Text copyright © 2010 by Julie Anne Peters
All rights reserved. Published by Disney • Hyperion Books, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney • Hyperion Books, 114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011-5690.
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Table of Contents
23 Days
22 Days
21 Days
20 Days
19 Days, 18 Days
17 Days
16 Days
15 Days
14 Days
13 Days
12 Days, 11 Days
10 Days
9 Days
8 Days
7 Days
6 Days
5 Days
5 Days (2)
4 Days
3 Days
2 Days
1 Day
Day of Determination
Discussion Guide and Resource List
To C. J. Bott
for her tireless campaign against bullying
— 23 DAYS —
The white boy, the skinny, tall boy with shocking white hair, sneaks behind the stone bench and leans against the tree trunk. Since I can’t move my head, I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He could be a ghost. For a minute I think he’s here to contact me, but that would be stupid. I don’t see dead people.
He pulls out a paperback and starts reading.
I hunch over my own book.
Mom’s black CR-V crunches to the curb and idles. I rip out the page I just read, ball it in my fist, and stand.
The white boy watches me. I don’t make eye contact. Not with him. Not with anyone.
I shoulder my book bag, walk to the car, open the door, and get in. My thighs squeeze together.
“Who is that?” Mom asks. She’s peering over my shoulder at the white boy. In the side-view mirror, I see he’s moved to the bench and taken my spot. Like he did yesterday.
“Was he talking to you? Do you know him?”
He’s into me, Mom. He likes ugly sick girls who have to wear neck braces.
She shifts into drive. “I don’t want you associating with people outside of school, people I don’t know. If anyone talks to you, go back inside the building.”
What if I talk to them?
That was a joke.
She checks the rearview mirror to merge into the street. Her face is filled with worry lines. “Your father has a late meeting with a client, so it’ll just be us for dinner.”
She smiles expectantly.
I can’t even look at her.
“I’ll be leaving for Houston in the morning, but I shouldn’t have to stay more than two days. Dad will drive you to school and pick you up. He may be a few minutes late if he can’t get away by two thirty, but you just wait for him on the bench.” We circle the roundabout and she adds, “If that . . . person, if anyone bothers you, tell your dad.”
Sure, Mom. I’ll use sign language.
Wal-Mart, on my right, is packed. “Oh, I really need to stop for deodorant and toothpaste.” She slows at the entrance, but doesn’t turn in. We pass the Wal-Mart. “Never mind. I’ll get them on my way to the airport.”
Her eyes betray the fear. She’ll never lose it. She doesn’t stop because she’s afraid I’ll have a wack attack. I’ve only had one in public, but it happened when she left me alone in the car. It was in our red car, the old one. I was ten. She needed to pick up a few groceries at King Soopers on our way home from school. She said a few. I had to go to the bathroom, but I figured a few meant a few minutes. She said, “I’ll be right back.” She said that: “Right. Back.”
The door shut and instantly all the air in the car compressed. I couldn’t breathe. Minutes ticked by. The walls closed in. She left me there, alone, and I knew, I just knew she was never coming back for me. My bladder ballooned like I’d been guzzling water for weeks, and even when I crossed my legs and scrunched up tight, I couldn’t hold it.
At the first dribble, I squealed. Then I exploded. I don’t remember screaming or honking the horn. The fear of being locked inside, I remember every day. If I close my eyes, I can hear the ringing in my ears, still, from the blaring horn. I see the distorted faces of everyone peering through the window. Mom’s panicked eyes. The door unlocking and her hand wrenching mine away from the horn.
“What’s the matter?” she cries.
I heave a sob. “I peed my pants.” The stretchy pink capris she just got me. Ruined.
Mom gives me that look, like, Who are you? What are you?
She has to tell the people, “It’s nothing. She’s fine. I was only gone a few minutes.”
People leave.
She’s humiliated.
“Why did you do that?” she said between clenched teeth as we drove away fast. She was powerless to control me. She still is. I was trapped, Mom. Why don’t you get that?
Peeing my pants isn’t the reason she can’t leave me alone now. I’m under twenty-four-hour suicide watch.
If I could speak, I’d tell her, “What can happen in a few minutes changes you forever.”
— 22 DAYS —
I found Through-the-Light by accident. I don’t normally believe in accidents. Divine intervention, maybe. Except I don’t believe in God. I want to. I just can’t. There’s a higher power guiding me, for sure, because it guided me to Through-the-Light.
I don’t remember what I was searching for on the Web. Suicide. Death. Wills. That was it. Wills. I wanted to write a will. It wouldn’t be legal or anything, since I’m not eighteen. I just thought a will would be less personal than a suicide note. Less . . . upsetting.
www.Through-the-Light.com popped up on my screen.
My eyes were drawn to the bits and pieces of description: assist completers . . . if your time is now . . . may not discourage or dissuade . . . self-termination is your right.
I had to choose it, maximize the window. Through-the-Light is a site where people will themselves away. That’s the only way to explain it. You don’t have to pay and you don’t fill out forms to make it legal. Who cares about legalities when you’re dead?
The home page is black and white. No frills. No flashing ads. That attracted me. When you enter, your monitor goes completely blank, then this white, burning light almost blinds you. If you look hard, and don’t look away, you see the message:
Are you ready to pass Through-the-Light?
I’d been ready my whole life.
The default answer is No.
I tabbed to Yes.
A pop-up box appeared and I was asked to sign this privacy policy, which I didn’t read all the way through at the time. I should have. The last paragraph ended, By agreeing to the terms of this site, you release Through-the-Light of all responsibility for your actions.
Agree? No Yes
I clicked my mouse pointer on Yes.
Please press dominant index finger to screen.
Why? I thought. Weird, but I did it.
Please wait.
I swore I felt heat through my skin.
Do you agree to the minimum and maximum time limits?
; Yes No
Whatever. I wanted in.
I chose Yes.
Thank you, Daelyn Rice.
What? How did it know my name?
Your ID is J_Doe071894.
Which was eerie. July 18, 1994 is my birthday. Dad must’ve set up a profile for me on this computer and not secured it. Stupid. Everyone who’s registered or accepted by Through-the-Light is J_Doe something. Anonymous, genderless.
There were three selections on the main menu: DOD, FF, WTG.
I didn’t know what they meant.
Start at the beginning, I figured. I moved my pointer to DOD and clicked. A message popped up.
Touch screen activated.
My new PC has a touch screen. When my parents gave me back my computer privileges, they surprised me with this new PC. Parentally controlled, of course. I’d used touch screens on the kiosks at King Soopers and Wally World. I pressed my right index finger on DOD and a list appeared.
J_Doe092854
J_Doe031392
J_Doe102385 . . .
Eight people. Or members. Or pulses of light.
The monitor went blank for a second and a large, italicized message filled the screen.
Your Date of Determination will be 23 days from today. Will you be prepared, Daelyn Rice? No Yes
Twenty-three days? That was too long. I was ready now. I touched No.
Enter DOD _____.
I entered tomorrow’s date, but it came back Invalid Entry. I tried the day after. A message appeared:
Policy states DOD minimum is 23 days.
Twenty-three days was too long. I could’ve just backed out, closed the window. But I didn’t. I felt somehow that Through-the-Light had found me, had known my true desire. I touched Default. The earliest possible date appeared: April 24.
That seemed forever away.
The DOD list reappeared, scrolling down my screen. DOD. Date of Determination. These people must’ve reached their day, I figured out.
Lucky them.
White Boy is green today. His shirt is green, anyway. A logo tee, which I can’t read from this distance. Cream khakis, which would make him look nerdy if they weren’t wrinkled and overlong. He raises his eyes from his book and locks them on me as I open the gate, exit, and shut the gate behind me.
I’m not really looking. His bleached-out hair is gelled in spikes.
The stone bench is gray. The grass is gray. My life is dirty gray.
I pull out Desire in the Mist. Chapter eighteen, I read silently.
Maggie Louise knew from the look on Charles’s face that she’d said the wrong thing. “Charles—”
He held up a hand. “No, Maggie Louise. I won’t stand in the way of your happiness. If you love this man—”
A blur of body mass causes me to blink and lose my place.
He hip-hop dances in front of me. Skip-jumps back and forth.
First of all, he sucks.
Second, leave me alone.
I resume reading.
Maggie Louise had never known a man who’d give up his happiness for her. And she was his whole happiness. She’d been his wife for four years, his lover before that, his friend and ally. She wished now they’d adopted the Russian child. Or the Vietnamese one. She wished she wasn’t leaving him alone.
Maggie Louise is me, in my next life. If I get a second chance.
The sound of pounding feet grabs my attention again. He krumps past me. “Ow,” he says, grabbing his upper arm. “I think I dislocated my shoulder.”
He’s not funny.
“When do you want me to leave, Maggie Louise?” Charles asked.
She wasn’t prepared to give him a date. She hesitated. She studied the man who’d been her constant companion, her champion and friend. Charles, oh, Charles. She didn’t want to lose him, but what choice did she have?
Blocking my light, Green Boy stands there, waiting.
He dusts off his other shoulder.
Inwardly, I roll my eyes.
“Aha!” He points.
He didn’t see that. He’s making fun of me. Jerk.
Dad pulls up to the curb and I rip out page 181. Balling it in my fist, I throw it at the boy.
“Your mother is in Houston. Her plane set down around noon. She wanted me to let you know she arrived safely.”
Because that is a grave concern.
Dad says, “How was your day?”
Eventful, actually. White boys can’t dance. Also, two girls—two Catholic School girls—shared a joint in the john while I was changing my tampon. I sat on the toilet as long as I could, inhaling their secondhand smoke. You probably couldn’t die from huffing pot, but hope springs eternal.
My butt got numb, so I stood and flushed. They yelped. They were fanning the air as I emerged from the stall. For a second I thought they were dispersing the stink of my presence. One went, “Shit. It’s that weird deaf chick.”
The other elbowed her.
Dumb, I wanted to say. Not deaf. Dumb. Make that stupid, like you.
“You won’t rat us out, will you?” the elbower asked.
The mean girl clicked her tongue. “She can’t talk.”
Right, I thought. I’m deaf.
I needed to wash my hands. To get to the sink, I’d have to squeeze by one or both of them. Which would mean human contact.
“Damn. That was a waste of good weed.” Intellectually-challenged-socially-aware-and-sensitive girl blew on her soggy joint.
I inched past her, punched the hand blower with my elbow (like, blow-dry your joint, hello?), then left.
“She’s so freaking weird,” I heard the mean girl say.
Twenty-two days, I thought. I held my hands up in the air the way surgeons do on TV, fingers spread. The other restroom on this floor was for faculty only. Thank the Virgin Mary it wasn’t locked.
I scrubbed and scrubbed with hand soap. As the water diluted my filth, all the air in my lungs expelled. What if I’d gotten menstrual blood on me?
I really was a sick person.
“She’ll be home by Friday,” Dad says.
I switch back to the present.
He massages his neck. “Is it okay with you if we just order takeout? I don’t feel like cooking.”
Then don’t. I focus on the road, the path ahead.
I should clarify. The restrictions on my 24/7 suicide watch have been relaxed. I can be trusted to go to school, and to wait on a bench. A year has passed since my last failure. Not attempt. Failure.
Dad reaches over and cranks up the volume on the CD he’s playing. It’s techno, for God’s sake. My stomach hurts from cramps anyway, but that music makes me want to hurl.
I think he thinks it’ll make him seem cool.
News you can use, Dad. Losers aren’t cool.
He orders one of those family combos with wonton soup, egg rolls, sweet and sour shrimp, Kung Pao chicken, Hunan beef, steamed rice, and fried rice. It’s enough food to feed all the starving children in Africa.
It smells good, but it looks like doggie doo now that it’s liquefied in the blender. I can no longer eat real food. This is God’s idea of irony.
Dad says, “I’m going to watch the news. You can watch with me or, if you want, you can eat in your room.”
See? Major leap of faith.
He’ll still check on me periodically. He’ll find excuses to walk by my room or open and close the hall closet.
From my bedroom door in the middle of the hall, I slowly turn. Dad is watching me. I throw him a bone—eye contact. Catch.
He says, “I’m glad you’re here, Daelyn.”
The shrink told him to say that. I duck into my room.
Sitting at my desk, I flash back to the audition when I was seven. Dad read about this talent agency that was coming to town looking for child actors. “Singing and dancing ability a plus,” he read to me. I told him, “I can’t dance.” He said, “But you sing like an angel.”
He’d heard me singing along to a TV show, and the next thing I kne
w I was singing solo because Dad had remoted down the sound. “You’re really good,” he said. “Maybe even better than your mother. Don’t tell her I said that.” He winked. That made me happy because Mom had a beautiful voice. Wherever we drove, Dad would play CDs from films and musicals and encourage me to sing along. “You’re going to be the next American Idol,” he said.
I beamed. I actually believed him.
The audition was held in a huge auditorium that was packed with kids and parents. I wore my best dress, the one with puffy sleeves and sparkles. Looking at all those people . . . The thought of getting up in front of them and singing . . .
I whispered to Dad, “I don’t want to do this. Can we go home?”
“You’ll be great.” He squeezed my hand. “Just pretend you’re singing in the car.”
“Dad,” I said urgently, “I don’t want to.”
He wouldn’t listen.
He doesn’t listen. No one ever listened to me.
I was assigned a number: 203. By the time my number was called, it was late afternoon and my stomach was growling with hunger and twisted in knots. Dad said, “Now don’t be nervous. Just answer their questions and speak up. Then sing the way you do for me.” He smiled and pushed me onstage.
I don’t remember the questions. I sang “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” like a hundred kids had before me. My voice shook, but I didn’t forget the lyrics, and I hit all the high notes.
A deep voice from the audience reverberated: “Thank you. You have a nice voice, but we’re not looking for your type.” I turned to leave, but Dad walked out onstage. “What type?”
When there was no answer, Dad repeated the question. “What type?” He sounded mad.
The deep voice sounded: “Do I have to say it?”
“Yes,” Dad said. “What do you mean her ‘type’?”
There was a hushed silence in the auditorium.
I felt all hot and flushed. Don’t say it, I thought. Not out loud.
The voice boomed. “In case you hadn’t noticed, your daughter is . . . overweight.”
People’s snickers and snorts drifted up to me.
Dad didn’t say, “No, she’s not.” Because he knew I was and he made me humiliate myself in public.
I take my poo poo platter smoothie to the bed.
By the Time You Read This, I'll Be Dead Page 1
