“You haven’t told me why you want to. I didn’t know that we were planning on sharing with one another,” I say. My lungs constrict, a warning not to reveal any information that I’m later going to regret having shared.
He opens the door and gets out of the car. I stay seated for a few seconds longer and squeeze my eyes shut. I know it contradicts the whole idea of having a Suicide Partner, but a giant part of me doesn’t want to tell FrozenRobot my reasons. I don’t want him to start looking at me the way the other kids at my school do, like I’m a ticking time bomb. I like that Roman thinks he and I are similar. I like having someone relate to me. I don’t want to ruin that.
And worse, with his connection to Brian Jackson, I don’t think he’d take what my dad did lightly. Sure, he might not still be close to Brian, but it all feels very uncomfortable considering my dad is responsible for the tragedy that’s haunted Brian’s family—the very reason his brother didn’t make it to the Olympics. No way I can tell Roman about my reasons. I’m not going to risk him bailing on me.
All he needs to know is that I’m ready to die. That should be enough.
He taps on my window. I get out of the car and lean against it.
“Sorry,” he says. “I can be an asshole sometimes. Ever since . . .” He trails off and cups his hand over his eyes as he gazes up at the sky. The sun has almost set, so I don’t know why he’s so worried about shading his eyes. Maybe it’s just a habit. It’s funny—the things we do out of habit.
“Ever since?” I prompt him.
He walks over to one of the picnic tables and sits on top of it. I take a seat next to him and breathe in the scent of damp, decaying wood. The sky is a hazy indigo. March sunsets are always like that in Kentucky. It’s like the sky has too much moisture to produce any color that isn’t some variation of blue.
“Ever since she died.”
“Who died?” I don’t miss a beat before I ask. It’s probably not polite, but I figure none of the normal social rules apply to my and FrozenRobot’s relationship.
“My sister. My little sister. She was only nine years old.”
I bite the skin around my thumbnail and stare at Roman’s profile. He’s pulled his knees to his chin, folding himself up like a camp chair. “That’s young.” For a brief moment, I think of Mike. He’s nine, almost ten.
“Too young.”
“Seventeen is young,” I offer.
“Are you trying to talk me out of doing this now?”
“No. I was just making a point that I don’t think you have to die just because she did. There’s like—”
He interrupts me, “She’s dead because of me.” His voice is a low growl and I scoot away from him.
“What do you mean?”
His shoulders tremble as he lets out a loud exhale. “I was babysitting her one night. But I wasn’t really babysitting her, you know?”
I don’t know, but I give him a slight nod, urging him to go on.
“My girlfriend was over and Madison, that was my little sister’s name . . .” He takes a few shallow breaths and I’m terrified that he’s about to start crying. I never know what to do when people cry. I haven’t cried since I was ten. I think it’s because the black slug sucks up any of my potential tears.
Roman continues, “Madison wanted to take a bath and I told her that was fine. But you see, Maddie used to have seizures. Like really bad seizures. So she wasn’t really supposed to take baths alone.”
“Uh-huh,” I grunt, taking a move from Laura’s playbook.
“But I wanted to, you know, with Kelly.”
“Wait,” I say. “Was Kelly our waitress at the root beer stand?”
He shakes his head. “No. That was Suzie.”
“But Travis implied that you guys used to date.”
“We used to date like forever ago.”
“You’ve had multiple girlfriends?” I try not to gape at him.
“That’s seriously your question right now?” He tosses his hands up in the air. “I’m telling you this story and that’s your question?”
I shrug and go back to chewing on my thumbnail. I kick at the bottom leg of the picnic table. It shakes, and for a second, it looks like it might fall off. “Go on.”
“Aren’t you going to say sorry?”
“Doesn’t it kind of not mean anything anymore? That word? Especially if you’re asking me to say it?”
He draws his eyebrows together like he’s actually contemplating whether or not “sorry” has any power anymore. For an instant, I feel a little bit bad and say, “You’re right, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, okay.” He goes back to his camp chair pose. “So anyway, I told Maddie she could take a bath because I was an idiot and all I could think was that her taking a bath would give Kelly and me fifteen minutes of uninterrupted time, so Kelly and I went to my room and I turned on my music really loud so Maddie wouldn’t hear us, you know?”
I really don’t know. I’m kind of amazed that FrozenRobot seems to think I’ve ever had a sex life.
“So Kelly and I . . .” He gives me an awkward look and dangles his hands at his sides. I fill in the nonverbal clues. “And then I come out of the bedroom to go check on Maddie and—” His voice cracks and I hear him choke back a sob. “I found my sister dead in the bathtub. She drowned while having a seizure. If she screamed for me, I didn’t hear it because I was too busy fooling around with my stupid girlfriend.”
His story makes me feel like someone stabbed me in the chest with a shovel. I suck in my breath as I try to process what he just confessed to me. I know I should say something sympathetic, something kind and comforting. But the black slug inside of me has eaten every possible kind or comforting or sympathetic thing I’ve thought of to say. So instead I blurt: “But what does that have to do with driving? I like thought you’d been in some terrible car accident or something.”
He jerks his head up and I see that the rims of his eyes are red. He jumps off the table. “You know what, forget it. I thought I could do this with you, as weird and screwed up as you are, but I don’t think so.”
“Roman, please.” I stand up on the table’s bench, glancing down at him. “That’s not fair. I don’t know what you expect from me.”
He runs his hand through his buzzed hair, refusing to look at me. He stares at the muddy ground. “I expect you not to make fun of me.”
“Make fun of you? How am I making fun of you? You’re the one who just called me screwed up.”
“You don’t think you’re screwed up?”
“I know I’m screwed up.”
He slow claps. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. There’s at least one thing we agree on.”
I jump down and stand beside him. I resist the urge to grab his arm. “Come on. We can still do this. I just didn’t know what to say. I’m not a psychiatrist.”
“Obviously,” he says, and shakes his head at me. Slowly, a crooked smile appears on his lips.
“You wanted me to feel sorry for you?” I walk over to the swing set. I grip the smooth chain links and sit down on the paint-chipped metal seat. I start pumping my legs, straining for as much height as I can get. Maybe if I pump hard enough, I’ll fly into the air and my kinetic energy will project me out of this universe. Unlikely, but a girl can dream.
He doesn’t answer me, so I say, “I don’t feel sorry for anyone.”
“Why? Because no one’s life could be worse than yours?” He takes a seat on the swing next to mine, but he doesn’t make any effort to move. His swing drifts under his weight, but he doesn’t pump his legs.
“No,” I say. “I just figured the whole world feels sorry for you. You obviously aren’t looking for someone to do what everyone else already does.”
I’m getting higher and higher and I feel the swing set creak.
“Be careful,” he says.
“Why?” I’m not thinking about being careful. I’m thinking about one last push, of letting go, of flying, and of falling.
�
��You aren’t allowed to die without me,” he whispers.
SATURDAY, MARCH 16
22 days left
Roman asks me to drive up to Crestville Pointe. Crestville Pointe is a park that sits on these huge hills above the Ohio River. The edge of the park is made up of rocky cliffs, and Roman has it in his head that it’s the perfect place to die.
I’m not so convinced.
“What if the impact doesn’t kill us?” I ask. “We could be alive for at least an hour in the water, whimpering and in agonizing, blinding pain. It could take a long time for us to actually die. I don’t want a long, painful death. That’s not what I signed up for.”
“You are seriously twisted. Do you know that?” he says as he walks along the trail. We’re trying to find the easiest way to access the cliffs. The park rangers try to make it difficult. Mostly because they don’t want teenagers to cliff dive for fun because they’ll probably die. I just hope that the chance of death is more than probably.
“I’ve been thinking about this longer than eleven months,” I tell him. “Sure, I’m twisted. But I also have more insight.”
“Don’t give me that eleven months crap. I want this just as much as you do. Besides, you have no idea what it’s like to live with this kind of guilt.” Roman’s voice is cold and he doesn’t stop charging up the hill. He’s practically jogging and I’m struggling to keep up with him.
“You’re right. I don’t. But you don’t know shit about me either.” I barely spit out the sentence. I lean over and grab my side, panting heavily. I really should get out more. The cool grass tickles my ankles, sneaking into the open space of skin between where my jeans should meet my sneakers. My jeans are a little too short for me, but I’d rather swallow glass than go shopping with Mom and Georgia. I figure I can make it another few weeks without new pants.
“I don’t know anything about you because you won’t tell me anything,” he says. He doesn’t seem to be winded at all. Damn him.
I motion toward a grass clearing. “I bet if we cut through here, we’ll get closer to the water.”
He follows me through the grass. It’s hard to see where we’re going since it’s now dark, and I wonder if in some ironic twist of fate, we’ll soar over the cliff without even realizing it. Like the universe’s final joke: you can’t plan your death, even when you try.
The grass clearing slowly turns back into forest. Dark, thick tree trunks surround us, and our shoes crunch over leaves and twigs. I almost trip on a bumpy root and Roman steadies me. The thing about the Ohio River is it doesn’t make a noticeable sound. No frothing or burbling. But I can still tell when we’re getting closer—I can smell and practically taste the dank, musty water.
The ground turns from a muddy forest floor to gravelly stone. We’ve arrived at the edge. We both stare out at the river; the only sound around is a few warbling birds.
“I don’t get why you won’t tell me anything,” he finally says.
“Why are you so curious? Does it even matter why I want to die?”
“Kind of,” he says.
“Why?”
“Because if it’s stupid, I’d try to talk you out of it.”
I laugh. “No, you wouldn’t.”
“Yes, I would.”
“You wouldn’t because then you’d lose your ride, remember? You don’t have the ability to get away from Mommy Dearest. You never did explain that, by the way.”
Even though the sun has set, he does that thing again where he cups his hands over his eyes as he looks out at the sky. We’re standing close enough together that I can see the holes in the collar of his black T-shirt. His collarbone is sharp and visible beneath his skin; he’s thinner than I realized.
He catches me staring at him and takes a few steps away from me, creating space between us. “After Maddie died, I was sent to therapy. Lots of therapy. The doctors suggested to my parents that I lose my driving privileges because they were worried about my ability to stay present in the moment. They also suggested that I never be left alone unsupervised. Apparently being completely alone tends to make people more depressed, but as far as I can tell, how I feel about Maddie’s death doesn’t change whether I’m alone or not.”
Therapy. Right after my dad went away, my school made me visit with the counselor three times a week. But the meetings weren’t productive. I just sat there, hummed a classical tune, and stared at her excessive collection of potted plants. Eventually she gave up on me.
“What?” he says. I must have made a face.
“Nothing. I once got sent to a counselor, so I found it funny that therapy didn’t work for you either.”
“Funny?”
“Not funny. Ironic.”
“Not sure that’s the right use of ironic, but you seem to be smarter than me so I’ll trust you.”
“You’ll trust me?”
He doesn’t answer. He sits down by the edge and leans his whole body back. He cradles his head with his hands and fans out his elbows. I sit beside him. I don’t lie down, but I pull my knees to my chin.
“Do you want to die in the water because that’s how she died?”
He closes his eyes and gives me a small nod. “It only seems fair.”
“We can do it here, if you want. I’m just nervous about it.” I unwrap my knees and reach out to feel the ground. The rocks are rough on the palm of my hand.
“I’m pretty sure it’s a normal reaction to feel nervous.”
I exhale loudly. “I’m not nervous about the act of it.”
“Oh, you’re such a hard-ass that the idea of jumping off this cliff doesn’t make you the least bit nervous?” Roman props himself up on his side so he can look directly at me.
“Okay, maybe I’m a little scared. But I’m more scared about what comes next.”
He goes back to lying flat on his back. “You mean like what happens to us when we’re dead?”
I pick up some of the gravel and let it sift through my fingers. “Don’t you ever think about that? What if this isn’t the end and we just go on to a place even worse than this one?”
He sits up and grabs a stone. He tosses it over the cliff’s edge. It seems to disappear before it hits the water—too small to even make a splash. “Any place has to be better than this one.”
“But do you think it’s really possible to die?”
His face hardens, his jaw muscle tightens, and his eyes glow like they’re burning. I wonder if FrozenRobot used to look different before Maddie died. With his chestnut-colored hair and clear skin and strong jaw, he’s definitely classically good-looking. You know, good-looking in an obvious way. Like he’s the type of boy who gets cast in back-to-school-shopping commercials. You could see him anywhere and you’d know from looking at his face that he was popular in high school. Yes, Roman is one of those people.
But the longer I look at him, the more I start to realize there’s something different about him from the Tyler Bowens and Todd Robertsons of my world. I take back what I said when I first met him—FrozenRobot does have a frozen quality. All of his movements and facial expressions have a tension to them, like he was carved out of stone and locked in a chamber of ice and recently brought back to life. I don’t know how to describe it, but the more I stare at him, the more I see his grief wrapped around him like shackles he can never take off. I try to imagine him without the grief, without the heaviness, without the frozenness, but it’s hard to see him as anything other than desperately sad. Yes, he looks like someone who was designed to be popular and successful, but he also looks like someone who was made to wear grief.
He wears it well.
“How can you even ask that?” His voice brings me back to reality. “Obviously it’s possible to die. Maddie died. She’s dead. She’s gone.”
I shrug, rubbing my palms over the gravel. The stones’ edges tear at my skin. “I’ve been thinking a lot about the energy of the universe. And if energy can’t ever be created or destroyed, only transferred, what do you think happens to pe
ople’s energy once they die?”
He shakes his head, stands up, and walks farther away from me, closer to the edge. I follow him. Looking down at the river, I try to imagine what it will feel like when I hit the water. The Ohio River moves so slowly, there’s no churning or sputtering, only a lazy flow. Maybe the water will hug me tight, squeezing all the air from my lungs. Maybe it will feel like I’m being rocked to sleep, maybe I’ll get pulled under and everything will turn black and it will be like dreaming. Maybe.
“You can definitely die,” he repeats his argument from earlier. “Maddie’s dead. I don’t see her energy anywhere.”
“Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean her energy is gone.”
His hands jump at his sides. He picks up another rock and throws it over the edge. “You have to stop talking to me about this. It freaks me out.”
“It freaks me out, too,” I say softly.
“I need to think that when we die, we’re going to be dead. I can’t think about anything else.”
“Okay.” I agree to stop talking about it, but that doesn’t mean I can stop thinking about it.
We both go back to looking at the river in silence. We go back to imagining our watery deaths.
MONDAY, MARCH 18
20 days left
Monday morning in my house is probably my least favorite time of the week. I can’t ever sneak in an extra fifteen minutes of sleep because Georgia always gets up extra early to root through her entire closet. God forbid she chooses the wrong outfit. Apparently the statement you make on Monday is really important—according to Georgia, what you wear on Monday determines how the rest of your week will be. Like, if you dress really nice and get tons of compliments, you’ll pass your algebra quiz on Thursday. I don’t really think polynomials have anything to do with wedges or skinny jeans, but Georgia is completely convinced. Good thing I wear a variation of the same thing every day—gray striped long-sleeved T-shirt, black jeans, gray sneakers—so there’s no chance of things ever being different for me.
My Heart and Other Black Holes Page 7