My Heart and Other Black Holes

by Jasmine Warga

  But tonight, the clunker is all mine.

  I log on to Smooth Passages. It takes about ten minutes to even load the home page; Steve doesn’t believe in paying for high-speed internet access, either. Once I’m finally logged in, I see I have a message from FrozenRobot:

  If you’re really serious about this, we should arrange a time and place to meet. But you have to be serious. I don’t want a flake.

  —Roman

  I can’t believe someone with the screen name FrozenRobot is accusing me of being a flake. Looks like his real name is Roman. I’m not sure how much better that is than FrozenRobot. I resist the urge to make a Julius Caesar joke.

  I type back to him, sans Shakespearean jeers: I’m as serious as a heart attack. No, but seriously, I’m not a flake. Like I said, I’m from Langston. Where should we meet?

  I hang around the website a little longer. According to the boards, Suicide Partners ElmoRains and TBaker14155 took the plunge. I don’t know how SovietSummer231 obtained this information, but hopefully FrozenRobot and I will have the same kind of success. I shiver and swallow the hard lump in my throat. God, this whole thing is so twisted. I stare at the living room ceiling. I wonder if I would have the guts to string myself up. If I could muster the courage, I wouldn’t need to deal with this Smooth Passages business.

  The clunker makes a sound similar to a doorbell. My shoulders jerk forward and I see FrozenRobot responded to me. Looks like he’s not out at any play-off games either. I open the message:

  How about tomorrow night at 5:30? We can meet at the root beer stand off Route 36. Do you know where that is? It should be pretty close to you. I’ll wear a red hat so you know who I am.

  —Roman

  I’m a little weirded out that FrozenRobot aka Roman wants to meet in such a public place. I guess that means he’s not a serial killer or rapist or anything. Then again, I’m not sure it’d be so bad if he was a serial killer. At least I’d get it over with quickly. Unless he’s one of the types who’s into torture. That’d be no good. I don’t want a long death; I want an instant one. I’m a coward like that.

  I tell him that 5:30 tomorrow at the root beer stand is fine. I get off work at 5:00 tomorrow, so I’ll just lie to Mom and tell her I’m working late. It’ll be easy. I don’t really like FrozenRobot’s choice of venue, but I don’t want to start the whole thing off by being difficult. The root beer stand is popular with kids like my sister. It gets really crowded after football and basketball games. Cheerleaders share ice-cream floats and basketball players scarf down chili cheese fries. Vomit.

  It goes without saying it’s not my scene. Not that anywhere is my scene.

  I log off the computer and head back upstairs. I pull my physics book out of my backpack. It’s strange, but the closer I get to death, the more I want to learn. I guess I don’t want to die a complete dumbass. I open my notebook and scribble down the problems at the end of the chapter that Mr. Scott assigned.

  We’re starting our unit on the conservation of energy. According to Mr. Scott, energy cannot be created or destroyed—it can only be transferred. Potential energy can turn into kinetic energy and then back into potential energy, but the energy can’t ever just go away. This doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. I read over the first practice problem again: “A sky diver has a mass of 65 kg and is standing in a plane that is 600 meters off the ground. What is the diver’s potential energy before jumping from the plane?”

  My pencil shakes in my hand and I fight the urge to chew on the eraser. The thing is, it’s not the sample problem that’s bugging me. I know what formula I should use, and my handy calculator can do the math for me.

  But the issue is I can’t figure out what happens to all that energy when we’re gone if it can’t be destroyed. My stomach churns at the thought.

  I write down my own practice problem: Aysel Seran, 16 years old, is hanging from the ceiling at a height of 7.5 feet. She weighs 115 pounds. How much potential energy does she have? What happens to all that energy when she dies? What does it get turned into?

  Does a dead body still have potential energy or does it get transferred into something else? Can potential energy just evaporate into nothingness?

  That’s the question I don’t know the answer to. That’s the question that haunts me.

  THURSDAY, MARCH 14

  24 days left

  I don’t have my own car, but I do have a car that I’m allowed to use to get to and from work. The old Ford Taurus smells like stale fast food and has torn seats, but the engine is still chugging so it’s good enough for me. Steve bought it a few years ago from a buddy of his. It’s going to be Georgia’s car when she turns sixteen. The good news is I won’t be around to have to share it with her.

  Pulling out of TMC’s parking lot, I take a left and head toward Route 36. The road is bumpy, full of potholes. No one here wants to pay taxes to repair it. It’s kind of sad because it could be a really scenic road since it borders the river. Not that the Ohio River is anything to brag about. It’s muddy and polluted and tainted with an awful history, but no matter how gross looking a river is, there’s always something magical about it because it moves. Rivers are never stuck.

  When everything with my dad first happened, I used to imagine floating down the Ohio. I fantasized that I’d build a raft and drift aimlessly downstream to where the Ohio meets the Mississippi, and there I figured some nice family would take me in. I used to picture them as a childless couple that would be so happy to have a young girl. They wouldn’t know who my father was or what he did. They would love me; they would make the bad feelings go away.

  I never built that raft. And now I know that no one is going to make the bad feelings go away.

  As I continue down Route 36, I think about how this road connects Langston to Willis. Connects me to FrozenRobot, whoever he is. It’s impossible to tell when Langston turns into Willis—the only thing separating them is this stretch of worn road, framed by the muddy river on one side and crabgrass on the other. Both Langston and Willis are podunk little towns, filled with old rickety houses, rotting wooden benches, and rusted Civil War monuments. They both have a gas station, and it was a big deal last year when Langston got a Wal-Mart. And they both advertise themselves as charming, trying to lure travelers to stop and have a soda at the old diner on Main Street or take their picture next to the large bronze fountain that sits in front of the courthouse. But no one ever comes to Langston or Willis intentionally. They’re places you cross through, not places you visit.

  As the root beer stand comes into view, I notice it looks fairly crowded. Langston High didn’t have a game tonight, but maybe Willis did. I park my car in the gravel lot and sit in the front seat for a few minutes. I take a couple of deep breaths and pull at the collar of my striped shirt. My heart pounds against my rib cage—a sensation that I would have thought is more typical of first-date jitters. Not that I’ve actually ever been on a real date, unless you count a fifth-grade rendezvous at the mall where my supposed date ate too many Cheetos and rubbed the orange dust all over my brand-new shirt.

  But I shouldn’t be nervous. This kid is obviously a loser, just like me. We both need each other. I sneak a quick glance at myself in the mirror and then feel like an idiot for even caring what I look like. It’s not like I’m auditioning to be FrozenRobot’s girlfriend.

  A tap on my window startles me. I jump forward in my seat, my chest pressing against the steering wheel. I see a boy about my age staring at me. He’s wearing a red cap. He leans over and taps the window again.

  I roll it down.

  “ALS0109?”

  That’s my screen name from Smooth Passages. I should say something, but my mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. I blankly stare at him.

  He clears his throat and casts his eyes downward. “Oh, sorry. I guess I have the wrong person.”

  “No,” I manage to squeak out. “I’m Aysel.”

  He scrunches his eyebrows together, making a wrinkled star in the mid
dle of his forehead. He takes off the red cap and holds it at his side.

  “ALS0109,” I explain.

  His lips pull into a half-moon of a smile. I don’t think I’ve smiled in three years. FrozenRobot should rethink his life choices. Maybe he’s not as depressed as he thinks he is.

  “You aren’t flaking out already, are you?” he asks, peering into my car. I wonder if he notices all the discarded fast-food bags on the floor.

  What would give you that impression? I think, and grip the steering wheel. I’m half tempted to press the accelerator and leave. I wasn’t ready for this. This kid is not what I expected at all. Not. At. All. He’s not a scrawny, pimple-faced boy who looks like he’s never seen the sun in his life. No. FrozenRobot doesn’t look so frozen. He’s tall, basketball player tall, with buzzed chestnut-colored hair and deep-set hazel eyes. Thin, but not in the awkward, wimpy way. I guess he’s what you’d call lanky. Goofy lanky even, maybe. But still. He’s definitely not what I’d imagined.

  “Hey,” he says. “I told you I didn’t want a flake.” He shakes his head. “I knew this shit would happen. Especially when I found out you were a girl.”

  I pull the key out of the ignition and open the door, almost hitting him with it. Oops. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, you have to know the statistics. Like guys actually do it and girls just talk about it.”

  I glare at him. “That’s some sexist bullshit. And if you’re such a hard-ass, why’d you even create an account on Smooth Passages? Why do you even want a partner?”

  He recoils. “Whoa, I wasn’t . . .” He trails off and scrunches his facial features together like he’s thinking about what I just said. “I’m not a sexist.” He looks down at his white sneakers. “And I’m definitely not a hard-ass.”

  “You sure sounded like one.”

  “A hard-ass?” He looks up at me and grins. His hazel eyes are brighter than they should be. This is all wrong.

  “No, a sexist.” I don’t return his smile.

  “Look,” he says slowly; his voice is low and soft. “I’m fine with you being a girl. Really. I’m cool with girls.”

  “You’re cool with girls?” I repeat in the most deadpan way possible.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I don’t think I do.”

  He frowns and turns his cap over in his hand. “I’m really sorry. Can we start over?”

  “No,” I say quickly. “We can’t start over.”

  His frown grows and he shuffles his feet. His posture was always slightly hunched, but now he starts to sink even deeper into himself.

  I watch him squirm for a second longer and then say, “But I’m willing to hear you out if you have a good explanation for why you need a partner.”

  He sighs and puts his cap back on. He grips the bill and folds each side down, casting a shadow over his face. “Yeah, I’ll explain everything. I just thought maybe we could get a table and we could talk about it while we eat.” He pauses and stares at me a little too long for my liking. “Unless you’ve already decided I’m a total ass and are ready to bail.”

  I consider this for a moment and then shake my head. “I’m not ready to bail, at least not yet. And besides, I’m not going to leave before I get some cheese fries.” I walk away from him toward the root beer stand. He jogs to catch up with me. We trudge along in silence toward the counter where you order.

  The root beer stand, which I think is officially named Tony’s, but everyone around here just calls it the root beer stand, is run out of a trailer. You order at the counter and the food is prepared inside and then they bring it out to wherever you choose to sit. There’s a carnival-style tent that has several picnic tables under it, but on really busy nights, it’s almost impossible to find a seat.

  I order first. I get cheese fries and a strawberry milkshake. I take my plastic number 7 and find a seat at a picnic table in the back. I watch FrozenRobot order. He seems to know some of the other people here. He’s nodding at them and saying hi. Weird. If FrozenRobot has so many friends, why does he want to off himself?

  I should probably start referring to him as Roman, but that feels too personal. It’s easier for me to think of him in terms of his screen name. Besides, he doesn’t look like someone who would want to kill himself—he’s obviously still concerned with his appearance. His hair looks like it’s been recently cut, and yeah, he’s dressed casually, a hoodie and track pants, but they’re the hip kind of athletic wear. Basically, Roman seems like someone who would date Georgia or wave from a float at the Homecoming Parade. Not someone who fantasizes about throwing himself in front of an eighteen-wheeler.

  A queasy feeling builds in the back of my mouth and I wonder if this is all a sick joke orchestrated by my sister. I shake that thought out of my mind. Georgia isn’t interested enough in what I do to waste energy organizing something like this. At least I don’t think so.

  FrozenRobot starts to walk toward me, but two other guys stop him. Both of them are on the taller side, but not as tall as him. They’re patting him on the back and he’s nodding, like he agrees with what they’re saying.

  I watch him and wonder if I would want to kill myself if I were like him. Someone with friends, someone whose existence made people happy. But deep down, I know that none of this, at least for me, is about any of that.

  I used to play this game where I would bargain with myself: Maybe if the whispers about Dad stop, maybe if Mom starts to look at you again like a normal daughter, maybe if you can guarantee you won’t turn out like Dad. But it’s that last one that kills the whole deal.

  There’s no way to guarantee it, especially when I know for sure that there is something wrong with me. Something broken. What people never understand is that depression isn’t about the outside; it’s about the inside. Something inside me is wrong. Sure, there are things in my life that make me feel alone, but nothing makes me feel more isolated and terrified than my own voice in my head. The voice that reminds me that there’s a high likelihood I’ll end up just like my father.

  I bet if you cut open my stomach, the black slug of depression would slide out. Guidance counselors always love to say, “Just think positively,” but that’s impossible when you have this thing inside of you, strangling every ounce of happiness you can muster. My body is an efficient happy-thought-killing machine.

  On my worst days, I let myself wonder if my dad had the same black slug inside of him. If that’s why he did the horrible things he did. Maybe there’s a fine line between suicide and homicide. It’s those kinds of thoughts that horrify me. It’s those kinds of thoughts that make me think that I can’t even wait until April 7. I need to get rid of the slug; I need to get rid of me.

  “Hey,” FrozenRobot says, putting his plastic number 8 next to my plastic number 7. Eighty-seven. I wish there was some significance to that. Recently, I’ve tried to find significance in everything. Like I’m waiting for the universe to give me the nod, saying, Yes, you are free to exit now. Be on your way.

  He adjusts the numbers so they stand up straight. Maybe he’s searching for meaning in them, too. Or maybe he’s just OCD.

  “You’re popular here,” I say.

  He cringes. “I used to be.”

  “Looks like you still are.”

  The waitress brings out my fries and milkshake. She smiles at FrozenRobot and I swear she even bats her eyelashes a little.

  Once she’s walked away, I notice he’s blushing. “See? Popular.”

  “Not me.” He hands me the ketchup. “Someone I used to be.”

  I dump some of the cheese fries out on a napkin and shove one into my mouth. It’s probably impolite to eat before he gets his food, but I don’t think FrozenRobot is choosing his Suicide Partner based on manners.

  Soon enough, the waitress comes back with his food. He ordered a cheeseburger, fries, a chocolate milkshake, and a side of jalapeños. Before the waitress walks away, she gives him another flirtatious smile and his cheeks
flush red again.

  I take a sip of my milkshake and make a face. The strawberry is more sour than I would’ve guessed, but the milkshake feels nice and cool in the back of my throat.

  “Don’t,” he says, giving me a look after the waitress is gone.

  “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

  “I’m not what you expected. Am I?” He pops a fry into his mouth. It’s a forced gesture, though. Too quick. He doesn’t really want to eat. I know that drill.

  I don’t answer his question. Instead I ask one of my own. “Am I what you expected?”

  He stares at me for a few seconds. “Honestly, no. But that’s a good thing.”

  “I must have been at least a little like what you expected since you stalked me out in the parking lot.”

  He makes a pained expression, scrunching all his features together. He reaches out and grabs a couple of jalapeño peppers, tossing them straight into his mouth.

  “What?” I raise my eyebrows.

  He continues to crunch on the jalapeños. The peppers look like they came from a jar and their juice is dribbling all over his fingers. He winces slightly when some of the juice crawls into a scratch he has on his left hand.

  “C’mon. Tell me,” I prompt. “How did you know it was me?”

  He looks up from the peppers and says, “I don’t want to offend you.”

  “Seriously?” I say in a harsher tone than I intended. I take a loud slurp of my milkshake in an attempt to lighten the mood. I don’t want him to think I’m mean. At least not yet. If he thinks I’m too mean, he might pick some other depressed freak over me.

  He pulls the seeds out from one of the peppers and places them on his tongue. He swallows them, and as they slide down his throat, he doesn’t make an expression, even though I know his mouth must be on fire. Finally, he says, “You just look like you want to die. You look really fucking miserable.”