Trigger

by Susan Vaught

  “And you got depressed,” Mama Rush added.

  “Depressed. Yeah.” I nodded. “Frog farts.”

  My stomach hurt just thinking about it, but I figured I deserved that. Trigger. Trigger drool.

  Mama Rush told me she’d gotten a “condensed version” of what happened at the hospital, so I told her about the gun and throwing it away, and how it was gone forever. I told her how I’d never pull the trigger again, how I wouldn’t die until I died. I promised her. After that, I said I was sorry until she told me to shut up just like Leza had.

  Then I said, “I thought there would be a big reason, you know? Drool. One big reason. Some huge secret. All simple. All neat. Just one reason. Socks.”

  “Yeah. Socks.” Mama Rush stopped talking and started a new sucker. It was quiet outside, except for that cool little breeze and her oxygen and loud breathing and sucker-crunching.

  Finally, she put her sucker stick on the table. “Thinking about all this upset you, Jersey?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. You should be upset. But you promised you’d never hurt yourself again, upset or not.”

  I nodded my head hard.

  “Good boy. That’s a start. Now walk me back to my room. I have something for you.”

  Before I could even stand up, Mama Rush picked up her oxygen tank and swung her scooter away from the table—all at the same time. She dropped a bunch of suckers and they crunched under the wheels.

  As she motored toward the door, Attila the Red came out and had to jump to the side.

  Mama Rush gave her a wicked glare.

  As I lurched past Meki Shansu, I swear I heard her say, “Same to you, old woman.”

  But I probably imagined that. I didn’t imagine how fast Mama Rush was driving. I nearly fell trying to keep up. And I nearly fell on top of her when she stopped even faster near her room to flip off Romeo man and mumble a bunch of stuff I was glad I couldn’t hear. Romeo man—who must have gotten a little smarter since I saw him the first time—turned around and sort of ran away down another hall.

  “I really should move back home,” Mama Rush said as she found her key and opened her door. “Seeing that man just pisses me off. Even teenagers aren’t worse than he is.”

  She whizzed in.

  Drool. The door almost shut in my face before I caught it, but I caught it and got in and followed Mama Rush back to her bedroom.

  Right away, I saw a wrapped box. Wrapped with green paper with a green bow. Mama Rush’s green day, I swear. Drool. Next to the present was the ashtray—she’d put safety pins in it. And next to that, the trivet and ceramic flowerpot, and the funny-looking piggy bank. All the other mess was gone. Cleaned off nice and neat. Drool. Guess there were some things she couldn’t fix.

  She leaned back and nudged me just as I finished thinking that, and pointed to her window.

  There was a mobile hanging there. Lots of little colored bottles. Tiny bottles on metal hangers, all floating around. Green and blue and yellow and red. Lots of green, too. Lots. Floating. They had dust inside. Only, I knew it wasn’t really dust. It was clay. Bits and pieces and piles of clay dust. The rest of the presents, drifting back and forth in little colored bottles.

  “See? I told you.” Mama Rush motored a little ways toward the mobile and gazed up at it. The colors danced around the room. Bottles. They danced around her. “Lots of ways to look at stuff. And you can always make something out of something—if you try.”

  She gave me a look over her shoulder. “Go on. Open your present.”

  I had another present? Other than the floating bottles full of clay? Bottles. Green day. Good day. Bottles. So pretty. I had to make myself look away, make myself pick up the package and tear the paper.

  Mama Rush motored back over. Inside the paper I found a box, and inside the box, I found the coolest notebook ever.

  Camouflage green cloth on the outside, with a black leather binding and leather edges, and my name wasn’t on the outside. I opened the cover. Written in Mama Rush’s squiggly printing on the inside cover was my name, telephone number, and address. Right under that, she had written, If you aren’t Jersey, that’s all you need to know. Stay the hell out of his notebook and give it back to him before I have to hurt you. Then she had signed her name and put her phone number underneath that.

  “Green day,” I said. “Good day. Bottles. This—this is great. It’s great.”

  “There’s a pen holder in the back. I put in some black and blue ballpoints, and a couple of red ones.” She leaned back. “I don’t want you to start thinking everything’s simple and neat again, but you need a new memory book. Been looking naked without one.”

  My new memory book had lots of paper, and some dividers. And on the first page, squiggled by Mama Rush, was a list.

  1. See Mama Rush and give her all the presents I made her.

  2. Talk to Todd and find out why he hates me.

  3. Pass the adaptive driver’s evaluation.

  4. Make decent grades.

  5. Take the ACT.

  6. Get a girlfriend.

  I looked up at her. “Green day. Good day?”

  She tugged at her oxygen tube and fiddled with her torn pocket, then smiled. “Well, some things might be a little simple and neat. Besides, it seemed like a good list to tackle next. You better get busy, because that’s a lot to do.”

  “I love you,” I said, and I put down the cool new memory book and hugged her.

  She hugged me back. “Would you add something for me? To that list?”

  “Bottles. Sure.” I stepped back, found the pen holder, took out a pen, and got ready.

  Mama Rush’s smile turned kind of wicked. “Put down, ‘Throw Carl into Lake Raven for Mama Rush.’ Can you handle that for me, Jersey?”

  Bottles. I wasn’t stupid.

  I wrote that down in a hurry.

  When I got to my house, Leza was in her yard looking prettier than ever. She came over to the cab and helped me carry in the Chinese food I got for dinner. I didn’t say drool.

  We put it on the kitchen table. Dad would be surprised—and happy. He was pretty sick of hamburgers, I figured. Hamburgers. Bottles. Bottles and hamburgers. I was sick of them, too.

  Leza and I set up the food, even got out the silverware, and paper napkins instead of paper towels, and I still didn’t say drool.

  “Hamburgers.” I looked at the table. “Lots better than hamburgers. Bottles.”

  “Yeah. For sure.” Leza dusted off her hands.

  I walked her to the door and opened it. She stopped on her way out and gave me a quick hug.

  “Thanks,” I said. No drool. No drool.

  “Welcome.” She pulled back and stared at me just like Mama Rush does. “Todd’s a little better, I think. If you’ll just give him—”

  “Some time. I know. Drool.” I did my best to smile with both sides of my mouth, but it didn’t work. “It’s okay.”

  She kissed me on the cheek.

  I didn’t pass out. Pretty good, for me.

  Then I watched her as she ran home.

  She sure was pretty.

  Well? I could like her if I wanted to. Bottles. I had to like her. Who wouldn’t?

  The phone rang.

  I shut the door and went to answer it. Took me a second, but I got there. It was time for Mom. And it was Mom. Mom in her hotel. She called every night, same time. And I talked to her every night, same time.

  “How are you?” she asked right away, just like she did every night, same time.

  “I’m fine. Green day. Good day. Bottles. Hamburgers. Slow down.” I took a deep breath. “Went … to see Mama Rush. Got dinner for Dad, and stuff. He’ll be glad. No hamburgers.”

  “You got dinner?” Definitely surprised, Mom was. Good. Dad would be surprised, too, for sure.

  “Leza helped set the table,” I said.

  “Taking initiative. I’m proud of you, honey.”

  I couldn’t help it. I laughed. Then I covered my mouth and l
aughed some more.

  Mom went all quiet.

  When I finally stopped, I thought I heard Mom laugh, too. “I guess I say that a lot, huh?”

  “Yeah. Kind of. Bottles.” I bit my lip to keep from laughing again.

  “I’ll try not to say ‘I’m proud of you’ so much.”

  “Slow down, slow down.” Deep breath. “It’s okay. Proud is good.”

  “I am proud of you, you know? Really.” Something rustled, and I imagined Mom sitting back in her chair at the hotel. Bottles. Probably a chair with a desk so she could work but also call me.

  “Hamburgers. Thanks. Mama Rush gave me a new memory book. Bottles. It’s green.”

  “Better than that white piece of junk?”

  “Way better.”

  “You won’t throw it away?”

  “No.” I touched the memory book. No way was I throwing it away. Too cool. And it had a new list, with stuff already crossed off.

  “Is Mama Rush still laying off the cigarettes, Jersey?”

  “Yes. Bottles. She is for now, but she eats lots of green suckers. Green apple. Hamburgers. Makes her face pucker all up and stuff. And she wants me to throw Carl in Lake Raven.”

  “The guy who fooled around on her. Yeah. I’ll help you. We’ll set a date.”

  “Mom—about school. Bottles.” I played with the bottom of the phone, the little places where it sat on the charger. “If I don’t do better by Christmas, what about a G.E.D.? Less pressure. Hamburgers. Dad said ‘maybe.’”

  Mom didn’t say anything for a second. Then, “Maybe is good. Let’s leave it at maybe and think about that closer to Christmas, okay?”

  “Okay. Bottles. Hamburgers. Green day.”

  “Want to have dinner with me next week? Maybe we can get—um—something other than hamburgers. Monday night?”

  “Good day. Good! Yes. Thanks. Hamburgers. I mean, not hamburgers.” I got excited so I almost dropped the phone. Fumbled it. Caught it. Got it back to my ear.

  “—Tell your dad to call me,” Mom was saying. “I’d like to have dinner with him another night, if you’re all right with that.”

  “Very all right. Hamburgers. Bottles. Green day.”

  “Okay, honey. Well, I love you, and I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Bottles. Love you, too, Mom.”

  I hung up smiling my half-smile and not even caring that much. Hamburgers. It felt okay, half a smile. Bottles. It felt fine. Dad and I had a fine dinner, too. Later, I got into my new bed in my new room down the hall. I left the green bedspread and the football rug in the old room, at least for now. They were in a good place. Green day. A very good place for now.

  acknowledgments

  The journey to this book became a quest, and finally an odyssey, with many, many helpers along the way. Thanks to Kathleen Duey, who sat in the conference lobby at the 2001 SCBWI National Conference, patiently listening to a nervous, unpublished author rattling off an ambitious idea. Your interest helped me believe others might be interested. Thanks to Melissa Haber, who made a huge difference with a single critique comment. Thanks to Christine Taylor-Butler, who understood things nobody else did, and made me laugh when I wanted to scream. Thanks to Melissa Neal-Lunsford, who told me it was creepy. Huge, endless thanks to my critique warriors Debbie Federici, Sheri Gilbert, and my family, who screamed at me to finish this, read it at least one thousand times (Debbie probably double that much), told me the truth, and swore at me for making them cry.

  I cannot offer enough gratitude to my agent, Erin Murphy, for helping me grow as a writer so I could write this, believing in the book, and helping me polish it. I would also like to announce to the world that my editor, Victoria Arms, is simply brilliant, and I so appreciate her becoming Trigger’s champion and working through the manuscript with such a deft, gentle hand. Thanks also to Donna Mark and Jonathan Barkat for a beautiful cover, and to Stacy Cantor, Ele Fountain, Melanie Cecka, Diana Blough, and Deb Shapiro who fell in love with Trigger and helped make the book a reality.

  Finally, I offer a humble thank you to every teen and young adult who trusted me enough to share their fears, pains, sorrows, and dreams. In the end, Jersey exists for all of you.

  resources

  Suicide remains one of the top three leading causes of death for teenagers in the United States. For every teen who dies from suicide, one to two hundred more make attempts. Many of those teens will suffer permanent injuries ranging from scarring to severe brain damage. Triggering events can seem trivial—fights with friends or parents, loss of romantic relationships, or even a bad grade. Often, teens who attempt suicide have underlying issues such as major depression, bipolar disorder, family conflict, recent losses, a history of abuse, a history of suicide in friends or family, or problems with substance abuse. Often … but not always. So what’s the bottom line? What can you do? The answer has two parts.

  First, know the more common warning signs:

  • Withdrawing from friends, family, and typical activities

  • Signs of depression, such as major changes in eating and sleeping habits, sadness, crying, hopelessness, boredom, low energy, irritability or anger, guilt, low self-esteem, poor concentration, and frequent complaints of physical symptoms like stomachache or headache

  • Signs of mania or psychosis, such as hearing things, very unusual or magical thinking, rapid and pressured speech, agitation or very high activity level with little to no sleep, risk taking (acting “bulletproof”), and extreme suspicion

  • Acting out, such as running away or violent outbursts

  • Deterioration in personal hygiene and/or appearance

  • Significant personality change

  • Throwing away, giving away, or abandoning important possessions

  • Statements about feeling awful, feeling like a bad person, feeling dead or ruined inside

  • Focusing on death or wanting to die in talking, writing, or art

  • Indirect statements like Everything will be okay soon; Nothing matters; It’s no use; Everything’s over; I have no future; I’ll be out of everybody’s way soon

  Second, take action. If you’re a teen thinking about suicide or a teen with a friend thinking about suicide, tell a trusted adult or use the resources below. If you’re a parent, educator, practitioner, or just an adult friend, get help for the teen. Don’t wait. There are many options and resources for immediate help, such as the following:

  • If you believe an attempt is in progress, the police or 911

  • If you believe the situation is imminent or urgent, your local emergency room

  • Primary care physicians, especially pediatricians and family practitioners, who often can a) see patients on an emergency basis faster than anyone else, b) make initial assessments of risk, c) arrange for hospitalization if needed, d) match a teen to a counselor or psychiatrist quickly, and e) access or provide other medical help faster and more efficiently than a layperson

  • A therapist or counselor, or local community health center, if the teen is already involved in such services

  • Clergy members, if the teen or the teen’s family is involved in an organized religion

  • Local 24-hour crisis lines often listed in the front of your phone book, or national 24-hour crisis hotlines with provisions for teens, including:

  1-800-SUICIDE

  1-800-273-TALK

  1-800-999-9999 (Covenant House’s “Nine Line”)

  If the situation isn’t immediately life threatening, be a friend and support—or find friends and supports for yourself. Seek information from suicide prevention organizations with a focus on teens, such as the following:

  • The Jason Foundation (www.thejasonfoundation.com)

  • Yellow Ribbon International Suicide Prevention (www.yellowribbon.org)

  • Suicide Prevention Action Network USA (www.spanusa.org)

  • Metanoia (www.metanoia.org)

  • Suicide Awareness Voices of Education (www.save.org)

  T
o explore choosing mental health services for yourself or a teen you’re helping, seek information from organizations such as the following:

  • The American Psychological Association (www.apa.org)

  • The American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry (www.aacap.org)

  • The National Association of Social Workers (www.naswdc.org)

  • The National Alliance for the Mentally Ill (www.nami.org)

  • The National Mental Health Association (www.nmha.org)

  • The National Institute of Mental Health (www.nimh.nih.gov)

  For more information about this book, the author, the subject of teen suicide, and choosing and working with counselors, as well as a more comprehensive resource listing, visit www.susanvaught.com.

  Copyright © 2006 by Susan Vaught

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner

  whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief

  quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  First published in the United States of America in September 2006

  by Bloomsbury Books for Young Readers

  E-book edition published in April 2011

  www.bloomsburykids.com

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to

  Permissions, Bloomsbury BFYR, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10010

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

  Vaught, Susan.

  Trigger / by Susan Vaught.—1st U.S. ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Teenager Jersey Hatch must work through his extensive brain damage to

  figure out why he decided to shoot himself.

  ISBN-10: 1-58234-920-7 • ISBN-13: 978-1-58234-920-6 (hardcover)

  [1. Brains—Wounds and injuries—Fiction. 2. Brain damage—Patients—Rehabilitation—

  Fiction. 3. Gunshot wounds—Fiction. 4. Suicide—Fiction.] I. Title.