“Thanks,” I said to the guy, giving him a thumbs up. He smiled and nodded, leaning into me. He smelled like stale cigarettes, flat beer, and mild body odor.
“Let me guess,” he said. “You don’t remember who I am.” Startled, I pulled back, studying his face. He was cute in a young punk sort of way. A bad case of acne, greasy hair, and tacky face jewelry were the first things I noticed, but like a punch in the gut, I realized I did recognize him. Jesse had been the male specimen asleep in my bed, the one drooling on my pillow the night Carter had called.
“I remember you,” I said carefully. “I met you at the club.”
“Most of the time, isn’t it the man’s house that the woman sneaks out of before sunrise?” asked Jesse. “If you wanted me gone, you could have kicked me out instead of bailing. Where did you go that night, anyway?”
Ava, who had been listening halfheartedly to the conversation, whipped her head around, realizing his mistake. Jesse was smiling at me innocently, clearly kidding around. I looked over at Ava, meeting her eyes. My stomach twisted in a knot, threatening to lose the cranberry vodka settling in my stomach.
“I have to go to the bathroom.” I thrust the cup of jungle juice at Jesse, who looked startled as I turned and made my way to the bathroom down the hall. Behind me, Ava was whispering something to him, but I couldn’t make out her words. I didn’t want to.
Once safely in the bathroom, I slammed the door shut behind me, clicking the lock into place. The tears I hadn’t realized were coming fell hot against my face, drying on my skin. I looked in the mirror, sobbing, watching the mascara run down from my lashes onto my face, clinging to my cheeks. I yanked a square of toilet paper off the holder and scrubbed, desperately trying to cleanse my skin of the black smudges.
On the other side of the bathroom door, people were laughing. Ava was shouting something, loud and obnoxious as usual, flirting with one of the guys—probably Jesse. If only I could get over something as quickly as she did, like the death of my best friend.
I closed my eyes and took a shaky breath. My heart pounded in my ears, so distinctive it was almost unsettling. I opened my eyes to face myself in the mirror. The person looking back wasn’t me, it was Carter. Carter, smiling sadly, his cheeks flushed with the pink of life, his eyes sad, disapproving.
I took a step back bumping into the magazine holder behind me. I spun around to size up the inanimate attacker, and when I turned back around, Carter was gone. There was just me, still crying, staring numbly into the reflection of the mirror. I swallowed and closed my eyes, trying to regain control. Near my foot, an orange bottle of prescription pills had clattered from the shelf and to the floor. I looked down at it, feeling a stab of emotions I couldn’t place grip me. Without thinking about it, I reached down and picked up the bottle from the floor, scrutinizing it. It was Vicodin, a painkiller.
On the other side of the door, another laugh echoed down the hallway.
I could end it all right now, and nobody would even know. Maybe not even care. But was there a heaven? Was there a hell? I didn’t believe in such things, and there was one thought that scared me even more than death itself. That thought was never seeing Carter again, even in the afterlife.
Hands shaking, I unscrewed the cap from the bottle and dumped some of the pills into my hand. I tossed a few back and held my head under the sink, swallowing them down. I hadn’t had a prescription pill in years, and now, I had just taken four. Heart racing, I dumped another small handful of the pills into my palm and then slipped them into my pocket, hesitant to take the entire bottle. I steadied myself in front of the bathroom sink and looked again in the mirror. By now, six different people had pounded on the door, yelling about having to go pee. Whether they ended up pissing their pants or just going outside, I’d never know.
I took a deep breath and splashed some icy water on my face before replacing the bottle of pills on the stand. Running my hands through my hair, I made a half-assed effort to pull myself together and look presentable. After I was certain I wouldn’t be called out on anything, I double-checked my pocket for the pills and opened the bathroom door, ignoring the death glare that a skank in too-short shorts and a strapless blouse shot me. I found Ava sitting propped up on the edge of the couch. She had switched out her bottle of beer for a fifth of tequila, and there were two men on either side of her, both groping her like dogs. In her free hand, she was holding a joint. Typical Ava.
“There you are,” she called, giggling. Her already dark complexion was flushed with red, eyes even glassier than before. “Jesse has your drink. I’m not sure where he went.”
“It’s fine,” I assured her. The Vicodin already rushed through my veins, creating a euphoric effect. “I’m going to go home anyway. I need to go to bed.”
“Party pooper,” one of the people slurred. I didn’t even recognize his face, let alone know his name, so I figured it wouldn’t be my wisest moment to punch him in the face.
“Yep, that’s me,” I said instead. Ava, looking sufficiently butt-hurt, pushed out her bottom lip in a pout. For a man, it would have worked. For me, I knew better than that. “I’ll see you later,” I said.
“Going so soon, Ladybug?” she asked, mocking me. Anger like a boiling pot of water bubbled in my chest when the familiar nickname slipped off her tongue. I felt my fists clench unintentionally, and for nothing more than a split second, I tried to imagine which of us would win in a smackdown. Probably Ava. Fortunately, before I had the chance to find out, I saw her chocolate-brown eyes flutter to the floor, and for a moment, she looked almost ashamed.
“Lo siento,” she said. “That was insensitive.”
“I have to go.” Unable to acknowledge her apology, I waved a brisk goodbye and headed out the door, grabbing my jacket on the way out. Missus Betty wouldn’t start until the fifth try. On the fourth try, I had a moment’s thought to call Carter and have him come and jump-start me. But by the fifth try, when the engine roared to life, I realized that never, ever again would that be a possibility.
January 5, 2014
Mrs. Dunham told me that I should try to write in this book every day. She seems to think that if I treat it as though I’m talking to a friend, it will help steady my emotions. Whatever. I’m not sure what to write, so I’ll start with the basics and go from there, I guess.
Well, like I said on the first page, my name is Carter. It’s the year 2014. I live on the outskirts of Seattle with my parents and my little sister Gracie. I’m 15.
I attend Timberlake High School downtown. I get good grades, for the most part. Dad would kill me if I didn’t. He wants to see me make Valedictorian at graduation, and everyone agrees. Most people think that’s awesome and wonderful. They tell me how proud they are of me and how successful they think I’ll be. Most of the time, I find myself smiling and nodding and then rolling my eyes behind their back. If Mom caught me doing that, I’d probably be smacked. No child of hers acts like that.
There aren’t many people in this world I feel close to, but my friend, Khloe, is one of them. She’s not just a friend. She’s my best friend. She’s my family. My family and hers have known each other forever it seems. Since we were 3. There have been many moves & many goodbyes, but in the end, it worked out for the best. I get to see her all the time now. Khloe is a good kid like me. She does well in class and has a lot of friends. She and her mom are close, which is nice. I like her mom, Charlotte. Her dad, Frank, is pretty cool too, but he’s gone a lot driving a truck. That’s okay. I think Khloe likes being around her mom most.
I closed the journal, feeling the tears pressing against my eyeballs and threatening to spill over. With the sorrow came anger, and with a powerful heave, I threw the book across the room, fuming. It hit the wall with a pathetic thump, landing on the floor, open, resting on some random page. My legs went weak beneath me, and I fell to my knees, gasping for air.
“I hate you!” I screamed at the book. “I fucking hate you!”
&
nbsp; The journal didn’t answer. It only sat there like a lump of coal, taunting me. On the coffee table in the living room, my cell phone buzzed again, vibrating against the table. Ava had been trying to call me since last night when I’d stormed off after her stupid comment. I couldn’t answer. I had no desire to talk to anyone if it wasn’t my best friend.
Eyes still on the book, I cradled my knees to my chest and began to rock back and forth, fighting to compose myself. Mrs. Dunham. Traci Dunham. Our high school counselor. I hadn’t seen her in months, though I’d frequented her office often as a student. But why her? Why had Carter turned to her instead of me?
There was no calm I could grasp, no rational thought that could settle me down. I craved having him there to comfort me. I needed him. Somewhere in the racing thoughts of my mind, I imagined him walking in. I could see it now, his face twisted in concern, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. He would walk over to me with that cocky swagger of his and wrap his arms around me, and say, “Chill out, Ladybug. I bet you that whatever it is, it’s probably not as bad as it seems.”
But now, while I rocked and sobbed on the floor, my eyes stinging with tears, it wasn’t just as bad as it seemed—it was a lot worse.
I couldn’t bring myself to read the next entry in Carter’s journal for the rest of the night. Instead, I picked it up, still crying, and stuffed it under the sofa cushion with a satisfied sniff. But despite it being out of sight, it certainly wasn’t off my mind.
Ava came over around ten, pounding on the door like a terror. It wasn’t until she started shouting at me in Spanish that I finally gave up and let her in.
“I bring a peace offering,” she said, holding up a twelve pack of Bud Light. I couldn’t resist. Pulling two of them out for us, I shoved the rest into the fridge and settled into the recliner in my living room, popping the cap off the bottle before taking a drink.
“That’s good,” I admitted. Ava, who had claimed the comfortable corner of the couch, nodded in agreement. Neither of us spoke of the night before. There was no need to. Ava was like my sister, and we seemed to fight as much as we got along, but we always made up in the end. For that, I was glad. Without Carter, I had no one else but Ava. I would do well not to shun her from my life.
“So,” Ava said after another few minutes. “Are you okay?” I didn’t say anything at first as I pondered my answer. No, I wasn’t okay, but she knew that, and so did everyone else.
“He kept a journal,” I said instead. I took another drink from the bottle of beer, thinking of the worn, leather-clad book under Ava’s butt. “He kept a journal and never even told me.”
“Carter? Why would he tell you something like that?” asked Ava. She lit a cigarette and inhaled, and I could almost hear Carter’s voice in my head, reaming her for smoking inside. “You weren’t his compañera.”
“You don’t get it,” I said. “We told each other everything. Everything. He didn’t even tell me he was in counseling at school. He always acted so… normal.”
“Maybe he was embarrassed.”
“I don’t care if he was or wasn’t.” I tossed the lone bottle cap into the ashtray and took another drink. The beer bubbled in my throat and stomach. “He should have told me.”
“I think you’re giving yourself way too much credit,” Ava said. Count on her to get me irritated all over again. I watched her take another puff on her cigarette and then blow out, forming smoke rings in the air with her lips.
“Maybe I should visit the school and talk to Ms. Dunham,” I said. “Maybe she can help me sort this out.”
“Sort what out?” demanded Ava. She put the cigarette out in the ashtray, looking irritated. “He killed himself, Khloe. He swallowed a bottle of pills and then died. I’m not sure what needs sorting out.”
“People don’t just end their lives when they have a bad day,” I snapped. “No one saw this coming, Ava. No one. So why? Why did this happen? What did we miss that drove him over the edge?”
“Maybe he misread the correct dosage on the bottle.” Ava shrugged, and I had an overwhelming urge to smack her. Had it been anyone else, I would have. But I knew that Ava’s defense in awkward situations was humor, even when it infuriated me.
“You can’t take anything seriously, can you?”
“I can, too,” Ava argued. “Just not this.” She sat up and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her thighs. “I know you’re hurting, Khloe,” she said. “But do you think that dwelling on this is going to bring him back? Do you think that digging up unnecessary information from his past will help you come to terms with the fact that he’s actually gone and won’t be coming back?”
“Fuck you.” I raised the beer to my lips and chugged it until the bottle was empty. Ava rolled her eyes and fell back against the couch.
“I think deep down, you know I’m right,” she said. “And it fucking hurts because I’m always right. So, for once, Khloe, just roll with the punches.” I was silent as she rummaged through her purse for a moment, finally coming up with a glass pipe.
“I’m not in the mood to smoke,” I muttered. Ava grinned, looking a bit too sly for my comfort.
“I don’t have weed, Hermosa. I have ice.”
I stared at her, hoping she was joking. It didn’t appear so. “You brought meth to my house?”
“Don’t look so shocked.” She pulled up a small bag filled with white granules and tossed it at me. “It’s not like this is unfamiliar to you.”
“I’m off this shit.” I threw the bag back, angry with her for bringing it. Even more so, I was angry with myself for even considering the possibility of doing it.
“There’s no one here who’s going to judge you,” said Ava. “Not even Carter.” I felt a stab of sorrow at my heart when she said his name, and yet again, I found myself fighting back the brutal tears. Ava was already loading the pipe, her slender fingers expertly preparing the bowl as I looked on. She was right, and I knew it. We both knew it. Had Carter been there, I wouldn’t have even considered it. I hated disappointing him, and to keep myself from it had done me well. But now? Well, now he was gone, and I had an escape even if it was the wrong kind. But again, no one had ever accused me of making good decisions.
“For the pain that you’re feeling over this, Khloe, the doctor must order something stronger than a beer.” She held the pipe and lighter out to me, nodding, encouragingly. An image of Carter’s face flashed in my mind, and as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished. I’d been clean for a year, thanks to Carter. One long, successful year of being drug-free. A year of complete and utter happiness.
Too bad happiness was overrated.
It had been a brilliant array of colors and emotions that flashed into my mind that first night, years before. Beautiful colors like blues and greens and pinks had popped in front of my vision, and then, all at once, dark colors like black and gray, the color of sadness and death.
The moment I’d succumbed to the drug had been the moment that started it all. It was a downward spiral, like speeding down a hill with the brakes cut on your car—horrifying, and yet somehow so exhilarating. And, just like a car wreck, one could either survive it and do it again or crash and burn but never just once. Over and over again.
I don’t remember seizing, couldn’t remember foaming from my mouth or my eyes rolling back in my head. I could remember hearing Carter’s voice, though. So close, and yet so far away. He had been shouting at someone. At me? Maybe. No, he had been shouting at Ava, screaming at her, asking what I had taken and how much. Another voice had asked about an ambulance, and then someone else had denied me one. With an ambulance came cops, and with cops came handcuffs and juvie.
It hadn’t lasted long, the glory of the high. Before I knew it, I had been put into bed, tucked in, a glass of melted ice water on the nightstand near my head. When I had woke that following day, my brain pounding against the inside of my skull, tongue swollen and cut from where I had severed it during the seizure, Carte
r had been sitting by my bed, headphones in his ears and an artist’s sketchbook in his lap. He’d been bobbing his body to the music as I watched, so taken with the lyrics and moved by whatever he’d been drawing. He’d seen me wake up, saw my eyes flutter open, and he’d leaned in toward me, yanking the buds from his ears.
“Without you, my life would be void of ladybugs and freckled cheeks,” he’d said. “Please. Don’t do that again. Ever.”
Between the meth I’d smoked with Ava and the vodka shots we’d taken, I was blasted by the time two in the morning rolled around. Ava, who was kicked back on the sofa now dressed in nothing but her black-laced bra and Levi’s—apparently, stripping while high was still her thing—brought it up first.
“Where’s that journal?” she asked. I looked up as her voice echoed in my head, her words fading in and out. For a moment, there was two of her. And then, three. And then just one.
“What journal?”
“Carter’s journal, silly.” When she stood up, I couldn’t help but admire her half-naked body. My attraction lied solely with men, but Ava’s flat stomach and toned legs were the envy of the neighborhood, even for the women. Most likely it was envy and not attraction, but with my head swimming, I couldn’t pinpoint it either way.
“I’m not sure.” Frowning, I looked around trying to remember where I’d put it. “Oh, it’s under the couch. The cushion. The couch cushion where your ass just was.”
Ava backed up a few feet and lifted the cushion, pulling the precious leather-bound journal from its hiding place. Seeing it, my heartbeat sped up, but I tried to ignore it. I hated how it made me feel—so alone and way too sober.
If I Fall Page 4
