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

by Julie Anne Peters

  “I don’t want to tell Ariel about this new lump. She’s already in hyper mode about the relapse. Do you think I should? I mean, there’s nothing she can do. It’s my war to win. She’ll only cry and make both of us feel miserable and guilty that we have to get through this again, and she’s not even the one who’s sick.” He shakes his head. “I know it’s hard on her. If I don’t tell her she’ll kill me.” He pauses. “That was supposed to be funny.”

  I write, “What is chemo like?”

  He reads it and says, “Indescribable horror. I must be getting used to it, though, because the side effects aren’t so bad this time.”

  I swallow and it hurts.

  “If I have to, I’ll do chemo to fight the beast. Whatever it takes to stay alive.” He touches me and I bolt upright. The only escape is school, so I charge for the gate.

  Who do I run into? JenniferJessica. A black Mercedes pulls to the curb and honks. On her way past, she looks from me to Santana. “Hey,” he says.

  A sneer curls her lip.

  I hope he sees.

  “Whassup?”

  She doesn’t answer him.

  Santana watches as she climbs in the Mercedes and it zooms away. He widens his eyes at me. “She’s a scary bitch.”

  He has no idea.

  “Daelyn—” He snags my arm.

  I pull away and slam the gate after me.

  Question: How will you be remembered?

  Subject to interpretation, again.

  Not with a headstone, I can tell you that. Do not put me in the ground.

  Here lies Daelyn Rice.

  She was nice.

  No, she wasn’t. She was horrid.

  Flush me down the toilet. Human waste.

  I suppose I’ll be remembered as dull. Timid.

  No one ever knew me. People came. They went.

  I was kind, I think. Not sympathetic, but considerate of others. I always gave up my place in line. I loaned out pencils and paper, or let people take them from me. I never reported a sexual assault.

  How will you be remembered?

  No one will remember—

  A knock on my door startles me. Kim appears. She’s different too. What’s going on? She’s solid and . . . glowing. I have her light brown eyes.

  “You have a phone call,” she says. In her hand, she holds her cell. Who would call me? Not Emily. Please.

  “It’s Santana.”

  She walks toward me with the phone. She looks at it, like she doesn’t know what to do. She’s not the only one. “Okay, here she is,” she talks into the cell. She hands it to me.

  I don’t know why I take it. Or hold it to my ear.

  “Daelyn, it’s me. I was going to ask you something, but I chickened out. Now or never, right?”

  What’s he talking about?

  “Do you have a pen?”

  A pen? I search the top of my desk. Then think, This is dumb. Why?

  He says, “Tap once for yes. Twice for no.”

  I glance up at Kim.

  “Oh. Sorry,” she says. She backs out of the room, smiling.

  “The thing is, my birthday’s next week. Friday, actually. It’s my eighteenth. I was wondering if you’d have dinner with me.”

  Is he serious? Like, a date? What if he doesn’t show up, or gives me the wrong address, or—

  I feel the phone in my hand. I hear their voices in my head

  Taunting me. Teasing.

  “Tap once for yes. Twice for—”

  I snap the phone closed.

  What would you like for dinner?

  Is that all you’re going to eat?

  Do you want to see a movie?

  What are you working on?

  How are you feeling, Daelyn?

  Are you fitting in at school?

  How do you like your classes?

  Have you made any friends?

  Is your medication working?

  Are you having thoughts of suicide?

  Do you know we love you?

  What are you writing now?

  You know we trust you, right?

  Did you take your medication?

  Are you getting enough sleep?

  Why don’t you have more laundry?

  Where’s your neck brace?

  Why does your bedroom seem empty?

  Are you still on that computer?

  Who will guide you to the light?

  How will you be remembered?

  Does this look like a lump to you?

  Will you come to my birthday party?

  Do you understand demand?

  What is economics?

  Have you increased your happiness quotient?

  Where’s your jewelry box?

  Will you sing for me?

  What are you reading now?

  Is Santana dying?

  How could a boy be lonely?

  Am I throwing you off-key?

  What does he see in me?

  Will you be my friend?

  What’s that in your bag?

  Where are you going, Daelyn?

  What are you thinking, Daelyn?

  Why are you crying, Daelyn?

  I don’t have to answer. Until you know the question.

  — 5 DAYS —

  I decide to come clean, to tell all of it. I log on to Through-the-Light and link to Bullied.

  “Fat camp was this place in Arizona, in the desert. It might’ve been an old military base. There were supposed to be fun activities like horseback riding and swimming and crafts. That was in the brochure Mom gave me. Dad looked at it with me and said it looked great; Mom said she loved going to Girl Scout camp. That should’ve tipped me off. She said, ‘It’ll be fantastic. You’ll come back slim and healthy.’”

  I admit, I was semi-excited.

  “The whole time I was there, I never saw a horse. The pool was this dried-up sinkhole, and the counselors were college students or dropouts. They’d majored in sadism.”

  I figured that out fast. They’d graduated with honors from bully boot camp.

  “As soon as our parents left us, the torture began. We had to line up for our first weigh-in. They had this industrial scale with a huge round dial and a counselor with a bullhorn who broadcast your name to everyone.”

  So humiliating.

  J_Doe060787 writes: I f*ing hate the military. They screwed me royal.

  Could you listen?

  “People stripped off as much as possible. Shoes and socks. Guys took off their shirts. One girl even stripped to her bra. We had to stand in single file. Girls and guys together. There was no talking, no goofing around. Weigh-ins were no joking matter.”

  Not then. Not now.

  “People weighed like 195, 211, 250. When my turn came, I was sweating so bad I slipped on the steps and bruised my knee. They didn’t care. My name rang out all over the world, so everyone knew I was at fat camp.”

  Like anyone cared where I was, or who I was.

  J_Doe060787 again: I f*ing hate my boss. He rags on me for everything. I f*ing hate my job.

  Then quit, I think.

  “‘Get on the scale,’ this counselor ordered. ‘Turn around.’ You had to watch the dial so you could see for yourself how disgustingly fat you were.

  “176. That was my first weight. The counselor measured my height. She wrote down, ‘Grossly obese.’

  “It was like she’d shouted it to the world: YOU ARE GROSS.

  “As I was heading off the stage, this girl who’d finished ahead of me turned and said between her teeth, ‘At least I’m not as fat as you.’”

  That became the camp motto. At least I’m not as fat as you.

  The counselors were all fit and trim, of course. The models of perfection we would never be.

  Another J_Doe pops up, but I don’t read the entry. It’s long, and it’s about him.

  “We had exercises morning, noon, and night. We had to do calisthenics. Jumping jacks and sit-ups. StairMaster. Treadmill. Before we could even have breakfast, we h
ad to run.”

  My feet hurt all the time. My ankles swelled. If I sit and stare at them, even now, I can see my ankles ballooning and blisters forming on the soles of my feet. They pop and ooze.

  J_Doe053175 writes: My husband beat me. He called me every name in the book, but I stayed with him. People asked why I took his abuse. Because I loved him, that’s why. Then he left me for another woman.

  That’s love? To let someone beat you and be hateful to you? These people are all so . . .

  Weak. Powerless to change their lives. I know the feeling. All you can do is take it. No one understands how it beats you down.

  I need to stay on track here.

  “Breakfast was, like, a bowl of oatmeal, watered-down orange juice, and a dry slice of toast. You ate as slow as possible because right after breakfast you had to do more exercises.”

  J_Doe081493 replies: Did you lose weight?

  Someone’s reading this. I want to reply, “Why? Because you’ll put up with abuse as long as you get what you want?”

  I don’t want to discuss it at the moment. I just want to write this out.

  “There was an obstacle course with climbing walls and rope ladders and sandpits. There were even snakes in the sand.”

  Not real ones. Rubber. Still, it wasn’t funny. None of it was funny.

  “A counselor would stand and time you and shout, ‘Faster, faster. Get your big butt off the ground, girl. Move it. Look out for snakes.’”

  Wasn’t it enough that we had been shamed into being there?

  They must’ve been bored, the counselors, so they used us as pawns in their sadistic little games.

  I blink at the screen and see that J_Doe081493 has piped up again: Did you say snakes?

  Forget the snakes. They were the least of it.

  “We’d have to weigh in three times a day. Three. And we had to wear these black sports bras with stretchy shorts. This one counselor poked my stomach and went, ‘Look at that roll of fat. Aren’t you disgusted with yourself?’”

  He touched me.

  I stop for a minute to catch my breath. Drown out that roar in my head. The truth remains. I was, and am, disgusted with myself.

  “On the way to the showers, we passed through the 360-degree-mirror room. A counselor on the other side would say, ‘Drop your towel. Tell me what you see.’

  “If you didn’t answer, all the girl counselors would yell, ‘Tell me what you see!’

  “‘Fat.’

  “‘What?’

  “‘Fat,’ you’d say louder.

  “‘We can’t hear you.’

  “‘FAAAT!’

  “Then they’d let you out. The showers didn’t have stalls, so you had to stand with two other fat, naked girls. Nobody talked.”

  We were mortified. Degraded.

  J_Doe081493 writes: How long were you there?

  I’m getting to that. Just let me finish.

  “At night,” I key, “you had to listen to these tapes. Self-help tapes. They helped convince you that you were a disgusting, worthless pig.”

  I can recite them in my sleep. “I am fat. I have power over my weight. If I exercise and eat right, I can lose the weight and feel good about myself.”

  What I heard, and still hear is, “I am fat. I have power.”

  My fingers are cramping. I’m on a roll, though, and I need to keep going.

  An IM scrolls across the screen: Daelyn, you’ve been on there for an hour. It’s time to quit.

  When I’m done, Chip! Let me finish this.

  “Fat camp was six weeks long.”

  Does that answer your question? Six weeks of hell on earth.

  I’m cutting you off.

  I quickly key, “10 more minutes. OK?”

  I key frantically, “You got to call home every other day. I remember this one call when I talked to my mom. A counselor sat in on all the conversations. They’d listen and glare if you said anything negative. Mom said, ‘How are you doing?’ Threatening glare from the counselor. ‘Fine,’ I lied. The counselor would then shove your progress report across the desk. You were supposed to say, ‘So far in total I’ve lost 12 pounds and 5 percent of my body mass.’ Because the camp guaranteed results.”

  They didn’t guarantee you’d come out a whole person.

  “I told my mom the truth. ‘I put on 2 pounds.’ The counselor lunged like he was going to strangle me. Go ahead, I thought. I wanted Mom to say, ‘Maybe you’d better come home then.’ Instead, she went, ‘That’s OK. It’s probably muscle.’

  “I had to fight so hard not to cry. Mom said, ‘How are you feeling about yourself?’

  “That’s when I lost it. The counselor grabbed the phone from me. He told Mom some bs about what a rough day I’d had and how a small weight gain was normal and how great I was doing overall.

  “When he hung up, he said, ‘Your parents are paying a shitload of money to send you here. Don’t disappoint them.’

  “I couldn’t stop crying. I was so homesick, and I hated fat camp so much. If you cried, you had to run. Crying was a sign of weakness, and they were getting paid to beat the weakness out of you.”

  Time’s up, Daelyn.

  I power down. My neck hurts and I want to close my eyes and not hear the voices.

  Not see the 360-degree mirror of my life.

  — 5 DAYS —

  I feel lighter today. In spirit or something. It’s Sunday. Day of rest. I log on and it still says 5 days. Yesterday was five. Today is four. What’s the matter?

  I log off and log on again. 5 days. I keep logging off and logging on, logging off and logging on. I try the PC on my desk. 5 days.

  What’s wrong? Did Chip screw something up? You can’t trust machines. You can’t trust people.

  I know what they’re doing—giving me an out. But I won’t take it. I’ll count the days down myself if I have to. As long as I stay, I’ll always be counting the days.

  Kim pops her head in. “Daelyn? Let’s go to the art museum.”

  What? Why?

  Apparently there’s an exhibition of Amish quilts she’s been dying to see. “I used to quilt with my mother,” she says on the way. “I bet you didn’t know that.”

  She never talks about her childhood. My grandmother died before I was born. No, I didn’t know she could quilt. I bet the whole secret life she’s been keeping from me explains why I’m the pathetic loser I am.

  As I’m standing in the museum wondering why these quilts are on a wall instead of on someone’s bed keeping them warm, Kim stumbles backward and plops on a bench. She presses her fingers into her eyelids.

  I go sit with her. She’s crying.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s nothing.”

  Nothing. And everything.

  I hate when my mom cries.

  I want to put my arm around Kim, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I try. I really do.

  I watch as visitors file through the room. They speak in hushed voices, oohing and ahhing as they point out patterns and shapes. “The exquisite needlework,” they whisper. “The handiwork.” Who has time to sew a quilt by hand? I wonder. Not Kim. How long does it take, anyway? I want to ask Kim, but . . .

  It’s too late. She doesn’t have time to teach me how to sew.

  It better not be stuck on five days forever. What did Chip do?

  People move on and we’re alone. Kim says, “It’s peaceful here.” She blows her nose.

  It’s enormous—a vaulted ceiling, stark white walls.

  It feels cold. If we could wrap up in those quilts . . .

  “How are you, sweetheart?” She takes my hand in both of hers and raises it to her lips.

  I feel a crack in my wall.

  “Have you tried speaking? The doctor said your vocal cords should’ve healed some by now.”

  There’s no reason to speak. I have nothing to say.

  All the years of therapy, the doctors, the pills, the motivational tapes and books and speakers, voices, voices in my head. Empty,
empty words.

  “You know I’m here for you. I always will be.” Kim leans into me and rests her head on my temple. My throat catches, but the weight of her skull bends my neck, and a sharp pang shoots through me. I’m glad I wore my brace.

  I close my eyes. I remember this one time we went to the ocean, just Mom and me. We played on the warm beach. We built castles with moats, and I buried Mom in the sand up to her neck and she called out, “Help, help.” Just kidding around. That snaps me back and forth between past and present. We played until the tide came in. Then all the memories seep up from the grave where I thought I’d buried them.

  “Oh, sweetie.”

  Wetness on my face. Is that me? I swipe a tear away. The purging was supposed to make me feel better, not worse. I haven’t even gotten to the bad part.

  — 4 DAYS —

  Thank God the counter restarted. Not you personally, God. Just . . . thanks.

  Kim shatters my cheery mood at breakfast. “I’m sorry, Daelyn. Your father and I both have afternoon meetings we can’t reschedule. Why doesn’t your school give us more warning when you have partial days?”

  She waits for me to answer.

  Kim, that’s not the question.

  “Anyway, it works out fine. I took the liberty of stopping by your friend Santana’s house yesterday before I went grocery shopping.”

  What?

  “I talked to the mother. She’s . . . well, never mind. You’re to go over there at noon. Her shift starts at two, but Santana promised he’d stay with you.”

  Alone? No.

  I scrape back my chair and stand. Kim grabs my wrist. “Please, Daelyn. Don’t get upset.”

  Upset? UPSET?

  The pleading in Kim’s eyes . . .

  I reclaim my hand from her and sit back down.

  “I’m just so glad you have a friend.” She smiles. And winks.

  There’s an earthquake inside me.

  “Please,” she says again. “Do this for me?”

  Do what, Kim? Lead a normal life? Too late. Way too late.

  “It’s funny.” Kim sprinkles another packet of Splenda into her coffee. “He calls her Ariel.” She makes a face at Chip. “Don’t you think that’s odd?”

  You could’ve asked me, Kim, at least. I would have told you no.