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

by Julie Anne Peters

  I can’t spend time with Santana. I can’t allow attachment. It’s hard enough to sit by and know he has what I want, without even trying.

  “Can they be trusted?” Chip glances up from the morning paper.

  Can you? I want to scream.

  “They seem fine,” Kim answers. “She asked me in for a cup of chai. I didn’t even know what it was. It’s this spicy tea. She’s very, um, earthy. The house is pristine, though. Lovely, actually. She’s an artist.”

  I stand and leave the table.

  Kim catches up with me in my room. “It’s only two and a half hours, Daelyn. You can’t sit on that bench for two and a half hours. And you’re absolutely forbidden to walk home.”

  Watch me.

  “I didn’t tell Ariel about . . .” She pauses. “You’re not being babysat, if that’s what you think.”

  Abandoned, you mean.

  “You’re doing so well; going to school, making friends . . .” That gleam in her eye.

  Chip shadows Kim in the hall. I grab my book bag and charge them. They both jump aside.

  Out at the car, I have to wait until Kim unlocks my door. She says to me or Chip, who’s still behind her, “Santana’s writing a memoir, of all things. Not writing. Filming. What is he, sixteen? Seventeen?”

  The lock clicks and I fling open the door. Chip presses a hand to the window. Through my fog of anger, I hear him say, “Have a good day.”

  Kim just guaranteed I won’t.

  She’s still doing it, pushing me into situations I can’t handle, making me cope. She knows I can’t cope.

  She backs out of the carport. Drizzle immediately films the window, and she flips on the windshield wipers. “I can tell he likes you.” Kim smiles at me. “A lot.”

  It feels like a hunk of raw flesh is lodged in my throat.

  Emily is absent today, so at least I don’t have to deal with that. No one else knows I’m alive, which means they won’t notice when I’m gone.

  I can’t help wondering how long he has. More than four days, at least.

  After school, at noon, they’re waiting at the gate, Santana and his mom. “Ariel, this is Daelyn. Daelyn, Ariel.” Santana circles a hand between us.

  “Hello,” she says. Ariel clasps my hand and shakes it.

  My book bag falls off my shoulder and Santana grabs it. I notice how thin his fingers are. Bony knuckles, like his knees. He takes the bag from me with his free hand, the one not holding the umbrella. I’m under siege.

  Why is it raining again? I want to ask Santana. Blame him.

  For the weather? That’s out of anyone’s control.

  An arm slides around my waist and I stiffen. It’s Ariel. “Santana’s told me so much about you,” she says, pulling me into her side, out of the rain. She has a strong grip.

  What has he said?

  The sick girl. The freak.

  The rain spatters the clear plastic umbrella dotted with little duckies, and Santana presses in on me too. The touch of him radiates shock waves through my body.

  I wonder—is it possible—is the medication working? I’m feeling things I’ve never felt before. I have to stop taking my pills.

  I feel as if I’m hovering, my feet never touching the ground as our momentum carries us up the steps to the porch. “Welcome to Sterilization Nation.” Santana shakes the umbrella over the railing.

  “Oh, stop it.” Ariel smacks his back. She lets go of me and my first impulse is to flee.

  Santana anticipates my move. He stabs the umbrella out in front of me and I plow into it.

  “Back,” he says. He jabs at me until I’m at the door. Opening the door, he sweeps his arm in a low bow and goes, “Ladies?”

  Ariel touches my wrist, then clenches it. Before I can dissociate, I feel the warmth of her flesh on mine. Those pills. She pulls me into the house. They’re poison.

  The interior is warm, homey. It smells like cinnamon. I’ve only ever lived in cold, white condos.

  “The sterilization procedures begin with shoes,” Santana says. He steps out of his wet flip-flops on the carpet runner. Ariel removes her rubber clogs. “If you wouldn’t mind,” she says to me.

  When I hesitate, Santana goes, “I can’t convince her that there’s no statistical evidence linking muddy shoes with malignancy.”

  “Stop it.” She lightly whaps Santana’s head. She’s taller than he is. And larger. She’s a large woman. Big-boned. Not fat. “Come to the kitchen for lunch after you’ve given Daelyn the tour.” She pads down the long hall that runs next to a stairway leading up. On the other side is the living room, I guess. It’s octagonal. A plasma TV takes up one whole wall. The chairs and couch are covered with sheets.

  He raises his voice loud enough for Ariel to hear. “Take off your shoes. So you don’t spread my cancer cells.”

  She doesn’t respond.

  I recoil. What if my feet stink? He’s too close, making my pulse race. I take a step or two away from him, stumbling into the living room.

  The intimacy of the house wraps around me. It feels like a home. My eyes stray to the living room ceiling and I almost catch my breath.

  Santana says, “Yeah. She’s painting the ceiling.”

  This is my vision—what I imagine I’ll pass through on my way to the light. The blue sky, the clouds, the rays of light.

  “She’s the reincarnation of Michelangelo—she thinks. Never question the sanity of a woman who can render you defenseless with a look.” He smiles at me and my skin sizzles. I propel farther into the living room.

  “It’s cool, though,” he says, padding in behind me, past me, his bare feet sticking on the hardwood floor. Suddenly all I see are his feet flying in the air. He’s tipped over backward onto the sheeted couch. “Check it out at this angle.”

  Like what, on top of him?

  I panic and make a beeline for the door.

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” He’s up and on me before I can escape. “I have orders from your mother to keep you here.”

  I wrench my wrist away from him and instinctively back into a corner.

  He holds up both palms. “Sorry.”

  Just . . . keep your hands off me.

  His eyes change. They glint mischeviously. “Don’t even try to talk your way out of this, Daelyn. You are my captive now.” He rubs his hands together. “Mooahaha.”

  So you think. He takes a step forward and I shove him back hard.

  He stretches out his tee and looks at it. “I’ll never wash this shirt.”

  Shut up.

  A teasing smile sits on his lips.

  I slow my racing heart. Okay, he’s just messing with me.

  “Shoes.” He points to my feet. “If you don’t do it, I will.”

  My toes curl in my shoes.

  Santana lets out a breath. “Play the game, Daelyn. That’s all you have to do.”

  He sounds defeated. I know the feeling.

  My shoes are St. Mary–approved loafers. It’s not like I’m stripping for him; I’d never do that. I slip off my shoes.

  “Excellent,” Santana says. “Now we indulge Ariel by pretending to enjoy the macrobiotic feast she’s prepared.” He scoops the air and steps aside. “After you.”

  Ariel says, “Not this again.”

  Santana repeats, “I want a dog for my birthday.”

  Ariel says to me, “He does this every year. He knows he’s not getting a dog. You got a computer,” she informs him.

  Santana says, “That was a pity present.”

  “A what?”

  “It doesn’t have to be a huge, hairy dog. Or a purebred. In fact, I prefer a pound mutt.”

  “No!” Ariel snaps.

  Santana pouts.

  “You’re only refusing because you think I’ll die and you’ll end up having to take care of my dog.”

  “Stop it!” She pounds the table, rattling dishes.

  There’s a long silence where the anger in the room is palpable. I want to go home.

  Finally,
Santana says, “I bet my father would get me a dog.”

  Ariel throws up her hands. “Oh, here we go.” She places a hand on my arm, which makes me even more tense. “He keeps doing this to me,” she says. “Santana doesn’t have a father.”

  Do I arch my eyebrows?

  Santana takes a bite, then garbles, “Immaculate conception.”

  Ariel gets up. She has a waist-long braid, graying, with frizzy bangs. Her hand touches my brace in back and I bend forward, over my bowl. She goes to the counter, lifts the pitcher, and refills my lemonade. “His father died before he was born. Even before we were married.”

  Santana says, “Oh, you had to add that.”

  “He was killed instantly in a rock slide when a boulder crushed his car.” Ariel sits between us, thank goodness.

  Santana downs his whole glass of lemonade.

  I concentrate on picking through this stew, or whatever it is. How does she know it was instant? He might have suffered.

  Instant death is difficult to achieve by one’s own hand. Gunshot to the head. Explosive device.

  Ariel adds, “We were getting ready for our wedding that afternoon.”

  What?

  Santana cuts in, “Daelyn doesn’t want to hear this.”

  Now I do.

  “I’d asked Santana’s father to run to the Safeway in Breckenridge to buy me some Maalox because I had an upset stomach.”

  Santana rolls his eyes. “Here it comes.”

  “Which turned out to be morning sickness.”

  He groans. “Please. Not while we’re eating.” He angles his head at me. “Your suspicions are confirmed. I am a bastard.”

  She grips his wrist. “You’re a love child.” To me she says, “I loved that man with all my heart.”

  Santana goes, “He’s the only one who’d ever have her.”

  She cranks his wrist hard. “I never married. Never met anyone I’d want to marry.”

  “Right. Daelyn can blame my lame attempts at wooing her on the lack of a male influence in this house.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” Ariel fake slaps his cheek. “Apparently your wooing paid off.”

  Santana flushes. “Daelyn had to come. It wasn’t her choice.”

  At least he gets that.

  Now I like Ariel for making him blush. I duck my head and smile inwardly. Ariel refills my glass of lemonade again, even though I’ve only taken a couple of sips. Acidic liquids burn my throat.

  “Santana never said why you can’t talk. Did you tell me and I forgot?”

  “Like I could get a word in edgewise over your incessant babble,” he says.

  Ariel deadpans me. “I suggest you dump him now. Unless you want a lifetime of his sassy mouth.”

  “And it’ll be a lifetime. Give me a blob of that brownie poop.” Santana holds up his plate. “Please.”

  You dump friends or boyfriends. Santana is neither. I don’t know what he is.

  While Ariel’s back is turned, Santana finger gags. The lunch she made, the quinoa stew—she pronounced it “keen-wa”—was bland. It was the texture of gooey rice, and unfortunately, I found I could swallow it a few mushy kernels at a time. And fat-free, sugar-free, cocoa-free brownies would only be edible laced with arsenic.

  “Were you born mute?” Ariel sets the plate in front of Santana and slides another glop of brownie goop off the spatula onto my plate. “Or were you in an accident?”

  “Don’t be rude, Ariel,” Santana says.

  “I’m not rude. I’m interested.”

  “Maybe it’s none of your business. Maybe you should practice the fine art of butt-out-ski.”

  I choke down a laugh. Butt-out-ski?

  Santana does a double take. “Was that a—”

  “Oh, shit!” Ariel shoots out of her chair. “I need to get to work.” She begins to gather plates and glasses from the table, but Santana grabs them and says, “Go. We’ll clean up.”

  You will, I think.

  Ariel hustles past the table and I want to leap up and latch on to her, beg her to stay. She skids to a stop. Twirling around, she comes back and kisses Santana’s head. Pressing his cheek to her stomach, she says, “He’s a pain in the ass, but I love him like a son.”

  Santana rolls his eyes.

  “Nice to meet you, Daelyn.” She smiles at me. “It’s about time Santana had a girlfriend.”

  I choke, literally, and Santana annihilates Ariel with a glare.

  Ariel pats my back until I catch my breath. Please, I silently plead with her. Don’t go.

  “Behave yourselves,” she calls over her shoulder. “Or don’t.” Her laughter spills down the hall.

  Santana covers his face. Then he peeks through his fingers at me and goes, “I never told her we were . . . you know.”

  I scrape back my chair. He gets up too and says, “You see the problem. Right?” His eyes shift to gaze down the hall after Ariel. He says in a flat voice, “I’m all she’s got and if I don’t make it this time . . .”

  You’ll pass through the light.

  A ribbon of guilt twists my stomach. I’m all Kim and Chip have too. But the difference is, they’ll be better off without me.

  I think Santana’s right, though, that Ariel needs him.

  My parents will be sad for a while, and may even blame themselves, the way they do now. Eventually they’ll come to peace with my decision. I hope they’ll realize I’m finally at peace.

  Santana looks at me and says, “So, what do you want to do?” He wiggles his eyebrows.

  I get up, praying he won’t attack from the rear, and hurry to the entryway, grab my book bag, and clench it to my chest. He follows as far as the stairway.

  I walk past him back to the kitchen, sit in a chair, and remove my econ spiral and textbook.

  Santana hovers in the threshold.

  I open the notebook and write, i have homework. I hold it up for him to see.

  He exhales a long breath. Then leaves me alone.

  — 3 DAYS —

  Today is a teacher in-service, and Chip draws the short straw. “Do you want to go to a movie?” he asks me at breakfast. “Or take a drive? It’s nice enough to go to the zoo.”

  I get up and find a notepad and pen. “I have a lot of homework. And my story for English is due this week,” I write.

  Chip says, “Are you going to let me read the story?”

  I throw him two bones: a smile and a nod. Both lies.

  As he’s reading the newspaper, I tongue my pills. I’ll flush them on the way to my room, the way I’ve done so many times before.

  Two questions are waiting for me online. Did I miss yesterday’s question?

  Who becomes you?

  What choice do you have?

  It’s not a question of choice.

  I read the two questions again. This fear takes hold, like whoever is asking the questions has inside knowledge of me. What I’m thinking, feeling. Don’t think. Do. Act.

  Who becomes you? No one. No one should become me. When I die, I don’t want my body or soul inhabited. I wouldn’t wish me on anyone.

  I key, “No one.”

  Answer accepted.

  What choice do you have?

  I key, “Do we have a choice?”

  Answer not accepted.

  Okay, I was just checking to see if anyone was there.

  What choice do you have?

  I think about my choice. Either outcome is bleak. If I stay and live through high school, go to college, get a job, what will ever change? This blackness inside will never go away. I don’t make friends; I’ll always be alone. If I go, at least there’s hope of peace. Chance of a new and better life on the other side.

  I key, “None. Not for me.”

  Accepted.

  I think about Santana and what choice he has. It makes me sad, so I stop thinking.

  I open the Final Forum and read my last entry. It’s long. Boring, though five J_Doe’s have replied. Not replied, exactly. One picked up on the camp theme. J
_Doe012654 wrote: Bullies are everywhere. At school, home, work, camp. You can’t get away from them.

  Wrong, I think. You can.

  J_Doe011663 wrote: I congratulate everyone here on their courage.

  Courage? I’ve never felt courageous in my whole entire life.

  I open a new notepad and key, “Fat camp. Part 2.

  “I got singled out. I don’t know why. Why do people always target me? Is it because I’m short and they figure I can’t fight back? They’re right, I can’t, but it’s not because I’m vertically challenged.”

  That sounds pretentious. I delete “vertically challenged” and key, “small.” I think, Invisible.

  “I’m scared, okay? I’ve always been scared. Every day of my life I wake up terrified. I wonder who will make it their mission to hunt me down today. I can’t WAIT to be rid of that feeling.”

  J_Doe033083 writes: I have everything I need to kill myself. I have the plan, the place, the time, and the fury. I take medication that doesn’t work. I know what it means to be happy, but I don’t seem to want to be happy. Sigmund Freud had a theory that inside of everyone exists a “suicide impulse,” which means we all desire to return to the state of perfect stillness that we experienced before birth. Do you hear the truth in that?

  Yeah, I hear the truth. But this is my truth.

  “I wasn’t the only one not losing weight fast enough, but they made me an example. . . .

  “Like, if we were doing jumping jacks, my lead counselor would yell, ‘163! Step out!’ The counselors thought it would be funny or motivating to call us by our weights. ‘163!’ he shouted. ‘Or 165 with muscle mass, ha-ha.’ I had to come up and flop around in front of everyone. ‘Higher!” he yelled. ‘Spread those thunder thighs. Clap your hands over your head. Now count.’

  “I could barely breathe and he makes me count out loud. ‘Count!’ he screamed.

  “15. 16. 59. 69. I’d lose my place and he’d make me start over. Everybody else got to stop at 100, but not me. I was in so much pain and my chest hurt and my boobs hurt from bouncing up and down. People were bent over trying to catch their breath and a couple of kids had to sit down, but the counselors would yank them up and make them start running. Or doing the StairMaster. I saw one girl counselor yell at this kid until she made him throw up he was crying so hard.”