I hustle to the street and he calls, “Hey, you forgot your bookmark.” I wrench open the car door and slam it shut. I have other bookmarks.
Mom says, “Hi, honey. How was your day? I missed you.”
She never says that. Why would she miss me?
I almost look at her, then don’t.
There are 318 people logged on to Through-the-Light. Friday nights are lonely for so many people in the world.
Not only have I never had a boyfriend, I’ve never had a date, so being home on Friday night is all I know. Mom and Dad used to have a standing Friday night date. Before, when they could leave me alone in the house at night.
The Final Forum is a beehive of activity. Buzz buzz. Hot topic tonight: Attempts.
J_Doe122589: How many times have you tried? This will be my third. And last.
J_Doe050550: I OD’d on heroin twice. My roommate found me both times. He shoulda let me die, man. I’m so f*d up.
I could tell them stories.
J_Doe081967: I’ve tried 12 times. Pills, booze, knives. This time it’s for real.
What a liar. Trying is failing. Failing to complete. Failing to plan and consider every angle of your method. There is always—ALWAYS—the possibility of failure. But twelve times?
I bet most of us here have tried and failed. The completers aren’t here, of course. We’re cowards in their eyes—if they can see us.
J_Doe102259 writes: I try electric myself and didnt work. My frien told me if I drop hairdry in bath tub, I die. Wrong.
Is she foreign or something? It’s a global epidemic.
J_Doe012964 writes: I chose electrocution becuz I read its fast and painless. I cut my electrical line and stood in bare feet in a puddle. I lost conshiousness and my neighbor resussitated (sp) me. All I got was 3rd degree burns on my leg. Its NOT painless.
You never want to be resuscitated. You have to plan the time and place. You have to be alone. You never want to end up on life support, or as a vegetable. You must destroy your body beyond the point where it will support life.
The foreign girl adds: I try total 4 times and evrytime I wake up in hopital.
The worst is waking up in the hospital. Your parents are there, crying. Or your mother is yelling at the doctors and nurses. You come back wrecked. You ruin everyone’s day.
It won’t happen again.
I promise.
— 19 DAYS, 18 DAYS —
I wake with dread this Saturday. Not that I ever look forward to waking up, but weekends are especially bad. More time alone with them, their pathetic attempts to draw me out. “What should we do today, Daelyn? Go to an early movie?” Because I can’t embarrass them in a dark theater, and the matinees are never crowded. “Play Monopoly? Or Clue? How about Pictionary?” When I don’t answer, they give up. They’ve come to realize my only friends exist in cyberspace— like they’re really friends. They’re screen names. I don’t do friends.
When I was nine, Mom said, “Would you like to be in Girl Scouts? I was a Girl Scout. You’ll make a lot of friends.”
By then being around a bunch of girls my age terrified me. “No thanks,” I told her. Girls were so mean.
She said, “Go to one meeting. I bet you’ll enjoy it.”
No, no, no, no, no. She didn’t get it.
She made me go.
At the meeting she stayed a few minutes, then left me at a stranger’s house with all these girls who already knew each other. A few were in my class at school and one of them groaned. It clued in the others. The leader made the troop do a ceremonial welcome bridge and I had to walk under everyone’s steepled hands. More than one girl tried to trip me.
The meeting was boring and stupid. One of the girls from my school came up to me afterward and said, “You’ll like this part, Daelyn. It’s where we eat.” She gasped real loud so everyone would hear. “I hope we have enough cupcakes.”
I went to the bathroom and locked myself in. The leader tried to talk me out, and even with my hands over my ears, I could hear the girls laughing at me. I sat on the floor against the door until Mom came to pick me up.
In the car she said, “Did you even try?”
Why do I have to be the one who tries?
In her eyes, I’m a failure. She won’t miss me.
I’m required to keep my bedroom door open while I’m online, even though the first thing Dad did when we moved here was remove all the locks from the doors. I’m up before them so I log on.
Heavy topic on the Final Forum: Sexual Assault. I don’t want to read those stories. Bullied attracts me again.
I was teased from kindergarten on because I’m gay. The teasing turned to bullying. J_Doe070790.
I’ve been called fag my whole life and I’m not even gay. J_Doe112985.
People call me pizza face. i can’t help it if i have acne. They say “yo zit wad.” girls back up when I come tward them. someone passed around a picture they drew in bio class. It was this sea monster with tennacles. It had my name and unerneath they wrote zit squid. Everybody got a big kick out of that. i wonder how they’ll feel when I’m dead.
J_Doe090291 writes: Bullycide is the only cure for living.
Bullycide. I know that word well. Suicide as an escape from bullying.
I touch the screen for Add a Message. A blank notepad appears with my ID filled in. My hands hover over the keys—five, ten seconds. I want to write my story. But if I do . . .
No.
I can’t. I don’t trust people anymore.
I go to touch screen off, but a new post catches my eye. J_Doe061890. I was always the new girl, so people picked on me. I must’ve done something to deserve it otherwise why? I’ve been at this school for 2 1/2 years and every day these girls wait for me and hunt me down. They’ve threatened to cut me and beat me until I bleed to death. I’m going to save them the trouble.
I key fast, “In first grade this boy said to me, ‘You’re fat. You’re fatter than the fattest pig on the farm.’ It made me cry. I told my mom and all she said was, ‘Ignore it. Let it roll off your back.’ How many times are you supposed to let it roll off your back?”
Just writing that much makes my pulse race.
J_Doe110282 writes: The jocks call me queer fag sissy buttf*ck from the minute I get to school until I get out of there. I know it’ll never end. Never.
They kill you with their words. My fingers fly: “The first day in my new school these three older girls on the playground surrounded me. They were a pack. I was standing by the swings waiting for a turn and the leader said, ‘You can’t be serious. You couldn’t even fit on that swing.’ They all laughed. One of the other girls said, ‘Even if you could squish in, we don’t want you to break the new swing set.’”
J_Doe061890 replies: “People are so f*ing mean. I hate everyone.
Join the biggest club in the world.
J_Doe100285 writes: People teased me because of my disability. When I reported it nobody did anything. It just got worse.
“I went to report them,” I key, “but I found out the people with orange vests were the mediators. All three girls were wearing orange vests.”
J_Doe061890: F* the entire human race.
Every recess. It was like they’d made a pact with every person at school. Don’t let the fat girl play on any of the playground equipment. Don’t play with her because she’s fat.
Fat is ugly. Fat is stupid.
I cried every night. “I don’t want to go to school,” I told Mom and Dad. I begged them to let me stay home. Mom said, “You have to go to school. It’s the law.”
“Can’t I be homeschooled?”
“We both have to work,” Mom said.
They cared more about work than me.
I even told them how people called me names.
Dad said, “I got called names all the time because I didn’t play sports. ‘Wuss’ and ‘willy,’ stuff like that. So what? Brains’ll get you farther than brawn.” He patted my shoulder. “Don’t let them get to you.”
But they are! I wanted to scream.
“Daelyn, what are you doing?” Mom walks into my room.
My fingers spring up off the keyboard. I raise my hand to cover the screen and it goes dark.
“Are you okay?”
I don’t answer because I can’t talk. Anyway, rhetorical question.
She says, “You look tired. Did you have a rough night?”
I don’t sleep well. I have nightmares.
“I can’t sleep either.” She pulls her robe around her and hugs herself. “It was a hard week. I lost the account in Houston.”
She doesn’t sound sad, but I know she is. Losing work? Horrors. She pads over and squeezes me around the shoulders. I wince from the ache of her touch. I hate my skin for feeling.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her looking around my room.
She zeroes in and crosses to my bed. Lifting my book off the pillow and flipping it over, she reads the blurb on back. A smile tugs her lips before she sets the book down. “They were difficult clients, anyway. Nothing I ever did was right. When your business is going under, you don’t blame the accountant.” She heads for the door and I think, No, you blame yourself. “You know what today is?” she says.
Mom smells good. She has this face cream that reminds me of peach pie. Don’t breathe it in.
“The weekend. At last. Oh, don’t forget we’re seeing Dr. Novotny at one.”
She pauses in the threshold. “You really do look tired, sweetheart. You should get to bed earlier. Get more sleep.”
I intend to, Mom. Eternal rest.
* * *
Dr. Novotny is our fourth or fifth family therapist. I lose count. He says, “Hello, Daelyn.” He wants to talk to me alone, I know. But I refuse. “Hello, Chip. Kim. Please, take a seat.”
I want all of us, in unison, to pick up our chairs and leave. When Dr. Novotny runs out after us, Mom and Dad will say, “You told us to take them.”
One, that would be amusing. Two, we are not amused.
“How is everyone?” He feigns interest. He has sweat stains under his pits. He looks like he doesn’t get paid enough to spend wasted time with suicidal girls and their incompetent parents.
No worries, Dr. No. This is your final monthly torture session with the Rice family singers.
“Who wants to start?” he asks.
My hand shoots into the air and I wave it around going, “I do I do.” Three—that wouldn’t happen in this or any other life.
Dad says, “Daelyn seems to be doing well.”
If only I could laugh, I’d give you that one, Dad.
“So the new medication is working?” Dr. Novotny peers intently at Dad. Like Dad would know. I’m supposed to let them in on how I’m feeling; if this antidepressant makes me sad or suicidal. What is beyond suicidal?
Dr. No turns to me, “How would you rate your happiness quotient, Daelyn?”
Oh, off the scale.
He probes my eyes, which is futile. I have nothing against Dr. No, personally, but he can’t help me. No one can change the past.
Mom goes, “Daelyn seems much happier. She doesn’t cry as much.”
Because tears are useless.
Mom adds, “She’s adjusted nicely to her new school. At least, that’s my impression. Am I wrong?” She arches her eyebrows at me.
I don’t look at her. I can’t. I’m staring at Novotny’s hair plugs.
He pushes a legal pad across the desk at me. There’s a pen on top. I don’t take them. What would I write? “Bald is beautiful”?
“She has a friend,” Dad says.
I do?
“She does?” Mom and Dr. No say together.
“A boy,” Dad explains. “I saw him talking to her on Wednesday.”
“That boy?” Mom’s voice takes on a sharp edge. “I told you not to talk to strangers, especially boys. He looks dangerous to me,” Mom says to Dr. Novotny, to Dad. “Like a punk.” To me she says, “He’s not a friend of yours, is he?”
Does anyone see the humor in this?
Boys are not girls’ friends. I’ve never known one boy who only wanted to be friends with a girl. Mom’s right about them being dangerous.
She takes my limp hand and looks like she’s going to break down. We’re only five minutes into the session and already she’s losing it. She doesn’t usually disintegrate until we leave.
I hate to touch his filthy tablet. His nasty pen.
Mom holds my hand in her lap. “He’s so . . . I don’t know what you call it. Goth. Gangster.” She says to Dad, “I don’t want Daelyn associating with people like that.”
He’s so far from goth or gangster it’s not even funny.
“He looks all right to me,” Dad says. “Daelyn’s going to have to talk to strangers sometime. I mean, everyone’s a stranger at first.”
For God’s sake. I take back my hand and grab the tablet. In the bottom right-hand corner, in my tiniest print ever, I write: no.
I pass the tablet to Mom. She squints. Dad leans over to see. Even Dr. No is intrigued. I’ve totally made their day.
“No, he’s not your friend?” Mom asks.
I know it’s going to hurt, but I give Mom a definite shake of my head. The gesture rips my throat.
“Oh, Daelyn.” Her eyes pool with tears.
I have to go. I have to go now.
Mom says at Sunday brunch, “Let’s take a drive.” Is it still brunch when your eggs and bacon are blenderized? When your waffles and strawberries are pureed and sipped through a straw?
I don’t want to “take a drive.” I want to go back to bed.
“We could drive up to Tiny Town. You used to love that place.” She salts her scrambled eggs.
I never loved Tiny Town. It’s this fake miniature town that some crazy person built. You walk around and peek into all the tiny windows. Then you get a sno-cone and come home.
“Is that place still there?” Dad asks. He separates the newspaper, handing me the comics. I don’t read the funny pages anymore.
Can I go to my room?
Mom reaches over and pats my wrist. “It’ll be fun. Just the two of us.”
I see her and Dad exchange a glance. Something’s up.
I stand and leave the table.
Mom calls, “Take your jean jacket. It might get cool in the mountains.” I close the bathroom door behind me. She’ll hover between the kitchen and bathroom, timing me.
How to handle this? The jean jacket went in the trash on Thursday. It had a pink flowered frill around the bottom. So hideous.
I brush my teeth, not looking in the mirror. The sight of me sickens me. I flush the toilet and open the door so Mom doesn’t die of asphyxiation from holding her breath.
As we head into the hills (I dressed in layers), Mom tells me about this time in high school when she tried out for pom-pom girls. What is pom-pom girls? It sounds obscene. “My friend Bonnie was the one who really wanted to make the team, and you had to try out in pairs. I’m not athletic, as you know, but we worked hard on our routine.”
My mom’s not athletic like the Pope’s not Muslim.
She says, “I knew I was terrible, deep down, but Bonnie convinced me we’d make it. Deep down I knew she didn’t mean ‘we.’ She meant her. She had to make it.”
Did you know that deep down, Mom? Maybe you should mention it to Dr. No.
A wide-bed trailer stalls on the highway and Mom has to slam on the brakes. Instinctively her arm shoots out to brace me. I wish she’d swerved over the cliff.
We pass the trailer and Mom picks up where she left off. “The day of the tryouts I was so nervous. I think I actually threw up. Bonnie and I watched all the girls ahead of us, since we were last. They were good, but not as good as us, Bonnie said. She’d whispered in my ear, ‘They’re nowhere near as good as us, Kimmy.’ Deep down I knew the truth. But she made me believe.”
Deep down did you ever want to die?
“Her passion was contagious,” Mom says.
This is weirdly similar to my audition, which I’d just as soon forget. The exit to Tiny Town is one more mile.
One more mile to sno-cone city.
“We got out there in our matching outfits that Bonnie’s mother made, and the pom-poms we made. I don’t even remember doing the routine. I didn’t fall flat on my face.” She smiles.
Is there a point to this?
“We had to wait for the results. It was nerve-racking. I thought for sure I was going to barf all over Bonnie.” She gives a little laugh. Sort of hollow. “Suddenly I knew why I was doing this. For me. I wanted it. I wasn’t the most popular girl in school, as you can imagine.”
Why would I imagine that? I know nothing about my mom in school. Why wasn’t she popular? Was she bullied? She wasn’t fat, like me. She never talks about how it was for her growing up. She’s never mentioned Bonnie, or any of her childhood friends. She signals to exit and slows for the turnoff.
“I lacked self-confidence. I don’t know why. I was smart and people liked me. Being a pom-pom girl just seemed so out of reach for me. But I took a risk. I tried out.”
This is more than she’s ever shared, even in family therapy. I realize suddenly my mom and I are kind of alike. We have secret lives. The road to Tiny Town narrows and descends. “When the results were posted, I was stunned,” she says. It grows dark as we veer into the forest.
I wait. She doesn’t continue.
Come on, Mom. At least finish what you started.
“Ours was the only team,” she says finally, “where one person got in and the other didn’t.”
I wish I could twist my head to look at Mom. In my peripheral vision, I see her eyes are on the road. She’s smiling. Oh, my God. My mother was a pom-pom?
Her smile dissolves. “Bonnie made it.”
I expel a short breath.
See? Life sucks. You have no power over anything.
We arrive at Tiny Town and Mom parks in the lot. She switches off the ignition and sits a moment. “I don’t know why I told you that story.” She shakes her head. “The things you remember.”
By the Time You Read This, I'll Be Dead Page 3
