This time it felt different, now that I kind of knew her.
What should I do?
I considered my options. I could ignore it, pretend I never received the instructions. Do nothing, play dumb. I knew instantly it would never work. Athena had selected me. Athena would be watching.
I didn’t want to do anything that might attract attention. No one knew that I was now friendly with Morgan Mallen. It was a secret—something outside of the everyday world of school—and I wanted to keep it that way. I knew that once other people got involved, it would ruin everything between us. If I stood up for Morgan now, they might come after me. And what good would that do?
I tried talking to Jeff Castellano after school. Test the general vibe. Jeff and I played on a couple of travel baseball teams together the past few years and were friends, in a never-really-hanging-out-much kind of way. He was a catcher, mostly because Jeff genuinely liked squatting in the dirt. It gave him the best view of the game. Jeff looked like a catcher too. In other words: stocky, pudgy, stout. But strong. That’s something I learned in life: You can’t beat the short, round guys in a fight, because they are made of rubber. Nothing hurts them. So as a rule I tried not to piss off Jeff Castellano.
I was the opposite—a string bean in sneakers, an undernourished flagpole. When Jeff and I stood side by side, people said it was like looking at the number ten. Which was pretty funny, if you think about it.
I didn’t tell Jeff about Morgan exactly. I just kind of expressed doubts about all the mean things we’d been doing online.
“You promise you won’t tell anyone?” I asked.
Jeff shrugged. “Sure, whatever. But you’ve got it all wrong. She likes it.”
“I don’t know…”
“No one made her open that account,” Jeff said. He sipped on an “extra-thick” milkshake with the urgency of a cowboy trying to suck rattlesnake venom from his arm. I thought his ears might explode.
“A lot of people open accounts,” I reasoned.
“Not everybody,” Jeff said. “But that’s not my point. Think about it. She could close it at any time. Why doesn’t she?”
I didn’t have an answer. “Maybe she doesn’t read it,” I hoped. “She never responds.”
Jeff frowned. “Come on, dude, wake the eff up. You’re in dreamland. Of course she reads it. She likes the attention.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way. “So you’re saying—”
“I’m saying the fat ugly beast likes it.”
His words bothered me, but I didn’t challenge them. “No.” I shook my head. “That can’t be right.”
Jeff slurped up the last of his shake. “I’m not saying it’s right, I’m not saying it’s wrong. Look at it from her point of view. She’s a total loner. She’s got no friends. So she opened an account and probably thought, like everybody else does, ‘Hey, gee whiz, I’ll see what people really think of me.’” He paused. “Now she’s finding out.”
“Do you ever think about not doing it?” I asked.
We were seated on benches at a small table. Castellano glanced out the window, his eyes following a pretty girl down the sidewalk. He didn’t answer.
“Well?” I prodded.
“It’s a goof,” he said. “You don’t have to be super mean. Write something funny. Don’t worry so much, Sam. Laugh at it. Believe me, she loves it.”
Deep down, I knew it was a lie. A lie we told ourselves to help us feel better. There was no way she liked that kind of ridicule. Nobody could. But that night, when I played my part, I repeated that lie to myself over and over until I almost believed it.
I tried to be as not-mean as possible, while still keeping my comment at acceptable levels of snark.
I saw you in the rain with your butt-ugly dog. Who was walking whom? Woof.
(Obviously, my heart wasn’t in it.)
The next morning, I slid the card into Athena’s locker and went directly to the nurse’s office. She stuck a thermometer in my mouth and said there was a nasty stomach bug going around. “Yeah,” I told the nurse, “that’s probably it.”
SOMEBODY LAUGHED
I don’t think I can write in this journal anymore.
I don’t want to.
Screw it.
But this is a promise I made to myself. I decided that—for Morgan, in her memory; for me, for today—I would unplug the world and let my thoughts leak out like a puddle of blood.
I can’t stop these thoughts. I need a cork. But what happens next?
I implode?
Somebody laughed in the hallway today and it sounded like Morgan. I turned around, forgetting just for that sliver of a second. Hope filled my chest. And it was just some random girl, cackling over something.
Some days I hate everyone.
But no one more than I hate myself.
SORRY
I need …
I need …
I need …
something.
That’s it for today, people, move along. Nothing to see here. Nothing at all.
THE GREAT AUK
Today Mrs. Dolan told us the story of the great auk, an animal that was basically the original penguin, more or less. A flightless bird. It went extinct in the 1800s.
The auks lived in isolation on an island off Iceland somewhere. They couldn’t fly, so they just hung around, had babies, and that was life. Far from men and women.
Until one day, some sailors came along.
You have to imagine that for centuries, nobody ever bothered the auks. They were all set. I like to think that one of those big, dumb auks looked out at that first ship and thought, “Oh, goodie, here comes company. That’s nice!”
Well, no, not exactly.
It was the beginning of the mass slaughter. Because those dudes in the boats, probably half-starved at that point, stared at all those strange birds and thought, “I wonder how they taste?”
So mankind came, killed, ate, left, came, killed, ate—like the island was the world’s first fast-food restaurant. Easy targets.
“You want fries with that auk?”
Those auks, what chance did they ever have in this world?
THE WATER TOWER
I visited the water tower. By myself. There’s a big fence there now, topped off with barbed wire, and a locked gate. It’s like a prison that they are trying to keep us from escaping into, like there’s something good up there. A safe place, like in the zombie show The Walking Dead. Which is pretty funny, if you ask me. A prison is where you go to escape the zombies.
Anyway, when a school kid commits suicide, the adults get busy, making it look like they TAKE THINGS SUPER SERIOUSLY. And they do, I’m sure. The fence was a sign of that. (“We’re not taking this lying down, no siree!”)
I got over the fence in less than a minute. Cut my hand, but not so bad. There is a high ladder along the side of the tower, with small round metal rungs. I climbed it rung by rung, just like Morgan must have done two months before. It took courage, I’ll tell you.
Courage or, maybe, desperation?
Maybe not caring was the key to everything.
I was trying to figure it out. I wanted to become her, to feel it, to understand. All I knew was I needed to get up there, stand in her exact same spot.
I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t even know why I wanted to get up there. Wanted isn’t even the right word. I needed to stand there, precisely in that place, follow in her footsteps.
So up and up I rose, higher and higher. That’s an old song, “Your love,” blah, blah, blah, “has lifted me … HIGHER!”
And your cruelty, blah, blah, blah, brought me … crashing to the earth.
I stayed up there for a long time. Stood right at the edge too. Felt the breeze on my back, swayed a little, but I was never going to take that step.
I’m not like some people.
I have to think a long time before I do anything. So that’s all I did up there. Think and blink, think and blink.
THE
WATER TOWER AGAIN
Not so easy shaking the memory of yesterday.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t imagine ever taking a step like that.
SORRY
It feels cold
in here,
doing my fifteen minutes
in solitary,
staring
at these bare white walls
like pages …
I forgot what I wanted to say.
ONE TRUTH
The truth?
Morgan and I were alone together 14 times. Exactly that. I’ve counted. I find myself revisiting those times at odd, unexpected moments. Waiting for sleep, eyes closed to the dark that surrounds me. Those are the visits I conjure myself, like Aladdin rubbing the lamp. What slays me is when I’ll have sudden visions of her while mixing chemicals in science lab, or on the bus, groggy, staring at the window, listening to some random comic’s podcast.
Like, for instance: I was eating a bowl of cereal after school. I’m shoveling it into my face, brainlessly watching television. And suddenly I imagine her sitting across the table from me. The table floats away. Our knees nearly touch. I don’t know what makes me do it, or why, but I cup my two hands up to her face and she leans into them, sinks into my warm hands.
We don’t speak. Though it feels to me—and this sounds so weird I can barely write it now—like she is purring. Somewhere deep in the cave of her chest, a satisfied animal rumble. It is as if I am a healer, and I gave her a momentary rest from all life’s hurts and pains and betrayals. It was a spiritual thing, almost. I could feel her smooth skin on the tips of my fingers, in the hollow of my palms. The delicate cheekbones of her face. The weight of her head pressing into me. Her eyes are closed and relaxed. She is at peace.
I don’t know if that ever happened. Did we even do that once?
Or did I just make it up now? All I know is, either way, it was real.
It feels real.
And that’s all that matters.
THE BEAST
I didn’t realize that I liked her. Or as Morgan might describe it, that I like-liked her. Not for a long time, anyway. I mean, she was okay. Not nearly as awful as everybody made her out to be. I didn’t get that at all. Obviously there was something bad between Athena and Morgan, something nobody seemed to understand. How do you dissect a person’s hate? Were we supposed to pull it apart, piece by piece, try to uncover the core of the problem? Nobody really thought about it much. We had our own homework to do.
A fierce hatred radiated off Athena like steam. I heard a phrase the other day, my mother was talking about an incident at the bank, and she said, “I was so angry I couldn’t see straight.” And I got it instantly. Full-on furious emotion, it’s all you can see. That was Athena with Morgan. I don’t think she saw Morgan as a real human being anymore. I can understand this now, months later, long after it is too late. To Athena, and I guess to the rest of us, Morgan became a thing, an object moving through the halls of our school, occupying our seats, breathing our air.
Over time, that became true for most of us. We failed to see the person. She became this … beast. That’s when the nickname started, I’m not even sure who came up with it. We called her “The Beast” or sometimes TFB or TUFB: “The Ugly Fat Beast.”
Because we were so freaking creative.
Even though she wasn’t fat, and she definitely wasn’t ugly. Mostly we knew her as “Beastie.”
(My bestie the beastie!)
Others called her slut.
I guess it made it easier to hate her.
THE SISTER
I saw her sister today. Very strange. It was one of those times when the halls were empty and I was late for class. I turned the corner and there she was, spinning the dial on her locker. She looked up and I knew it was her, Morgan’s older sister, but I didn’t want her to know that I knew.
Something like that.
You know, the dead girl’s sister. That can’t be easy.
I kept rolling down the hall.
She looked like Morgan, but prettier, I guess. Thinner, taller, hair lighter, more fussed over. Anybody could tell they were related, though, which must have been weird for her. Because it was definitely weird for me. So I motored past, but she called out, “Excuse me? Can you help?”
I’m like, “Huh?”
She smiled, embarrassed. “My locker is spazzing out on me. I think I’m doing the combination right, but it won’t open. I’m, like, five minutes late already.”
It was just us in the hall, so it wasn’t like I could melt into the crowd or anything. If I could have evaporated right there, I would have. Poof, you know. Gone. Instead I said, “Yeah, they stick sometimes. You gotta kind of…”
I punched the top right corner of the locker with the side of my fist. Boom. A loud, echoing, rattling sound. Then I pulled up on the handle real hard and—fliiiiiing!—the door shivered open in my hand.
“Cool,” she said. “Thanks.”
“Sure,” I said. “Any time.”
There were a lot of thoughts racing through my head right then. About eighteen different things I could have said.
“I’m Sam,” I told her, and added idiotically, “Sam I am,” and scooted out of there fast.
DOUBTS
How do you say
sorry
& actually mean it?
DAD’S GUN
My father keeps a gun on the top shelf of his bedroom closet. Way in the back. He stores it in a wooden case that’s lined with felt, like the inside of a fancy guitar case. There’s a lock on it, but he never locks it. I guess Dad figures he doesn’t want to be fumbling for the key when the zombie hordes smash through the windows.
(Braiiiiiins, braiiiiins!)
I discovered the gun a couple of years ago when I was searching for Christmas presents. I’m the kid who will check every corner of the house if I think there’s something good hidden. I like poking around in people’s secret places. Finding Christmas gifts is my specialty.
The first time I found it, the gun scared me. Now, not too much. The truth is, I never felt for one minute that I would actually use it on myself. I couldn’t imagine ever feeling that way. But I tried to bring my mind to that place. The despair, the hopelessness. I slumped against the closet floor and stared at the silver gun in my hand. A .38 Special Colt Diamondback. It was horribly beautiful, or beautifully horrible.
Time passed, no idea how long. The bullets were in the box. If I wanted to, it would have been so simple. In a momentary impulse, I could have pushed the barrel up against the roof of my mouth and squeezed the trigger.
Boom.
Lights out.
Crazy, right?
And it would be done. All over. I’d never get a chance to take it back. There would be no … oh, wait, hold on. Did Morgan actually understand that? Could her mind wrap around the finality of it? Maybe that’s all she saw, the end of her suffering, the black, blank silence of the departed. No more bells, no more noises, no more voices and their terrible, disapproving faces. No past, no future, no more sad todays. No tomorrows.
I placed the .38 back in its case, returned the box to the shelf in precisely the same spot. My father would never know I’d held it in my hand. He’d never know what I thought about. Every kid has secrets. Parents are mostly in the dark.
SOMEBODY’S FINGERPRINT
This is going to sound dumb. Or lame. Or just really, really boring (so I’ll keep it short). But I’ve been staring at my fingertips for the past ten minutes. I took a black marker and pressed my colored-in thumb onto a white page. There I am. That’s me. Those bumps and contours, the ridges and lines. It looks like the topographical maps Mr. Haycox made us study in P.E.
(Which was annoying, by the way.)
In the old days, P.E. was this awesome thing where kids played dodgeball, climbed ropes, and smacked the hell out of each other. Now there are actual bubble tests and all this phony learning. It’s not enough that we run around and sweat, now we have to dance
and cooperate, play games of “Trust,” and have meaningful activities. Shoot me now, you know? Anyhow, that’s how I learned about topographical maps and backpacking, which is what I thought about after staring at my fingerprint for the past ten minutes.
The FBI can identify people by their fingerprints. We’re all our own unique snowflake—isn’t that corny? Nobody else is exactly like me. Which is amazing also, when you think about the world filled with more than seven billion people. I look at those bumps and lines and wonder how that could be possible? There’s got to be some kid in Somalia or wherever with my exact fingerprint. The lines, the ridges, exactly the same. Identical.
I’m a little worried about how much I’ve been thinking about my fingerprints. All the places I’ve been, the things and people I’ve touched, the marks I’ve left behind.
SHE LIKED BATHS
She was the most random person I ever met. Everything she said surprised me. Her mind roamed around like a hungry animal, foraging for food.
“Do you take baths?” she asked.
“Almost never,” I answered.
“A good hot bath can fix just about anything,” she said. We were in the cemetery next to the school grounds. If that sounds creepy, it wasn’t. The cemetery was actually a really pretty, peaceful place. And best of all, it was private. Morgan closed her eyes and stretched her arms. “I learned that from The Bell Jar. She took a lot of baths in that book.”
I didn’t understand most of what Morgan talked about. I felt like a moose staring dumbly over the rim of the Grand Canyon. It was amazing but … incomprehensible. Nothing organized itself in my mind. Words and ideas shifted around like sand.
She kept talking about baths, the relief of sinking into hot, hot water. The mirror all fogged up so you couldn’t see yourself, even if you wanted to, which you didn’t.
The Fall Page 4