By the Time You Read This, I'll Be Dead

by Julie Anne Peters

  His arm nearly decapitates me as he extends it through the window, across my face, and close to Mom. “We haven’t formally met. I’m Santana Girard. The Second.”

  Mom has no choice but to shake his hand. The hair on his arm tickles my nose, and heat rises up my neck.

  “I’m . . . Mrs. Rice. Daelyn’s mother.”

  I bite my tongue. Bleed. BLEED.

  “A pleasure to meet you.” He retracts his arm. Then smiles at me.

  He has a nice smile. No, he doesn’t. And now he knows my name.

  “Your daughter is a woman of few words.”

  Mom betrays me again. “She can’t speak. She’s—”

  I press the automatic window to SHUT. HER. UP.

  We drive away. I see the smug look on his face through the side-view mirror. He’s jerking me around. Boys are jerks. Sex fiends. Why would I think he’d be different? If he thinks I don’t know what he’s doing by talking me up, lying about how beautiful and mysterious I am—

  “He seems nice.” Mom slows at the corner. “I prejudged him by his looks. That white hair, I guess.” She pauses. “You don’t need my approval to choose your friends. You know that, right?”

  Breaking news, Mom. I don’t choose friends. Which works out great because they don’t choose me.

  — 15 DAYS —

  Friends is not a topic on the Final Forum. No one’s here to make friends. In fourth grade this girl in school invited me to her birthday party and I was so excited because I’d never been to a birthday party. I got her a gift and wrapped it myself. Mom bought me a new dress. When we got there, no one was home. “Are you sure this is the house?” Mom asked. I showed her the address the girl had printed on a sheet of notebook paper. “Are you sure the party’s today?” Saturday, the girl said. This Saturday at one o’clock. Across the street I saw a curtain move, then a face, two faces in the upstairs window. Behind the window a bunch of girls were pointing and laughing at me. I said to Mom, “I made a mistake. Let’s go.” She said, “Maybe I could find her number and call.”

  “Just go!” I cried.

  The closest I came to having a real friend was this one time in middle school. She was new, this girl, and so was I. I never learned her name. I’d know her face if I saw her again, and I still hear her voice. She plunked down at my lunch table, said hi, and just started talking and eating a cold, fried, white cheese sandwich and checking out all the cute guys, and I was stunned and shocked because no one, not one person ever sat with me or talked to me at lunch, and finally she said in this strange accent, “Wat wid you? Why you look like dat?”

  She meant dumbfounded. Or ugly. I couldn’t speak. I mean, I could’ve, back then. I had functional vocal cords.

  She shrugged.

  She ate her whole lunch there, gabbing away at me, not even caring that I was this close to tears for sharing her company.

  Kim and Chip are “having words.” I hear them through the thin wall separating the bathroom and kitchen. I decided overnight it was time to begin detachment procedures. First step, refer to your parents by their first names.

  Kim raises her voice. “How do you know she . . . ?” Her voice muffles and Chip garbles, “. . . saw the account . . .”

  Are they talking about the computer? Damn. DAMN. They have no right to invade my privacy.

  I sit on the side of the tub with my ear pressed to the wall. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Kim snaps.

  “I knew it’d upset you,” Chip says.

  “Of course I’m upset. I don’t want collection agencies showing up at our door.”

  I lean away breathing a sigh of relief. They’re only fighting about money—again. Why did they buy me this new computer? The old one was fine. They don’t have to pay for a therapist or send me to private school, where I’m even more different from everyone else because I’m not rich. Rich girls are even meaner than regular ones, I’m finding out.

  My eyes sweep the bathroom. Claustrophobic. Smaller than the last one, the third or fourth condo we lived in. We move a lot. Kim thinks changing schools is the answer to my suicidal urges. News, Kim. It only makes them stronger.

  This bathtub is standard size. I guess they all are. I wish I’d known about a hot bath hurrying the process along. I didn’t cut deep enough and I stalled too long mustering the courage. Then Kim came home.

  Timing is everything. And method. When and how.

  This bathroom, this toilet and tub, are basically mine, since Kim and Chip have the upstairs master suite. Kim bought me a battery-powered shaver, which is worthless on my leg and underarm hair. I can’t have razors or electric appliances in the bathroom.

  She even put a safety plug on the outlet. Kim, I want to tell her. Overkill.

  The argument’s over. They’re sitting there, all quiet, when I trudge into the kitchen.

  “Morning, honey.” Kim forces a smile.

  Chip says, “What can I get my girl for breakfast?” He pulls out my chair as he stands and passes behind me. His hand on my shoulder makes me wince.

  He doesn’t seem to sense it.

  Smoothing the pleated skirt under my butt, I lower to the seat. Even though I’ve lost weight, I still feel squished and bulbous. I fold my hands in my lap.

  Chip sets a glass of water at my place with two pills. I sigh inwardly. He and Kim watch and wait.

  Today I’ll take the pink pill first. My throat closes in anticipation. It still hurts to swallow them whole. Chip wanted to crush them for me, but the doctor told him they were time-release tablets, less effective if cut or crushed.

  It goes down like gravel.

  The white pill is my antidepressant. I hate to tell Chip and Kim no antidepressant in the world is going to change the past. I know medication is supposed to make me feel more hopeful and happy. What I need are performance enhancing drugs. Yeah, steroids. To make me powerful and strong.

  Chip says, “So. Breakfast. Oatmeal or oatmeal?”

  He’s a real comedian.

  Kim cracks a smile, though. She still loves him, I think. I haven’t ruined that—yet.

  A bowl of diluted oatmeal appears in front of me. It makes me want to heave. I can’t eat another bowl of oatmeal. I never liked it before—

  “Aren’t you eating?” Kim says.

  I try not to gag in her face.

  “Don’t you feel well?” She reaches over to palm my forehead. I try not to flinch at her touch.

  She stares at me. Into me, as far as she can get. “Don’t tell me you’ve stopped eating!” Her voice goes shrill. “You’re not becoming anorexic, are you?”

  Chill, Mom. I mean, Kim. Starving myself to death is way too slow.

  Chip presses forward on his elbows. “You have to eat.”

  Or what? I’ll die?

  Okay. I sigh. One more bowl of oatmeal won’t kill me. Unfortunately.

  As I’m retrieving my book bag from the rocking chair in my bedroom, I take a quick inventory. There are six books left in the bookcase. I’ve spread them around to fool Kim. No problem reading six books in two weeks. These books are the only thing keeping me sane. Two piles of trash in the closet for two weekly trash pickups, which, hopefully, Kim won’t mistake for laundry.

  The computer. Fake posters on the wall. My rocking chair. I’ve had this chair since I was a baby. It’s not really mine; it’s Kim’s. She rocked me to sleep singing Minuet in G. “How gentle is the rain . . .”

  My throat catches. Kim, you can have the chair back.

  She must’ve loved me once. My dad too. Everybody loves a chubby baby, right? Then you become a fat, ugly child who everybody bullies.

  I have a test in econ today. Since my school days are numbered, I’ve renounced the act of studying. It’s not like my GPA is crucial. Numbers are crucial. Everything is numbered. Fifteen days. The last bell, the twelfth bell of the day. When it rings, I count my steps to the exit. Thirty-three steps exactly.

  He’s there. What is his damage? Doesn’t he have friends? Why doesn’t he go IM
his friends?

  He’s wearing a light-blue sleeveless sports jersey with the number 77.

  “Ah,” he says, “the beautiful mystery girl returns. She sits on the bench, daintily.”

  That’s almost funny, since I just plopped down.

  He hands me a wedge of paper, folded into a triangle. Actually, he sets it on the bench between us. He motions to it.

  I want to, but . . .

  I retrieve Desire on the Moor.

  With his fingertips, he inches the note toward me.

  I’m not watching.

  Another inch.

  Snatching up the note, I unfold it.

  “I’m sorry,” he’s printed in green pen. “I didn’t know you couldn’t talk. I just figured you had amazing self-control.” A down arrow.

  I flip to the back, “You’d have to, to spurn my advances.” I knew it! Sex is the only thing boys want. He says out loud, “I learned that expression from Emilio.”

  I lift my bag and take out my pen. I write on his paper, “Emilio does not speak English.” I want to add, Jerk. I pass the note to him.

  He reads it and goes, “Duh. I’m fluent in Portuguese.”

  Really? Do my eyes widen? He’s lying.

  He holds up an index finger. Whipping out a notepad he brought with him, he clicks a pen and starts scratching away.

  I don’t want to appear interested. I force myself to read from my book: Maggie Louise felt Charles’s manhood rise to the occasion. She smiled inwardly at her power over him.

  If only I knew where Maggie Louise got her power, her confidence. The only power I have over people is to leave them behind. And spurn advances.

  He rips out the page and sets it on the bench.

  I pay no attention.

  End of page 32. I tear the page out of the book.

  Page 33. . . . marveled at the outline of Charles’s muscled arms and back. “Are you sure you don’t want to go on the fox hunt today?” he asked.

  Boy taps the paper.

  “Quite,” she said. They’d only been at Longshead two days and already she was speaking like a proper Brit. “I thought I might go into Wiltshire for a bit.”

  “A bit of what?” Charles asked. Maggie Louise laughed. Charles wasn’t laughing. What was that tone in his voice?

  Boy slaps the note against the page I’m reading and jostles my book. He’d printed in block letters, you’re only making me more determined.

  That’s your problem, I think. I refuse to touch anything he’s touched, so I shake the note off my book.

  He sighs. “Did you get the message Hervé left in your book?”

  What message? I keep my eyes on the page. Now I’ve lost my place.

  “He has the hots for you.”

  I hate that expression. How many times have I heard, “Blah blah has the hots for you,” when people are making fun of me? No one has the “hots” for me or ever will. Not even a rat.

  Ever since Emilio . . . I skip to the last paragraph. Ever since . . . No. She and Charles had moved beyond the affair. Charles had said, “We’ll never speak of it again.” Even though Maggie Louise had promised, vowed, pledged her heart and soul to Charles, a sliver of doubt . . . No. She wouldn’t allow herself—

  He’s written a new note and he slides it over my page.

  Quit it! My eyes flicker across and down.

  how do you spell your name? check one:

  ___dalen

  ___daylyn

  ___da-ln

  ___dateline

  ___dareling, dakon, defcon, downtown, downwind, am i getting close?

  I wish I had a memory zapper so I could make him forget my name. Before I can remove the note, he takes it back and writes more.

  fill in the blank. hi, i’m the beautiful mystery girl on the bench. sitting daintily. reading. my name is______________. would you go out with me?

  My face flares. He’s baiting me. Am I asking him out? Get real.

  A pen dangles in front of my face.

  I use my own pen and fill in an X for my name. And no at the end.

  “I knew that was too easy.” Shifting, he sticks out his legs in front. He’s wearing baggy camo shorts with the sleeveless football jersey. Those long, skinny legs. Stick-out ears. If he has muscles anywhere, I don’t see them. I’m not looking.

  He raises his arms and flexes his fingers over his head. “Okay, Daelyn, however you spell it. Here’s the deal.” He has fuzzy pits.

  “The deal is this. If you want me to leave and never speak to you again, blink once.”

  I blink.

  “If you’re playing hard to get, blink once.”

  I blink. WAIT.

  “If you’ve been rendered speechless by my incredible masculine physique, my charming wit, my magnetic personality,” he flexes his fingers in front of him, “my wide array of interests and talents, my apparent intellect, charisma, and irresistible way with women . . . blink once.”

  I can’t stop my blink.

  “Aha!” He points. “I knew it.”

  He’s insufferable. I learned that word from Maggie Louise.

  Kim pulls up.

  “Yo. Yo, mama.” He shoots to his feet before me. He waves at her as he extends a hand to help me up. But I can’t. His touch will contaminate me.

  I drop my book into my bag and, rushing by him, scurry to the curb.

  “Hello, Mrs. R,” he says as he opens the door for me. He’s beaten me to the car. “How was your day?”

  He’s in my way. Please, read my mind now. Go away.

  Kim says, “Long.”

  “What sort of work do you do?” he asks.

  Move. Okay?

  She answers, “I’m an auditor.”

  “Oh wow. That sounds fascinating. I’m a numbers man myself.”

  Mom meets my eyes. The panic on my face must clue her in.

  “Would you mind?” she says to him. “Daelyn has an appointment.”

  “Oh.” He steps back, right into me. Clenching my arm to keep his balance and/or steady me, he says, “Sorry.” My skin burns. He smells like hair gel and boy and this blue-white heat streaks through my body.

  He steps away, and I feel a panic attack coming on. An object slips into my hand. The edges are pointy sharp, but instinctively my fingers curl around them.

  “Nice talking to you, D.” He waits to ease the car door shut behind me. Flicking a stiff thumb at Kim, he makes a clicking noise in his cheek and says, “Catch you later, calculator.”

  It makes Kim laugh.

  “He’s cute,” she says as we drive off. “What’s his name again?”

  I take a deep breath, then crank up the radio to drown out the static.

  I try to throw the note into the trash can, but it sticks to my clammy palm. I fling my book bag onto the rocking chair and shake the note off onto my desk.

  If I open the note, it means I care. I can’t care. Not now. I’m on this path, this mission. The only power I have in my life.

  Perched on the edge of my bed, I stare at the note. Forget it. I move to the other side of the bed and gaze out the window. A guy is tossing a Frisbee to his dog who’s leaping up to snag it. He motions to the dog, like, higher? The dog barks. Higher? He’s teasing him.

  I hate teasing. That dog should bite that man.

  “Hey, Daelyn. You want my brownie?” This girl in elementary school taunted me. Mean girl. They’re always mean. I got up to take the brownie and she threw it to her friend across the cafeteria. “Go get it, bloater. Fetch.”

  I almost did. I wanted that brownie. The only time I felt happy was when I was eating. Food was my BFF.

  The dog retrieves the Frisbee.

  I twist my torso to look at my desk. At my computer. The note beside it.

  I close my eyes and black out the day. The exhaustion of living through it, surviving. Reaching up, I rip the Velcro tape on my neck brace to loosen it. From the front, I remove the hard plastic tube, then lie back on the bed, the brace dangling from my hand. It clunks o
n the floor.

  The relief to be free of bondage is incredible. I should go without the brace and collapse my trachea again. Destroy it the way I did when I . . . failed.

  Unfortunately I start to cough. Kim runs in. “Are you okay?” She must’ve been lurking outside the door.

  I hold up a hand. Kim jerks me upright and the phlegm clears from my throat. She runs out for a glass of water.

  I want to tell her, Please, Kim. Stop trying to save me. You couldn’t then; you can’t now.

  When we first moved to this condo six months ago, and even before that while I was recuperating, I used to keep track of who came to check on me and when. I’d note the time. Dad, 9:15. Mom, 11:56. Dad, 4:32. Mom, 8:01. They never came together. Occasionally one of them would linger at the door.

  During those times they’d stand there watching me watching them, I’d pray, Please. Put a pillow to my face. Clench a hand around my throat. Stab me. Shoot me. Put me out of everyone’s misery.

  Why did you give birth to such a loser? Why didn’t you admit I was hopeless and fat and stop trying to make me fit in? This world wasn’t meant for me. I was born too soon, or too late. Too defective.

  I wish I could tell my parents, “If you want to help me, help me die.”

  I wonder, Are they required to fill out a 24-hour suicide watch form? Is The Defect at home? Check. Is It alive? Check.

  Why did they bother with the corrective surgery on my throat anyway? Waste of money. They threw away, or hid from me, everything with sharp edges, or breakable. Picture frames. Pottery. Did they think they could suicide-proof this place?

  I want to tell them, “Chip, Kim, there is no way to suicide-proof a person.”

  I key in the Final Forum, “My 2nd grade teacher told my parents I was hypersensitive. That I cried over nothing.”

  Nothing. You call it nothing when people make fun of you all the time? When you are always the target? You call it nothing when people touch you? My veins throb in my neck and I clench my jaw.

  I key faster, “No one wanted to sit by me. They said I smelled. This kid plugged his nose every time he passed by me. He’d say real loud, ‘P.U. Did you fart?’ I wanted to fart in his face.”

  I pause over the keyboard. How stupid. I remember that like it’s yesterday. All the mean things people did to me, said to me. They’ve built up.