by Lianne Oelke
I read something in a book once. It said, What if you could look back on your life so far, on every mistake, every triumph, every painful or horrifying or happy or embarrassing moment, and say to yourself, I’m glad for every one of these moments. What if you could say, I wouldn’t change a single thing about my life because each thing has made me who I am now. There is no divine plan, no destiny, no life after death, and no compensation for what you lose. There is only here and now. There is only what you’ve done and what you are going to do. And if you can own up to every moment and take responsibility for your life and shape it into something beautiful and kind and generous—if you can do that, you’ve discovered what it means to be strong.
Those might not have been the exact words, but it was how I felt like remembering them. I repeated these words to myself over and over and hoped one day they’d sink in. And if they didn’t, maybe I could stuff them into that black crevice so I wouldn’t accidentally fall in.
This is what I wanted to say to Robbie. What I told him, I’m sure, didn’t make enough sense. It’s frustrating because he’s the only person other than Bonnie I’ve ever wanted to explain myself to. Of course, I could just hand over my journal and he could read everything I’ve written in the past year. He’d understand then.
I meant that as a joke, but it’s possibly the least amusing thing I’ve ever said to myself. I can’t think of any person—real or hypothetical—with whom I’d willingly share this journal. Especially what I wrote in December and January, before I gave up writing altogether. It would be like standing naked in front of a stranger. They would see how sickly and wrinkled and flabby I really am. They would see every pore on every love handle and would make fun of me for it. I’m not strong enough to withstand that kind of scrutiny. For now, only I can laugh at all my flaws.
I suppose this means Robbie and I share a secret. It used to be my secret, then it belonged to my parents, then my high school. Robbie and I share it now. I can’t tell if I’m relieved or not. The nice thing about Robbie is that he doesn’t talk too much. He didn’t tell me everything was all right, or that I was completely selfish, or that I should get help, or that he understood. He didn’t offer empty condolences or say that everything always works out for the best. If Robbie had told me God obviously has a plan for my life, I might have broken his beautiful nose. But he didn’t. He just listened. Even though I didn’t tell him what happened afterward.
There is one thing I despise more than anything else in existence—more than stupidity, penciled-in eyebrows, or the episode of Glee that made me cry—and that is pity. I can’t stand it when someone feels sorry for me. It’s like touching a hot stove; it hurts, my hand snaps back, I’m self-conscious, and angry for feeling self-conscious.
Pity from my family is slightly less awful, if only because I know they genuinely love me and want me to be happy. But 99 percent of the students at James Fowler High School did not know me. They only knew they should feel sorry for me because my life must have been so terrible, I tried to end it.
Part of me wanted to stay home the rest of the semester and finish my assignments quietly in my bedroom, take my meds each day, shut up, and wait for it to all blow over. I could have done this; several people suggested it. But I didn’t want to. It was like a massive bruise had formed in the back of my stomach, and every time someone mentioned what happened or every time I thought about what I had done, something punched me in the gut. Hard. I could have stayed home, and the pain would have eased into a dull ache that throbbed every now and then, but I wanted it to go away completely. So I went back to school and forced myself to look each person in the eye. I listened to all the gossip and felt the pressure of a hundred glances on my back and didn’t deny anything that was true. I let countless people I didn’t know tell me they were sorry or ask if they could do anything. They all said the same thing, if not with words, then with uncomfortable silences. I let them, and hated every moment of it. If I had stayed home, whatever was wrong with me would have stayed inside my head. I couldn’t very well drown myself in introspection and hope for the best (although that’s easier said than done). Fixing myself was not something I could do with no one watching. It’s kind of funny when I think about it, considering how little regard I have for most people.
By the end of the first day back, my stomach was so sore I couldn’t tell the difference between physical and mental pain. I threw up twice in the girls’ washroom. The second day was worse. Students I didn’t know or didn’t like made an excruciating effort to be nice to me. Bonnie wouldn’t tell me what she’d heard behind my back until I asked her four times. My classmates thought I was unstable, desperate for attention, pregnant, depressed. They said I ruined senior year. Bonnie always stood up for me, on principle if nothing else. I don’t think she understood what had happened, not really. I think it was easier for her to pick a fight with other students than it was to pry details out of me. I don’t blame her. It’s taken almost half a year for me to figure out how to explain myself, and I’m not convinced I’m doing a good job of it.
I might still be at James Fowler if it weren’t for the therapy. I wanted to grit my teeth and force my way through school, not sit with the therapist for hours and try to come up with words that didn’t exist to explain why I did what I did. So I skipped therapy. And I skipped a couple classes when it all got too much. The school didn’t like that. If I had been someone else, a star athlete or star student, they might have given me a second chance. I wasn’t a star anything. The principal talked with my parents, and they all decided for me that I should take time off. They said I was ignoring the problem. I said I was trying to work through it in my own way. I’m still trying.
MonMay9
Hinkfuss woke me up this morning. I don’t know why she chose today to pretend we are friends. She rubbed her face on my arm and purred and fell down on my stomach and writhed there. If I had a valid door, I’d have a way to prevent this sort of thing from happening. I don’t dislike animals, really. I just can’t relate to them.
R and I watched Armageddon at his cousin’s house tonight. An older movie. Full of heroic people sacrificing themselves for the greater good. We were supposed to write about it, for Sociology—I forget why—but we just talked afterward, instead.
R
[absently]
Ever wonder how you’re going to die?
He realized his slip instantly. It was rather funny, how wide his eyes opened.
R
I’m sorry, Jane! I didn’t think before speaking. I’m being insensitive.
JS
Sure, I think about it. Everyone dies at some point, whether they want to or not.
R
Yeah.
JS
I suppose dying in my sleep is a good way to go.
R
I guess.
JS
You’re not convinced?
R
No. I mean, you only die once.
JS
That’s true. So how do you want to go? Saving the world?
He laughed.
R
No. Maybe. I don’t know what I’m trying to say.
Suddenly I realized R’s cousin had left the room. It would have felt like privacy, if it weren’t for the HOOcap standing by the door. I wondered what would happen if the HOOcap left too. Maybe R and I wouldn’t be sitting ten inches apart. Maybe our shoulders would brush against each other. The thought of his shoulder touching mine terrified me. As if he could hear my thoughts, the HOOcap put down the camera and the little red light went out.
HOOCAP
Can I use the bathroom here?
R
Yeah, it’s at the end of the hall.
I held my breath, then let it go too quickly. Stop it, Jane. He’s competition he’s not interested you’re not interested.
R
Can I ask you something?
Breathe.
JS
Yes.
R
I want to be with you, Jane. At the end. Promise me we’ll stick together. For immunity, challenges, everything. You and me.
In and out.
JS
Yeah. Okay. I promise.
R
Good.
He smiled, and I swear the distance between us was down to three inches. I don’t remember either of us moving.
The toilet flushed down the hall. Whatever moment we were having was about to end.
JS
Robbie?
R
Yeah?
JS
Thanks for not patronizing me. About what I did.
We were down to an inch and a half.
The HOOcap walked in and picked up the camera.
TueMay10
Voting ceremony tonight. Full of waiting and lighting adjustments and awkward silences. I wished AP would have played some dramatic music, either to increase the tension or to turn the whole thing into a parody. But music would have “compromised the production audio,” so we suffered through in boredom. I don’t envy the editors.
Everyone voted for Holly tonight, except for Holly, who voted for R. Holly cried and Chaunt’Elle cried and Marc and R and I just sat there, feeling vaguely uncomfortable. It’s only the second voting ceremony, and already it feels like I’ve done this a thousand times before.
WedMay11
R passed this to me in class this morning:
Robert T. Patel’s Comprehensive Guide to the Individual’s Ideal Exit Strategy
Everyone dies at some point: complete this quiz to find out which way is best for you!
Scientific Accuracy Is Possible
(But Not Guaranteed)
1. What is your favorite movie?
The Notebook
The Godfather
Fight Club
Braveheart
The Lion King
2. If you could change one thing, what would it be?
your quality of life
other people
yourself
the world
nothing
3. What is your ideal sport?
Wii bowling
any sport involving balls
martial arts
something at the Olympic level
watching hockey
4. How organized are you?
just enough to get by
relatively organized
you have your own shit together, but you’re not responsible for anyone else
very organized; you are able to see the bigger picture
not at all
5. How would you describe God?
good guy
judge
irrelevant
absentee father
it would be nice if he existed
If you scored:
Mostly As: You’d be happy to die peacefully in your sleep after a long and comfortable life. How convenient.
Mostly Bs: A shot to the head; you’ll get what’s coming to you, as long as it’s quick, bloody, and effective.
Mostly Cs: Why leave it up to fate? Fate isn’t even a thing. You want control over your life, and you’ll decide when to end it.
Mostly Ds: We have a revolutionary! A martyr! It doesn’t matter how you’re executed, as long as your death changes the world for the better.
Mostly Es: This quiz was a waste of time. Que sera, sera.
Tie: Freak accident. Drive-by shooting? Random allergic reaction? Struck by lightning? It’s better not to know.
It is better not to know.
The four of us crowded around Chaunt’Elle’s computer to watch the new episode tonight. I started laughing as soon as the theme song began, and I might have never stopped, if it weren’t for Chaunt’Elle’s glare. It was a good episode. Super good. My favorite part was the fridge montage AP put together. He intercut Marc’s reactions with footage of me setting everything up and ended on a slow-mo replay of Marc’s flinch. Hilarious. Finally I’ve done something clever, something that will get me one step closer to winning, something worth watching. My second-favorite moment was R’s face when Marc dropped a slice of pizza on the floor in the living room and walked away, accentuated with a well-timed zoom. My third-favorite was the montage of passive-aggressive notes left on the whiteboard, intercut with unrelated yet timely reaction shots of all of us. I really need to have that chat with Chaunt’Elle. My fourth-favorite moment was when I told Chaunt’Elle I take laser tag very seriously, and my face when I came in second.
CHAUNT’ELLE
I can’t tell if you’re a no-nonsense kind of girl or if you’re full of nonsense.
JS
Full of nonsense. Probably for sure.
MARC
Seriously, Jane? You were messing with me the whole time?! What the hell!
JS
Seriously, Marc. You were stealing my food the whole time.
MARC
Yeah, well . . .
I looked to R for support, but his face was inscrutable.
CHAUNT’ELLE
I wonder how Holly is doing. It must be hard for her to watch.
MARC
She’ll get over it. Why do you keep writing those notes on the whiteboard?
CHAUNT’ELLE
Why do you assume I’m the one writing them?
R
This is bizarre. This whole show.
MARC
Well, who else writes like that?
CHAUNT’ELLE
I don’t know. Holly?
MARC
How convenient!
R
Don’t you guys think this is weird?
JS
Super weird. Especially the fact that Marc has apparently worn the same tank top for two weeks in a row.
MARC
Shut up, Sinner. I buy them in bulk. It’s cheaper.
CHAUNT’ELLE
Don’t try to change the topic. Why don’t you believe me?
MARC
Who says I don’t?
R
Yeah, I have to go. I saw these cute tank tops online, I’m going to order some.
JS
Me too.
MARC
Shut up, Sinner! And what was that bullshit you pulled in laser tag?
JS
The same bullshit you pulled at poker night.
CHAUNT’ELLE
Stop changing the subject!
JS
Good night.
If it weren’t for the lack of proper walls in my room and Marc and Chaunt’Elle’s bickering, I’d be asleep by now.
ThuMay12
Dear Chaunt’Elle:
There IS NO LEGITIMATE REASON to start the majority of your sentences with “Sorry, I just wanted to . . .”
Love,
Jane
Someone said hi to me today. Not just hi, but Hi, Sinner. Someone I don’t know. I suppose that counts for one of the six hundred hits on YouTube. I keep forgetting real people use the internet. Weird weird weird. I guess I’m not coming off as a complete idiot. The show is working then, I suppose.
DR. FREUDENSCHADE
It would seem you are acquiring a fan base. How does that make you feel?
JS
That question’s getting a little old, Doc.