than he had been, even though he hadn’t moved an inch. “So are you going to kiss me or what?”
I straightened my shoulders, forcing my attention away from his lips. “I don’t kiss guys who smoke.”
Looking into my eyes, he took one last, long, slow, deep drag on his cigarette. He held the smoke in his lungs, closing his eyes momentarily, clearly relishing the moment. He exhaled. Then he dropped the butt to the ground and crushed it with the toe of his boot. He took a step closer to me—so unbearably, irresistibly close—and said, in a gruff voice, “Well, I just quit. So what are you going to do?”
His lips were full and pink and looked so soft. Despite my distaste for his smoking, something about it drew me to him. I wanted to taste the nicotine on his lips, on his tongue. I leaned in and pressed my mouth to his. His kiss was firm and commanding, a hint of absolute desire hidden behind the curtain of his touch. I slipped my tongue along his, and he bit it gently between his teeth, sending a sweet shock of need down my spine. He tasted like cigarettes, like motorcycles, like electric guitars. He tasted like freedom and blue skies and rock ’n’ roll.
Below, Black River rushed by. Above, a breeze rustled the treetops. The sound of water and wind and the glory of newness filled me and I could have gone on kissing him forever.
CHAPTER NINE
“And then what happened?” Duckie was sprawled out on my bed, hugging one of my pillows to his chest and grinning.
I was sitting on my bedroom floor, trying to ignore the judgmental whispers of the cranes hanging from my ceiling. They weren’t happy that I’d told Derek about my past, or that kissing him had sent a wave of possibility over me. The cranes and I had made a pact to end my pain, to finish what I’d started that night in Black River. They didn’t seem to appreciate my possible deviation from oblivion. But it was just a kiss . . . wasn’t it?
Shrugging, I said, “We just spent the next few hours hanging out at the park, talking. Mostly about music and kids at school and stuff like that. Then I texted you to come get me.”
“The school didn’t call your parents?”
“Nope. Thanks to your brilliant forgery, it looks like I’m in the clear.”
“You owe me for that, by the way.” He sighed dreamily. “Was there more kissing? Tell me there was more kissing. Or groping. Or dry humping. Something.”
Laughter spilled out of me at Duckie’s ridiculous optimism. “I can’t tell you what didn’t happen.”
He groaned, rolling his eyes. “Oh come on. At least lie to me and give me hope of some torrid love affair between you and the new bad boy in town.”
The paper cranes folded their little wings and just looked at me with disapproval. I tore my gaze away from them and tried to focus on Duckie. “Seriously. That’s all that happened. We didn’t even hold hands.”
The sky outside was darkening quickly as the spring storm the radio DJ had warned about rolled in. I was really looking forward to seeing the rain against my windows. There was something soothing about the rumble in the distance approaching, the sp
eckles of water that turned into sheets, the flashes of brightness in seemingly endless dark. The only thing better than a storm, in my opinion, was the anticipation of one.
“Was he a better kisser than Tommy Melltrigger?”
Tommy had been a sophomore-year mistake, but a great kisser. He’d also become the measurement of how good a kisser a person was. Derek had changed that today. “Definitely.”
“Wow.” Duckie looked at the window, and as the thunder began grumbling, he said, “The storm’s coming.”
Indeed, it was. The sky outside had already turned very dark gray. “What about you? When are you going to make a move on Tucker? It’s senior year, Duckman. Which means you do something now or potentially never.”
Duckie groaned and placed the pillow he’d been hugging over his face. Even though his voice was muffled, I could still hear him. “I can’t do it. If he rejected me, I’d fall apart at the seams.”
“If he rejects you, he’s an idiot.” I was speaking the truth and we both knew it, even though Duckie was far too modest to say it out loud. He was a great catch. And it was stupid how many guys he’d liked who’d either mocked him for it or weren’t interested for whatever reason.
Duckie lay back on the bed, staring up at my paper cranes. Outside, the rain had started to fall. “I don’t want much. Just somebody to cuddle with, watch movies with, text nonstop, hold hands, love me until the end of time. You know. Practically nothing.”
It was a rare thing for Duckie to be serious about himself—though he had no trouble at all being serious about me. I didn’t like seeing him with that look in his eye. The one that said that he felt way down deep that he’d die alone. Duckie deserved to be happy and loved. But he didn’t seem to think so. My heart ached for him.
I climbed up on the bed beside him and watched the paper cranes for a while. Duckie blew at them, and they all moved slightly, taking flight. I turned my head toward him. “Planning on staying a virgin, then?”
Duckie’s eyes were shiny. He blinked away his tears and said, “Hey. Not all of us just give it away without the promise of forever, you hussy.”
Ripping the pillow from him, I rightly pummeled him with it while we both laughed. Yeah, I’d had sex before. Twice, actually. Once had been a mistake. The second time had been okay, I supposed. It was awkward mostly, and not exactly gratifying. Duckie knew all the details of both encounters, of course.
“You’re such a wannabe hussy, Duckie.”
“For the right boy, yeah.” Maybe it scared boys away when they learned that Duckie wanted to find that epic, big love before he got physically intimate with someone. Maybe it weirded them out. Maybe it made them mad. But it really made me respect Duckie for sticking to his morals. For having morals at all.
I lay my head against his shoulder. “If Tucker made a move, do you think he might be the right boy?”
“Every time I close my eyes, honey. Every time I close my eyes.” The expression on his face went a little dreamy for a moment, and he finished off his thought with “Especially in the shower.”
I shoved him away from me. “Gross.”
Thunder clapped over our heads, cutting off the sound of his laughter. “What about Derek?”
I shrugged. The cranes looked down at me and raised their tiny little eyebrows to show that they were curious about my answer to this question as well. “What about him?”
“Would you sleep with him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I’d definitely kiss him again.” Rain was streaming down my window glass. Outside, the storm was in full force.
For a moment Duckie smiled an honest smile. I was willing to bet that he was thinking about Tucker. “So what’s he like? I mean, when he’s not gnawing your face into bliss?”
“Well . . . he’s brave. Honest, bold, and it seems like he comes from a really rough home life.” My mind flashed images—his eyes, his lips, the scars on his wrists. I furrowed my brow, wanting to share that last bit with my best friend. “There’s something else too. He has these—”
“Dinnertime, you two!” My mom’s voice lilted upstairs. Just the sound of it made me clench my jaw.
“Nothing. Never mind. I’ll tell you later,” I said to Duckie. I would. I promised myself that. Even though it felt like some kind of betrayal to Derek to tell someone else that he’d been to the same edge that I had. Even though I didn’t owe Derek anything, and I owed Duckie more than I could ever repay.
To my utter shock, when we went downstairs and walked into the dining room, Dad was sitting at the head of the table. Apparently whatever had been keeping him in the garage was fixed or built or whatever for the moment. Mom set three boxes on the table and took her seat at the opposite end. Duckie and I sat side by side, facing the kitchen. We weren’t a praying family—religion was just a word in the Danvers household, and only rarely ever spoken aloud. So rather than fold our hands together and say any kind of blessing, we dug in, filling our plates with slices of pepperoni pizza and cheesy breadsticks. Mom and Duckie chattered endlessly about how the play auditions had gone. It was the first audition I’d ever missed, and all because I was stuck in Kingsdale. I barely heard what they said, other than the fact that the school had decided to do Romeo and Juliet. I was busy trying to look at my dad without having him notice that I was looking at him. In direct contrast, he seemed to be doing all that he could not to look at me. Not so much as a peek.
I could have felt bitter. I could have been overwhelmed by anger. But mostly, I just felt sorry for my dad. And terrible for having been the cause of his pain.
“What about you, Brooke?” Mom’s tone was carefully cheerful, as if she was worried that one wrong word might make Dad or me scramble from the room.
I poked at a breadstick with my finger, not really hungry. “What about me what?”
“Have you made a decision about makeup crew?” The smile she wore on her face was made of plastic and put there for Duckie—so he’d see that everything was just hunky-dory with the Danvers family. I knew that smile well. She dug it out for picnics with the neighbors and holiday dinners, or whenever we had extended family over to visit. It was like bringing out the good china. Only Mom didn’t own any china. She just had that stupid, plastic smile that everyone could see right through.
I took a deep breath then and did my best to keep my tone casual. “Remember when I said I’d decided to skip it this year?”
Mom dropped her napkin on the table and looked at me like I’d just admitted to having tried heroin or something. “But it’s your senior year.”
I shrugged. “Look, I’ve had a lot going on, okay? Maybe I just don’t feel like adding something else to my plate right now.”
Dad said, “You should be making plans. Plans are healthy. Plans would give you something to look forward to so you can put all this nastiness behind you.” He didn’t look up from his plate, but I’d jumped a little when he spoke. I hadn’t been expecting him to say anything to me for the duration of the meal.
“And what ‘nastiness’ would you be referring to, exactly?” I set my fork down on my plate and looked at my father. “Well, come on, Dad. You’re finally talking to me. Why don’t you say how you really feel?”
He retrieved the paper napkin from his lap, wiped his mouth, and set it on the table before meeting my gaze. “How I feel is that you should get back into your old routine and stop all this attention-seeking nonsense.”
The room fell silent with the heaviness of my father’s words. For a moment, it seemed as if all the air had been sucked from the room, from my lungs, from the world. Was that what he really thought of me? That I’d merely been looking for attention? Did he really have no idea the pain and torment that I’d been lost in for the past year? Was he seriously that oblivious to the feelings of his own daughter?
I stood up slowly from the table, my eyes locked with my dad’s. My chest was filled with disappointment and anger, but mostly sadness. Mom sat very still, like she had no idea what to do or say. Her pl
astic smile had slipped right off her face. Outside, the rain had ceased, but the storm inside our house was raging on in full force.
Ever so gently, and very quietly, Duckie said, “Brooke—”
“Go home, Duckie. I need to be alone.” I didn’t wait for a response—not from my best friend, not from my mom, and certainly not from my dad. I merely left the dining room as quickly as I was able to and hurried up the stairs to my bedroom. Once I’d closed my door, I leaned up against it with my back, tilting my chin up so I could rest my head against the wood as well.
Attention seeking. That’s what my dad thought of me. That I was some spoiled brat who was just looking for an extra pat on the head. How could he think that about me? And even if he did, how could he say it to my face like that? What kind of way was that for anyone to talk to their daughter? Especially one who just got out of the psychiatric treatment clinic only a week and a half before.
Angry tears welled in my eyes and spilled down my cheeks.
Like rain.
CHAPTER TEN
The next few days glazed by in a blur of school and meds and faking smiles at Duckie. Then on Sunday night, I sat there on the floor of my room for hours, reliving every moment I’d spent inpatient, seeing Joy’s dead eyes, wishing I could join her. Tears fell, only to be replaced with anger, then emptiness. The brief spark of hope that Derek had inspired in me had quickly withered. I just wanted my life to end. I just wanted it all to end.
The cranes whispered a reminder that the razor was still hidden inside my closet. It would be painful. It would be messy. But it would also be my salvation.
My dad’s words from dinner that night still echoed in my mind. Stop all this attention-seeking nonsense.
Was that what everyone thought I was doing? Looking for attention? Had it never occurred to them that my pain was real, sharp, suffocating?
Opening my closet door, I slid my hamper aside. My chest was tight, and it took me a moment to realize that I’d been holding my breath. There it was, sticking slightly out from behind the baseboard. That tiny glint of silver against the white paint of the wall. I stretched out my hand, but just as my fingertips brushed the metal something hit my window.
