I tried to get back to sleep, but I couldn’t. Every time I closed my eyes I could feel Rankin touching me, feel his breath on my neck and his skin against mine.
Why did I do that with him? Why did I let him stay?
I don’t know why. But I did, and now I feel like crap. Dirty. Worst of all, I have to see my parents today. And I don’t even want to think about having to see Rankin later. Maybe he won’t say anything and we can pretend it never happened. He’s good at that, right? And maybe it didn’t happen. Maybe it was all a sick dream, and I’ll still wake up.
Day 29
I honestly can’t tell you much about how things went with my parents this morning. It was fine, I guess. We basically talked about how much we all love each other and how they’re looking forward to having me come home in a couple of weeks. I didn’t say much, and for once Cat Poop didn’t push me. Maybe he could see how tired I was. I’m sure I’ll get grilled about it in our session tomorrow.
Anyway, the point is, I’m sort of preoccupied. For obvious reasons, I tried to avoid Rankin, but I ran into him this morning in the bathroom. I seriously have to talk to somebody about getting my own bathroom. This togetherness thing is becoming a problem.
I wasn’t even going to take a shower. That’s how much I didn’t want to see Rankin. But around here if you don’t take a shower, someone will accuse you of being depressed again and you’ll have to go through the whole “Is anything troubling you today, Jeff?” bullshit. Who needs it? Also, I didn’t want to meet my parents smelling like Rankin’s dick.
So of course I walked in and there he was. He had his towel wrapped around his waist, and he was standing outside the shower waiting for the water to get hot. The water here takes forever to warm up. I swear they have, like, three old women in the basement boiling water over actual fires. Then the water takes so long to get up here, it’s only warmish when it comes out.
“Hey,” Rankin said, like nothing weird had happened.
“Hey,” I said back, then stood there feeling like an idiot. But what was I supposed to say? “Thanks for coming over last night? Sorry I didn’t have clean sheets on the bed?” I mean, what?
I was going to turn around and leave, but right then Rankin dropped his towel. Then he looked at me, nodded toward the shower, and stepped in.
I swear I don’t know why I did it, but I followed him. It was like someone else had taken control of my body. Rankin had left the curtain open, and before I knew what I was doing, I stepped inside and pulled it closed behind me.
We just stood there for a while under the water. The stalls aren’t that big, so we were basically pressed against each other. I was staring at his chest, noticing how hairy he is and trying not to think about anything. Then Rankin kissed me. His lips pressed against mine. He had some beard stubble, and it felt scratchy on my cheek.
Rankin pushed me against the wall. The tiles were cold, and I tried to move away from them, but Rankin was kind of leaning against me. I put my hands on his chest to try and push him back, but as soon as I touched him it was like someone had glued us together. He put his hands on my butt and pulled me closer. He kept kissing me while he pumped himself against me. He was hard, and I reached down and wrapped my fingers around it.
“Suck it,” Rankin said.
I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right, so I didn’t do anything. Then he put his hands on my shoulders and kind of pushed me down so that I was on my knees. The water splashed on my head and ran down my face. I was staring at his dick and his balls and thinking how big they looked close up.
I don’t know why I didn’t just get up and leave. I could have. It wasn’t like he was holding me prisoner. But I couldn’t stop staring at his dick. It was just so weird to be kneeling there in the shower in front of another guy. And for some reason I kept thinking, I wonder what it tastes like?
I opened my mouth and put it on the tip of his dick. The skin tasted salty and a little sticky. Rankin put his hands on my head and pushed inside me a little, and I started to choke. He pulled back and I breathed in until I felt more relaxed. Then I tried again.
We didn’t do it for very long before I heard him moan. My mouth filled with something warm and salty and I realized Rankin was coming. I didn’t want to swallow it, so I held it in my mouth until he pulled out. Then I turned and spit it out.
“I have a buddy I do that with sometimes,” Rankin said. He had started to soap himself up, and was washing under his arms.
I didn’t say anything. I stood up. I kind of thought he might blow me next, but all he said was, “You should probably get in another shower, in case they come in on rounds.”
“Right,” I said. I opened the curtain and stepped out. The air was cold, and I shivered as I went to the shower beside Rankin’s and turned on the water. I didn’t even wait for it to warm up. I got in and then tried to stand close to the wall so that the cold water wouldn’t hit me. But it did, and it felt like I was trapped in one of those freak summer storms where you’re riding along on your bike and then the sky opens up and dumps rain on you, so that you have to wait it out under a tree. Then your T-shirt is soaking wet and all you can think about is getting home and into something dry.
Rankin was humming. I could hear it through the shower wall. It wasn’t really a song, more like this weird out-of-tune melody. I listened to him while the water warmed up or maybe just until I got used to it being cold. Something about the song was familiar. Then I realized he was humming “London Bridge,” only not quite right. He sounded like a little kid trying to sing something he’d just learned in school.
I soaped up and tried to ignore him. I could still taste him in my mouth. I wished I had some mouthwash, but I didn’t, so I just opened my mouth and let the water fill it up. I swished it around and spit, but I could still taste Rankin’s dick. It was like when you eat peppers or something and no matter what you drink, you can’t get it off your tongue.
After a few minutes he stopped humming and got out. I heard him drying off. Then he left without saying anything, as if nothing weird had happened. Again.
I stood under that water for a long time. For some reason, I couldn’t get that stupid “London Bridge” song out of my head. “London Bridge is falling down,” I kept hearing. “Falling down. Falling down. London Bridge is falling down, my fair lady.”
When I was little, I had a record of that song. I used to play it over and over. Standing in the shower, I started singing the next words. “Take a key and lock her up. Lock her up. Lock her up. Take a key and lock her up, my fair lady.”
For some reason, that made me start crying. I just slid down the wall and sat there in that goddamn shower, crying and singing that stupid song, over and over.
Day 30
I think I’ve figured out what Rankin’s brand of crazy is. He’s projecting, or whatever they call it when you accuse someone else of being what you are. Personally, I call it being an asshole, but I guess they needed to come up with a name that sounds more official.
This morning I went to the bathroom to pee. I put it off as long as I could. You know, like when—for whatever reason—you don’t want to get out of bed, so you lie there hoping the pee will just magically turn to steam or something. But it doesn’t, and eventually you can’t stand it anymore and have to get up.
I lasted for maybe half an hour. Then it got to the point where I either had to get out of bed or pee in it. Frankly, I was tempted, but I just couldn’t do it. I had to get up.
And there was Rankin. I don’t know how he always manages to be in the bathroom when I need to use it, but it’s starting to freak me out. He’s like one of those dogs who can sense when a person is going to have a seizure, only Rankin senses whenever I need to pee.
He was shaving at one of the sinks. I didn’t look at him while I went to the urinal, even though he was literally right behind me. For a few seconds I actually expected to feel him come up behind me again, but he stayed put.
After I peed, I went to wash my
hands. I figured I should say something, since Rankin seemed a little edgy.
“Hey, about yesterday,” I said. “It’s no big deal. You don’t have to worry. I’m not going to tell anyone about you.”
I figured that was kind of big of me, you know, since he was the one who got all gay on me. I mean, I didn’t start any of it.
“About me?” he said, making that confused face he does when he doesn’t understand something. “What about me?”
“About how you’re—you know,” I said. “About what happened.”
He looked like I’d just called him a puppy killer or something. “Me?” he said. “I was going to say that I won’t tell anyone about you.”
I couldn’t believe it. He was the one who came into my room. He was the one who touched me. Not the other way around. When I told him that, he shook his head.
“No way, man,” he said. “I’m not like that. I was just fooling around with you. It’s not like there are any girls here to do it with or anything. If we weren’t in here, it would never have happened.”
“There are girls here,” I said. I was mad, and I wanted to push him a little.
He made a grunting sound. “None I’d go near,” he said. “They’re all whack-jobs.”
“And what are you?” I asked him. “What am I? In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re all whack-jobs.”
“I’m just saying,” said Rankin. “It wasn’t anything to get bent out of shape about, okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, washing my hands for like the sixth time. “Okay. I wasn’t going to say anything, anyway.”
He smiled a goofy smile. “Me neither,” he said. “So we’re good?”
I nodded as I turned off the water. Rankin gave me this weird punch in the shoulder, like we’d just scored a goal or something. Then he went back to shaving and I went back to my room. I waited until I was pretty sure he would be out of the bathroom before I went back for my shower.
I still can’t believe he thinks I’m the one with the problem. How is that even possible? Okay, so maybe I was the one who did the sucking, but he was the one who wanted it. I didn’t. I just did it because he did.
I can’t even think about it right now. It makes me too mad. I’ll deal with it later. Besides, there’s other stuff on my mind. Namely, leaving.
In my session with Cat Poop today, he reminded me that I’m two-thirds of the way through my forty-five days. On the one hand, that makes it seem like time is flying by. On the other, I feel like I’ve been here for thirty years, not thirty days.
“You didn’t seem very excited about leaving when your parents talked about it yesterday,” Cat Poop said. “How come?”
I shrugged. I didn’t know what to say. Because here’s the weird thing: Sometimes I wish I could stay here forever. It’s like being in a castle with a moat around it. Sure, it’s a castle filled with crazy people, but at least no one can get in unless we let them in. Of course, we can’t get out either, but when you think about it, what’s so great about being out there? There’s too much out there that can hurt you. In here you don’t have to worry about it. You just have to worry about being molested by jocks. But like I said, I’m not thinking about that.
Cat Poop tried another question on me. “What do you want your life to be like when you leave here?” he asked me.
I thought about it for a minute. “I want to be so rich that I can buy my own island and live on it all by myself.”
You know what he said? “What about music? What about movies?”
“I’ll order them online,” I said. “Food, too. You can pretty much get anything online. Did you know you can even buy black widow spiders online?”
It’s true. Amanda and I looked it up one day when we were talking about how you could kill someone and get away with it. Just hypothetically, of course. I have enough problems without being a psychopath. Or sociopath. Whatever. Anyway, Amanda thought you could get a whole bunch of black widows, put them in a box, and mail it to whoever you wanted to kill. And it turns out, you can. They aren’t even that expensive, something like three bucks each.
“Even friends?” Cat Poop said.
“What do you think most people spend their time online doing?” I asked him. “Isn’t that the whole point of the internet, that you can pretend to be someone else so that a bunch of other people will like you? Practically every kid in my school has their own website. And believe me, they make themselves sound a lot more interesting than they really are. Seriously, does Jamie Kazinsky really think anyone is going to believe the pictures her cousin took with his digital camera were used in the Venezuelan edition of Seventeen?”
“What about love?” Cat Poop asked me, not answering my question. I’m getting kind of tired of him doing that. Personally, I think it’s rude.
“What about it?” I asked back.
“If you’re all alone on the island, you won’t have anyone there who loves you,” he said.
“I think I’ll survive somehow,” I told him.
“Don’t you ever want to be in love?” he said.
I knew where he was going with that. Allie again. Man, he doesn’t give up. I guess he thinks one of these days I won’t realize what he’s doing and spill the beans. Here’s a clue, Cat Poop: There are no beans.
“What’s love, anyway?” I said. “I think it’s just something greeting-card makers made up and try to get us to believe in. Between you and me, I’d rather have an Xbox.”
Thankfully, my time was up right about then, and I escaped back to the ward, where it’s mostly safe. Rankin being the exception. But I haven’t seen him. He’s probably in his room reading Sports Illustrated and not being gay.
Later on I told Sadie about my session with Cat Poop. “What’s his obsession with love?” I asked her.
“I don’t know,” Sadie said. “But I think love is really important.”
I thought for a minute that she was messing with me. Then she looked around, like she was making sure no one was listening, and whispered, “Want to see something?”
She didn’t wait for me to answer. Instead, she dug around in her pocket and pulled something out. It was a piece of paper. She unfolded it and handed it to me.
It was a newspaper clipping. The headline was hero rescues girl from watery grave. I looked at Sadie. “This is about you,” I said.
She nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “I cut it out and kept it. I have a lot more at home. Sort of a suicide scrapbook. But this one’s my favorite.”
Alongside the article was a picture of a man. He had a round, happy face and bright blue eyes. He was going bald, and he had a thick moustache.
“That’s Sam,” Sadie said, seeing me looking at the picture.
“The one who saved you?” I asked her.
She nodded. “My guardian angel.”
At first I thought she was making a joke, but when I looked at her face, I knew she wasn’t. She was staring at the picture of Sam like it was a picture of Jesus or something. It creeped me out a little.
“Doesn’t it make you depressed reading this over and over?” I asked her.
“No,” said Sadie, sounding surprised that I would even ask. “It makes me happy.” She brought her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. “It makes me feel loved,” she said. “He loved me enough to save me.”
I followed her eyes to the picture of Sam. Did she really believe he loved her? He didn’t even know her when he went in after her. She was just someone who needed saving. She was acting like he was her father, or her boyfriend.
I folded up the article again and handed it to her. Before she put it back in her pocket, she kissed it, like it was a magic charm or something.
I still can’t believe she keeps that thing. It’s kind of crazy when you think about it. And I don’t understand why she thinks that guy—Sam—loves her. I mean, he was just doing the right thing. I think most people would jump in and try to help someone who was drowning.
Or maybe not. Maybe some people would just s
tand there and watch. I guess that’s why Sadie thinks this guy is so special. But it’s still weird that she’s all in love with him. I’m not sure who’s crazier, her or Rankin. Right now I’d say it’s a tie.
Day 31
If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be? Just one. It can be anything—a physical thing you wish you had or didn’t have, a talent you’d like to have, anything. But you only get one.
That was the question we talked about in group today. You’d think that we all would have picked something to do with why we’re here. But mostly we didn’t. Juliet said she wished she could play the cello, because she’d like to be able to make people feel the way she does when she hears someone play. Sadie said she wished she could talk to dead people. Rankin said he wished he could throw a perfect spiral pass. And I said I wished I wasn’t afraid of heights.
Later, in my one-on-one, Cat Poop asked me if I’d noticed anything different about what I’d said compared to what everyone else said. I thought for a minute but couldn’t come up with anything.
“You were the only one who said you wanted to get rid of something,” he told me. “Everyone else wanted to add something to themselves, but you wanted to give something up. Why did you say you’d like to get rid of your fear of heights?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It was just the first thing that came to me.”
It’s true, too. I am afraid of heights. I don’t even like going up in elevators past about six floors.
“What about that fear makes it the one thing you want to get rid of?” Cat Poop asked me.
I had to think about that for a while. Finally I said, “I guess because it keeps me from doing things I’d like to do.”
He asked me what kinds of things, and I told him I’ve always wanted to try skydiving, or maybe even bungee jumping. “But I’m afraid of heights,” I said. “So I can’t.”
Suicide Notes Page 12
