“What kind of lettuce do you have?” Gwen asked.
The waitress furrowed her brow. “Just regular lettuce.”
“Is it iceberg lettuce or mixed greens?”
“It’s the crunchy kind.”
“You don’t happen to have kale or spinach, do you?”
Rick smiled at that.
“I don’t think so. You want me to ask?” The waitress said this with no enthusiasm, signaling that she didn’t want to ask, and it was likely futile anyway.
“No, it’s okay. I’m, um, still not sure. You go ahead and order,” Gwen said, gesturing to Rick.
“Cheeseburger and fries,” Rick said to the waitress, handing her his menu.
The waitress smiled, looking him over. “A man who knows what he wants.” She turned back to Gwen, one side of her mouth raised in disdain. “You decide yet?”
Gwen still looked over the menu. “Um, … uh, … I guess I’ll have the grilled chicken salad, but can I get the dressing on the side? And no cheese. … Oh, and no croutons.”
The waitress took Gwen’s menu with a forced smile. “Comin’ right up.” She turned on her sneakers and headed for the kitchen.
“You’re really particular about your lettuce,” Rick said with a smirk.
“Iceberg lettuce has no nutrients. It’s all water.” Gwen had a crooked grin. “Even Subway has spinach.”
Rick’s expression turned serious. “Thank you for coming out. I haven’t been out in a long time.”
“Me either. I haven’t had a drink in forever.”
Then their conversation stalled.
“So, how do you like West Lake so far?” Rick asked.
“It’s been different than what I’m used to, but it’s been mostly good. Of course, I’ve only been here a month. My assessment is subject to change with time.”
“Are you expecting trouble?”
“No, but Janet hasn’t exactly been supportive. I worry about my evaluation.”
“Talk to Lewis about that. He’ll tell you how to handle it. Janet had it out for him the minute he stepped into the school.”
“I don’t understand her. Lewis is supernice. He works hard. The kids seem to like him.”
“Lewis wouldn’t do what Janet told him to do. He’s very idealistic. He’ll do what’s best for the kids, even if it gets him into trouble. Janet doesn’t know shit about instruction, but she wants to tell us how to teach, and we’re supposed to respect her authority. Janet would’ve fired Lewis a long time ago if she could, but Lewis is a damn good teacher.”
“Is Lewis, … um …”
“Gay?”
“Yes. I’m not trying to be rude. I was just wondering.”
“He’s out, but he doesn’t broadcast it. I give him a lot of credit for staying here. This isn’t the most open place on the planet.”
“Well, I’m glad he’s here.”
Rick nodded.
“Did you ever talk to Caleb?” Gwen asked.
“I did. He denied being bullied. I also talked to Shane and Lance and a few other guys. They all denied that Caleb was being bullied.”
“What about Jamar?”
“Jamar told me that an incident happened on the last day of football camp. Apparently, Shane and Lance accused Caleb of looking at Shane’s penis. Jamar said some kids laughed, and Shane stood there naked, and Lance had his arm around Caleb. Jamar said he told Lance to let Caleb go, and he did. I asked Jamar if they hurt Caleb, and Jamar said he wasn’t sure. He said it looked like they were just messing with him.”
“That’s almost identical to what Caleb wrote about,” Gwen said, leaning forward on the table.
“I know, but what am I supposed to do about it? Caleb says nothing happened. Everyone except for Jamar says nothing happened. If I were to pursue something, Janet would twist this like a pretzel. Caleb would probably end up in trouble for sexually harassing Shane for staring at his penis. Then there’s the embarrassment factor. I guarantee you Caleb just wants to forget about it.”
Gwen sighed. “You’re probably right.”
Gwen and Rick talked and laughed, ate their food, and had another round of drinks. Rick picked up the tab despite Gwen’s protests.
“You bought me Subway the other night,” Gwen said.
“I invited you out. It’s only fair that I pay,” Rick replied.
Outside, in the gravel parking lot, Gwen felt a little woozy. They walked toward their vehicles, since they had driven in separate cars from the school. The sky was jam-packed with sparkly stars. They stopped in front of Gwen’s Volkswagen.
“I think my drinks were a little heavy on the rum,” Gwen said.
“Are you okay to drive?” Rick asked.
“I don’t know. How long were we in there?”
Rick checked the clock on his phone. “It’s 11:49. I think we got here around 10:40 or so.”
“I should be fine. I only had two drinks.”
“How much do you weigh?”
Gwen giggled. “That’s not a polite question.”
Rick smiled back. “For a blood-alcohol estimate.”
“One thirty-five.”
Rick tapped the voice command on his phone and said, “Blood alcohol calculator.” He studied the screen. “Here’s one.” He tapped on his phone. “Female, 135 pounds, two drinks.” Rick looked at Gwen. “Maybe I should put three, given how strong they were.”
Gwen still felt a little woozy. “Good idea.”
Rick went back to his phone. “Time passed in hours. We’ll put half an hour. Now calculate. It says .117.” Rick looked up from the screen. “You’re officially drunk. I’ll give you a ride home.”
“Are you okay to drive?”
“I’m fine. I weigh 210, and I was only drinking beer.”
“What about my car?”
“Do you have to go anywhere tomorrow morning?”
“No. I need to go to the grocery store, but that can wait.”
“I have films in the morning, but I can come by around lunch and give you a ride back here.”
Gwen hopped into Rick’s truck and put on her seat belt.
“Where do you live?” Rick asked.
“Right in town,” Gwen replied. “You know the apartments?”
“Glen View Apartments? The converted row homes?”
“Yes.”
Rick drove Gwen away from the bar, toward town. A few minutes later, blue-and-red lights flashed in his rearview mirror. Rick glanced at his speedometer.
“I’m not speeding,” he said as he pulled off the road and parked on the shoulder. Rick powered down his window and cut the engine. He leaned over Gwen, rifled through his glovebox, and removed his registration and insurance card. “This is bullshit.”
“Good thing I wasn’t driving,” Gwen said.
“The cops around here raise extra money through excessive ticketing.” Rick shook his head. “It’s not like people here are rich. I know people who couldn’t afford to pay and ended up in jail.”
“Like debtor’s prison?”
“Exactly.”
The police officer sauntered to the open window with a lit flashlight. He shone the flashlight in the cab, snooping with his eyes. “License, registration, and insurance.”
Rick handed the officer his documents.
“You know why I pulled you over?” the middle-aged cop said.
Rick blew out a breath. “No.”
“Someone called and said you were drivin’ erratically.”
“Who? Nobody’s on the road.”
“You been drinkin’ tonight?”
“I had two beers.”
“How big were them beers?”
“They were bottles. Normal-size bottles.”
“We’ll see about that. Wait here.” The cop went back to his cruiser with Rick’s documents.
Rick looked at Gwen. “You all right?”
“I’m fine,” Gwen replied. “Are you okay?”
Rick shook his head. “I don’t like being ha
rassed for no reason. It really gets under my skin.”
“Just try to be calm.”
The cop returned to Rick’s open window. “Step out of the vehicle.”
Rick opened the door and stepped out. He towered over the short and rotund cop. The officer held an electronic device with a tube attached.
“Blow into the tube for about four seconds. I’ll tell ya when to go and when to stop.” The cop held the device up to Rick’s mouth. “Go on. Put your mouth on that hose and blow. I’ll tell you when to stop.”
Rick did as he was instructed, blowing into the hose, emptying his lungs.
“Stop,” the cop said, removing the device from Rick’s mouth, checking the digital readout. “Point zero three six. Looks like you’re okay. Drive carefully now. You never know who’s watchin’.” The cop reached into his breast pocket and returned Rick’s documents.
Rick took them without a word and returned to his truck.
“I’m assuming you passed?” Gwen asked.
Rick nodded, gripping the steering wheel, his knuckles white. “Before he returned my license and registration, he said, ‘Drive carefully. You never know who’s watching.’”
Gwen stared at his hands. “Are you okay?”
Rick let go of the steering wheel. “I’m fine. I can’t stand people who abuse their power. This guy came out of nowhere. I wasn’t speeding.”
“The roads were empty too. I don’t remember seeing any cars since we left the Toad’s Stool.”
“I wasn’t weaving or anything either. Did he just wanna shake me down, see if I had any outstanding tickets?”
“Unless someone did call.”
Rick’s eyes widened. “Janet.”
“You think she called the police on us?”
“I wouldn’t put it past her. Think about it. She was at the game. A game where her son sat on the bench and his replacement played great.”
“But how would she know we went to the Toad’s Stool together?”
Rick shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe she followed us there.”
“You really think she’d do that?”
Rick deadpanned, “Yes.”
Rick obeyed the traffic laws as he drove the rest of the way to Gwen’s apartment. She pointed out her row house, and Rick parked in a visitor’s space.
Gwen looked at Rick, her eyes unblinking. “Thank you for taking me home. You might’ve saved my job. I don’t even wanna think about what would’ve happened if I was driving.”
“You’re welcome.” Rick wanted to lean over the bench seat and kiss her, but she was too far away. “I’ll walk you up.”
“That’s not necessary.”
But Rick was already out of the truck. They walked up the metal steps to her one-bedroom apartment. They were quiet, both sensing what might happen. On the landing now, Gwen retrieved her keys from her purse. She lingered, fiddling with her keys.
“Thanks again, Rick,” she said. “I had fun.”
He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers. Gwen put her arms around his lower back and pulled him closer, her lips parting, their tongues touching. She felt woozy again, but this time it wasn’t the booze. Rick stepped back. Gwen smiled and chewed on her lower lip. He’s blushing.
“I’ll see you tomorrow? For your car,” he said.
Gwen nodded, blushing herself.
“Good night, Gwen.” He turned and started down the steps. He stumbled and grabbed the railing.
Gwen giggled.
Rick looked back at Gwen, shaking his head with a smile. “I’d like to blame that on the beer, but you just saw me pass a breathalyzer.”
CHAPTER 42
Caleb and Suicide Stats
Suicide wasn’t so simple. Caleb lay on his bed, researching suicide, the only light coming from his phone. It was oddly comforting, like he was taking charge, solving his own problems. He knew from his prior research that committing suicide was problematic. But now he dug much deeper into the topic, and it was even more difficult and fraught with danger than he first thought. Not the danger that he’d kill himself but the danger that he’d try to kill himself, then instead make himself sick, brain-dead, or seriously injured.
In fact, for every successful suicide attempt, thirty-three failed. He was already zero for one with his weak-ass Ambien overdose. Actually, the odds were even worse for someone Caleb’s age, somewhere between one hundred and two hundred to one. Old people were apparently pretty good at suicide, with successful attempts at a ratio of four to one. Grandpa was batting .250.
A post on Lostallhope.com listed the twenty-eight most lethal ways to kill yourself. It even listed the percentage of lethality, how long it takes to die expressed in minutes, and how much it will hurt on a scale of one to one hundred, with one hundred being the most painful. This was not looking good. A shotgun blast to the head was the most lethal, with a 99-percent success rate. That’s better than condoms. But it wasn’t instant. It took 1.7 minutes to die on average. That must feel like an eternity. Although the pain measurement registered only 5.5. That’s gotta hurt more than that.
Number two was cyanide, with a similar success rate and time to death, but the pain number was fifty-two. Ten times worse than a shotgun blast to the head. No thanks. Hanging took like seven minutes with a 90-percent success rate. No way I’m choking for that long. Number twelve was setting yourself on fire. It took almost an hour to die. An hour! The pain was excruciating too—ninety-five out of one hundred. Jumping off a bridge took almost five minutes to die, with a 93-percent success rate.
You always see women in the movies, slicing their wrists in the bathtub, and some guy showing up and pulling the woman out of the bloodred water. But only 6 percent of people who slice their wrists are successful. And it takes forever—105 minutes—and hurts like hell, registering seventy-one out of one hundred on the pain meter.
Overdosing on illegal drugs was number twenty-one, with a 50-percent success rate, but it had the lowest pain rating. He could always try again if it didn’t hurt too bad. Ambien’s a legal drug. Maybe I need an illegal drug. I don’t weigh very much. I’ve never taken drugs before. Maybe it would be easy for me to overdose. I could just fall asleep. I’d have to figure out where to get ’em and what kind would work best. And how the hell am I gonna pay for ’em?
Caleb put his phone on the bedside table. He rolled to his side and pulled his knees to his chest. He envisioned finding the perfect drug to overdose on or the right bridge to jump off or the correct way to blow his brains out. The bottom line was, the options each posed risks and obstacles he’d have to overcome. If he wanted to do it, which he did, he’d have to be creative and daring. He needed a foolproof, instantaneous, pain-free solution.
This was the problem that consumed him: the holy grail of suicide. He had to find it.
CHAPTER 43
Rick’s Compromising Position
Rick hummed along with the country music crooner, a smile plastered on his face. He slowed his truck, the turn to his neighborhood approaching. Headlights shone in his rearview window. As he turned, he glanced through the passenger window, and caught a glimpse of a sedan. Is that … ? It was dark, no streetlights here, so he couldn’t be sure, but the car looked like a blue BMW. The same car that Janet drove.
He eased off the gas, thinking about turning around and following her. Rick shook his head. I’m being paranoid. As he put his foot on the gas pedal, his mind drifted back to Gwen and that kiss. He cranked the country tune and grinned. Rick parked in his driveway and bounded to his front door and into his house, still humming that tune. He tossed his keys on the kitchen counter and went to his bedroom. Normally he was exhausted by Friday night, but he felt energized. He undressed and hopped in the shower. With the whoosh of the water shielding the truth, his humming turned into unabashed awful singing.
A door shut. Rick stopped singing. Was that a car door? Or was that my front door? Shit. Did I lock my door? He mentally retraced his steps into his house. Did I turn the dea
d bolt? He couldn’t remember. He had tried to keep his door locked after Heather’s uninvited visit, but it wasn’t a habit yet, and he often forgot.
“Rick?” a female called out.
Rick’s eyes widened. He shut off the water and exited the shower. He wrapped a towel around his waist, not bothering to dry off. He stepped into his bedroom. Ashlee Miles lay on his bed, her boots on the floor, her long dark hair spread out on his pillow. Thankfully, she still wore her jeans and fleece.
Rick held on to his towel, his face taut, water dripping on the floor.
Ashlee sat up, grinning. “Wow, look at you. If you evened out that farmer tan, you’d be perfect.
“You’ve got three seconds to get out of my house, or I’m calling the police.”
She giggled. “What are you gonna tell them? That you invited me into your house, then took off all your clothes in front of me?”
“You broke into my house uninvited. You know that.”
She pursed her lips. “The door was unlocked.”
Rick thought about what might happen if he called the police. An underaged girl in his house. An unstable underaged girl. One who had his cell phone number and probably her DNA in his truck. All that hair. She probably left at least one behind. “You need to leave, now.”
“I’ve had a crush on you since I was little. Did you know that?”
“Ashlee, please—”
“I hated the piano, but I kept coming because sometimes I saw you. I used to get so jealous when you’d kiss Lindsey. She was so beautiful, and I was just this little pudgy girl.” Ashlee smiled wide. “Look at me now.” She cocked her head, striking a little pose.
“I’m serious about calling the police.” Rick’s voice was unsure.
“I don’t think you are.” Ashlee wagged her head. “I still can’t believe you fucked my mother. Gross. She’s in good shape and all, but she’s kind of like a little man. All those muscles.” Ashlee twisted her mouth in disgust. “Her face isn’t near as pretty as mine either.”
“I’m sorry that I had a relationship with your mother. It was a mistake.”
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