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

by Julie Anne Peters

  He winces too. Dramatically on screen, he turns his head and covers his eyes with the back of his hand. “Bloody hell.”

  “We can skip a bunch of this,” Santana says. He sets down his float and fast-forwards. There are stretches of Ariel talking fast and making faces, posing for the camera like a model, cooking, painting on a canvas, putting on makeup. Santana skateboarding, doing chin-ups in a closet, his hair long and curly. Santana sprawled on the bench, reading.

  The film stops. “That bench is made out of the rock that killed my father. Ariel had it brought down from the mountain and carved. Kind of morbid, but every year on my birthday we sit there and she tells me about him. I sort of feel like I know him.”

  I can’t help looking at Santana. His expression is somber.

  My stomach wrenches. That’s their bench. I’ve been invading his personal space.

  “Hey,” Santana shifts his torso to face me, “did you realize that bench, our bench as I’ve come to think of it, sits directly underneath an anise magnolia tree? Anise smells like licorice. Magnolia—Maggie Louise?” He waggles a finger at me. “I’m telling you, Daelyn. Interconnections.”

  When I make a face, he says, “You’re right. Excessive commentary.”

  The film continues. Santana sleeping, his hair messy.

  “Wait.” He stops the film and rewinds.

  Santana sleeping. “Here he is,” a woman whispers. “My sweet, perfect, brilliant baby boy.”

  In my peripheral vision, Santana’s Adam’s apple bobs. Or is that the lump?

  “I forgot she took that,” he says.

  The film rolls. His younger voice says, “Hair today. Gone tomorrow.”

  Santana waves an electric shaver across the screen. He flicks it on and it buzzes. He aims the teeth toward his head, where his hair is already patchy in places, and when the shaver hits his head, he grimaces. He squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his teeth. The razor carves a naked swath over his scalp. “Owwww.”

  I can’t watch this. My gaze drops to the cheese on the other pizza, which is congealing. Plus, Hervé’s walking on it. We demolished the everything. Hervé missed a crust, so I flip it at him with the pencil.

  “Mom, don’t.”

  I glance over. Santana’s eyes are glued to the screen.

  He’s on the couch, this couch I guess, without the sheet. It’s blue-and-gold brocade. Santana’s sleeping, or pretending to. He lifts his arm and shields his face.

  “You wanted me to record everything at the same time every day. Smile,” Ariel says.

  Under his arm, on the couch, Santana forces a weak smile.

  In the next shot, he’s hurling in the toilet.

  My stomach churns.

  “Sorry.” Before Santana can fast-forward, I see him resting his forehead on the toilet rim. I think, This is why he was homeschooled.

  In fast-forward, Santana moaning.

  Sleeping.

  Clutching his stomach.

  Lying on the couch, curled into a fetal position.

  Santana sitting on the bench. Staring into the camera.

  He reaches over and takes my hand. For real.

  Wide eyes. Staring at the lens.

  Ariel’s voice: “I can’t do this anymore.”

  The film ends.

  Do I squeeze his hand?

  Santana’s other hand raises and brushes my chin. He moves my head around slowly to face him. Then he scoots over fast, closing in. His lips touch mine. The shock of it makes me tense, but his lips are soft. He presses a little harder, too hard, pushing me back with nowhere to go and I’m trapped and it’s . . .

  Black. Blinding white light. Santana holding me down suffocating me with his mouth—

  My fingers tighten around the pencil and I stab him in the arm. The lead is dull and I stab and stab until he cries out, “Ow.” He goes, “What the hell?” and rolls off me.

  The doorbell rings.

  Kim is here to save me at last. At last.

  I lie in bed, the cover up to my chin, shivering. How could he? How could he betray our trust? I TRUSTED him. For the first time ever. He was my . . .

  What?

  Friend? I don’t even know the meaning of the word.

  My eyes close and the room spins, a vortex. I’m back in the boys’ bathroom again; Toomey’s kissing me, lifting up my skirt, pulling down my underwear. I try to scream, but no sound comes out—

  My eyes fly open.

  Why? Why did I let him do that to me?

  All of them. The teasers and bullies and perverts. Yes, perverts.

  I throw back the covers and bounce out of bed, snag the laptop and return, jamming against the headboard.

  I press the power button.

  My brain says Through-the-Light, but my hand takes me to IM.

  He’s there. He’s been on a while because he’s already written:

  herveh0tsu: D, talk to me

  herveh0tsu: Talk to me

  herveh0tsu: Talk to me

  herveh0tsu: I’m not going away

  Why? If he doesn’t see how sick I am by now . . . What is he, dense?

  herveh0tsu: D, you’re on. Talk to me.

  I wish I was invisible to him, to everyone.

  herveh0tsu: TALK TO ME DAMMIT

  I key, “no. and don’t call me D. it’s daelyn.”

  herveh0tsu: Got it. What happened? Why’d you freak out? I thought we were getting somewhere.

  “where?”

  herveh0tsu: hell, I don’t know. 1st? 2nd?

  Third? Fourth grade?

  “i can’t”

  There’s a pause.

  herveh0tsu: Ok. How was I supposed to know? You never call. You never write.

  If I could laugh . . . He makes me feel fluid inside. I’m terrified of the feeling.

  I key, “what do u want from me?”

  herveh0tsu: Your hot bod? What else? I’m an animal.

  No, you’re not.

  herveh0tsu: I like you. What I know of you.

  “which is 0”

  herveh0tsu: Exactly. So we’re back to your hot bod.

  I should be offended. Instead, I feel grateful. I’m so desperate.

  herveh0tsu: Is it a crime for a guy to like a girl?

  I key, “in that way, yeah”

  herveh0tsu: What way?

  Never mind, I think. I don’t know.

  herveh0tsu: Come on. Give a dying man his last wish.

  I punch the off button. That is so not fair.

  Tears well from somewhere inside me and overflow my eyelids. They stream down my cheeks and into my open mouth; they salt my wounds. I close my burning eyes and fight to keep the emotion from drowning me.

  There’s a knock on my door.

  I press the laptop power on and hunch over the keyboard. Chip says, “I’m going to bed now. You should too.”

  My hair shields my face.

  He eases the door almost closed. “G’night, sweetheart. Sleep tight.”

  I hold my breath to keep from losing it.

  Santana’s still on, messaging away.

  herveh0tsu: Don’t go, daelyn

  herveh0tsu: DAELYN!!!

  herveh0tsu: God. I’m sorry. I’m an ass

  herveh0tsu: a

  herveh0tsu: s

  herveh0tsu: s

  herveh0tsu: hole

  herveh0tsu: I keep using it as an excuse. I wasn’t trying to pressure you into anything you didn’t want to do. Guilt you into it maybe by making you watch my vid.

  A pause. An interminable wait.

  herveh0tsu: daelyn?

  I key, “an excuse for what?”

  herveh0tsu: Being an asshole. Getting my way.

  I key, “sorry excuse”

  herveh0tsu: no shit

  Another wait. I should say something. I don’t know how to talk to a boy.

  herveh0tsu: Give me something. Anything. You know my whole life story.

  Do I? Can you know a person from their video memoir?

  herveh
0tsu: Tell me about the neck brace

  Why? I sit and stare at the screen. Why that? The brace is on the rocking chair where I flung it when I staggered in and crashed to bleed out internally.

  herveh0tsu: You don’t have to. You don’t have to do anything. I’ll leave you alone from now on.

  He signs off.

  I key quickly, “i drank ammonia and bleach so i could die. r u happy now?”

  — 1 DAYS —

  “A boy died at camp. Police came, an ambulance, a fire truck. Our parents got called to come and pick us up. I heard someone say the kid had a heart attack from too much physical exertion. As they were carting him off on a gurney, all I could think was, I wish that was me.”

  J_Doe051676 writes: I just wanted everyone to know this will be my last post before I leave this life. I’ve been planning my suicide for three and a half years, making sure everything is in order, and finally I can act on those plans. In a couple of hours I will be free. Already I’m relaxed and less stressed. I don’t know any of you, but I felt it was necessary to let somebody know of my end. I’m finally going to my rapture.

  Does he have to make a big announcement?

  These people are pathetic.

  I switch over to DOD and see J_Doe051676 on the list.

  At least he wasn’t lying.

  The weariness of it all is seeping in again. I power down and shut my eyes. The purging worked. I feel better, released from my bondage.

  A haunting image swirls into focus. It’s Santana. That last frame of film. The swollen cheeks and sunken eyes.

  Stinging behind my eyelids, but it feels right.

  Life is so unfair.

  The last question was the one I’d been asking all my life. Why are you here?

  That’s the question.

  Why am I here? What’s my purpose?

  “Daelyn, are you up?” Chip calls. He’s right outside my door and he reaches around to knock. “You dressed?” He gives me a minute to collect myself before poking his head in.

  “Oh. Good. You’re not on the computer.”

  I throw the last book into my book bag. Desire in the Marsh. It’s hard to believe I’m almost to the end. I’ll miss Maggie Louise.

  She’s my friend, my idol.

  How stupid. A character in a book can’t be your idol. They aren’t real or alive. They never had to act courageously in the face of real adversity or fear. These books are terrible. I don’t know why I gobbled them up in middle school. I’ll never know romance or adventure or love.

  This is the last book in the series and I already know how it ends, but I made a commitment to read the books again, and the goal must be completed. I have to accomplish something, to prove to myself—

  What? That the only friends I’ve ever had are imaginary? The goal, the goal. I have to reach the end. If I read in the chapel and during classes, at lunch, and after school, I can finish.

  Chip greets me in the kitchen with my cereal and pills. I tongue the pills and when he turns around, spit them into my hand. “Your mother called while you were in the shower. She said this audit is taking longer than she expected and she won’t be home until late Friday.”

  Friday?

  My heart pounds. Blood courses through my veins and I feel hot, then cold. I won’t see my mother again.

  Chip is chatty on the way to school, talking about this time he and Mom drove to Carlsbad Caverns. I’m in shock. I’ll never see my mother again. “We were taking a second honeymoon, hitting all the hot spots and the tourist traps from here to Las Vegas.” I feel catatonic. “The car broke down in Death Valley and we had to thumb a ride. A couple of college kids picked us up. They were on their way to Vegas to get hitched.” Chip smiles at me. “On a whim, your mom and I decided to renew our vows in Vegas.” He shakes his head like the memory just jarred loose. “If you elope, I highly recommend the Viva Las Vegas Wedding Chapel.” He chuckles. “I believe you were conceived in the Blue Hawaii room.”

  A wave of nausea makes me lurch.

  “Are you okay?” Chip reaches across and touches my arm. “Do I need to stop?”

  The word “no” forms on my lips as I clutch my stomach. What was the last thing I said to her?

  Chip goes, “We were told that we couldn’t have children, so you were a miracle baby. I want you to grow up, get married, and have lots of kids. Grandkids for me and your mom to spoil. You have so much to look forward to in life, Daelyn.”

  * * *

  Emily is waiting for me at the chapel. “Hi.” She smiles and waves.

  I slow. If I run, she’ll never catch me.

  I don’t know what to do. I guess I started this.

  “Did you study for the econ test today?” She follows me into the nave.

  We have a test? I guess I was sort of distracted.

  “I always get so nervous before a big test.” She waits for me to choose a pew. I head for the middle section, left aisle, clear at the end by the confessional, then hesitate. These pews are narrow. There’s no one in the chapel. We could sit anywhere. I walk up to the front where you don’t have to squeeze in.

  I let her go first. She smiles as she passes. I mean, this huge smile that turns her cheeks pink and her eyes twinkly.

  She rolls out the kneeler from under the pew, kneels, makes the sign of the cross, and folds her hands.

  I don’t pray. I just like the peace.

  I watch Emily, the seams around the arms of her white blouse pulling taut. She rests her forehead on her folded hands, and I think, She’s going to need her faith.

  Out the open window, I see him. Taylor, aka Jennifer Jessica, has called him over to the fence. She’s tossing back her hair and he’s krumping in place. Is she laughing, enjoying it? My heart hurts. I have no reason to feel jealous. I can’t give Santana what he wants. A nun bustles over and shoos him away and he backs up, waves, and krumps off. Taylor’s groupies swarm around her and howl at something she says. She peers over her shoulder. They’re making fun of him. She’s mocking him. I want to get up and—

  Emily crosses herself again and sits back.

  Don’t make fun of him! I scream inside. He’s dying.

  In a whisper, Emily says, “Thanks for your note. I needed that.”

  I tender a grim smile.

  “I thought this year would be different, you know? High school and all. I thought people might be more mature, or nicer, at least.”

  Surprise, Emily. People don’t change. There are two kinds of people in the world: winners and losers.

  Black and white. I don’t know where gray fits in, or if you can even live in the shade.

  “Does that neck cast hurt?” She studies it, tilting her head. “It reminds me of those African women who wear brass rings around their neck,” she says, “and keep adding rings until their necks are stretched like a giraffe’s. I read if they take off the rings, their necks snap and they die of asphyxiation.”

  The Padaung women of Thailand. I saw it on the Discovery Channel. They wear the brass rings to promote tourism to their villages. The rings weaken the neck muscles, so if the women remove the rings, their necks can’t support the weight of their heads.

  Emily says, “Supposedly, the neck rings symbolize the beauty ideal.” She sticks out her fleshy tongue. “Gag.”

  But you’d sell your soul for it, wouldn’t you? For one day of feeling beautiful.

  “Okay, I’ll zip it.” Emily yanks an invisible zipper across her lips.

  I like her. She seems to be at peace with herself. I think Emily has courage.

  We sit in silence, eyes trained on the altar. The cross. What did Jesus die for, anyway? “I know I talk too much,” Emily says. “It’s just, I don’t have a lot of people to talk to. Not a lot of people are worth my time.”

  I look at her. She adds, “When you showed up for chorus, I knew right away you were different. In a good way,” she adds quickly.

  What did she see in me? What does she see that I don’t?

  She smiles
again.

  No, Emily, I think. Don’t choose me. I’m not worth your time.

  This is my fault. Mine. Making her think I’d be here for her.

  Tearing the Velcro straps, I remove my neck brace from the front. It forms a tube and I hand it to her. More like shove it. Take it, Emily. Keep it as a token.

  Because tomorrow when I go, I want you to believe friends are possible.

  Emily balances the brace on her lap. She examines it, peers down the center. “It’s heavy,” she breathes.

  Unbearably.

  She looks at me. “Is your neck going to snap?”

  I stick out my tongue and let my head fall back.

  Emily giggles. She covers her mouth, eyes darting over our shoulders like it’s a sin to laugh in church.

  “Can I try it on?”

  That wasn’t the plan.

  I don’t know what the plan was. It’s all I had to give.

  She straps herself in. “Miracle of miracles. It fits.”

  I have to smile at that.

  “How do I look?” She twists her whole upper body toward me.

  Like a Padaung princess, I think.

  The bell rings and Emily rips off the brace. I stand with my book bag and she grabs hers. She tries to return the brace, but I mime, Keep it.

  “Really?”

  I won’t need it anymore. On second thought, throw it away.

  We’re almost to the classroom when Emily says, “My mom is sending me to fat camp this summer. Oh joy.”

  I stop dead, my book bag thunking to the floor. I snag Emily’s left arm and reach across to take her right. My mouth opens and my tongue presses against the top of my palate and the word opens my throat. It takes will and rage to force sound from my scarred and melted vocal cords, but I do it. I say, “No.

  “Don’t.

  “Go.”

  Emily’s jaw drops. My hands clench her hard and I’m shaking. Shaking her. She nods as if she hears. She’s listening.

  Questions. They repeat in my head.

  How will you get to the light?

  Drowning. I’ll bloat myself.

  Bloater. Fatso. I never defended myself. Not once. I never said, “Excuse me? What gives you the right to insult and demean me?”

  I let them steal my dignity.