Going Under

by S. Walden

  I shook my head but said nothing, feeling the instant lump in my throat. It came out of nowhere, throbbing painfully, especially when I tried to swallow it.

  “You there?” Gretchen said.

  I nodded, feeling the first hot tears creep over my lower lids to hang on my lashes.

  “Brookey,” Gretchen said. It came out sounding desperate and soothing and sweet.

  The sob caught fast and hard in my chest, louder than I expected, a violent shudder I couldn’t suppress. I moaned, knowing I could sound as crazy and wretched as I wanted, and Gretchen wouldn’t mind.

  “What’s wrong with me?” Another sob. Even louder.

  “There’s nothing wrong with you,” my friend whispered.

  “Why did I act that way? Why did I try to flirt with that guy?” I cried. “I’m so pathetic.” The tears spilled forth, running down the sides of my face and wetting my cell phone.

  “You’re not pathetic, Brooke,” Gretchen said, and then she tried for something light: “You can’t cry all the time or else we’d have to admit you into Dorothea Dix.”

  “They’ve closed down,” I replied, sniffling and wiping my nose with the back of my hand.

  “Well, whatever,” Gretchen said, undeterred. “The point is that you keep punishing yourself, Brooke, and that’s not healthy.”

  “My best friend hanged herself!” I screamed into the phone.

  “And that wasn’t your fault!” Gretchen replied. “Why do you think it is?”

  “I cheated with her boyfriend, Gretchen. Did you forget?” I spluttered.

  “So that makes you a killer?”

  The question shocked me. I opened my mouth to reply but could think of nothing to say. Why did I think my betrayal drove Beth to commit suicide? I knew better. I knew the real reason. Still, the guilt hung heavy in my heart, and I couldn’t shake it.

  “You’re a normal person, Brooke. You can’t cry forever. You have to be able to function.”

  “So I flirt with a guy at Beth’s funeral?! That’s not normal or functioning. That’s messed up,” I said.

  “Well, I don’t know much about psychology, but I bet a lot of doctors would say that’s normal.”

  I snorted.

  “No, seriously. People do crazy things when they’re under a lot of stress,” Gretchen explained.

  I shrugged.

  “Stop punishing yourself, Brooke,” Gretchen said. “Finn had nothing to do with it.”

  “Stop right there,” I demanded. “First off, don’t mention that name again.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Second, stop trying to make me feel better for acting like a complete jerk at my best friend’s funeral.”

  “I’m not trying to make you feel better. I’m just calling it how I see it. You’ve locked yourself up for days already. You’ve cried more than anyone else I know. You’ve given Beth every bit of your heartache. You’ve got to move on,” Gretchen said.

  “Move on?” I asked, bewildered.

  “I don’t mean that you forget about her,” Gretchen said gently. “I mean that you stop hurting yourself. Hey, maybe this funeral guy can help. Does he go to your new school?”

  “Oh my God,” I said. “How should I know? And weren’t you just saying that I couldn’t get involved with him because it’d be totally lame? Not to mention inappropriate?”

  Gretchen ignored my question. “He was at Beth’s funeral. How does he know her? Were they friends?”

  “I don’t know.” I grabbed a tissue from the nightstand and blew my nose.

  “Gross. Pull the phone away from your face when you do that,” Gretchen said.

  I laughed in spite of my pain.

  And then I heard the familiar whine. It was the same whine Gretchen used on her father whenever she wanted new clothes. It was annoying but sweet.

  “Brookey, get better!”

  I laughed again. I couldn’t help it. Gretchen was the silliest friend I had. And deluded, too. She thought she could will things to happen by just saying them. She discounted effort being a factor in achieving goals.

  “I will get an A on this history exam today!” she exclaimed last year. But she didn’t study and earned a D instead. The most frustrating part of it all was her inability to understand why claiming something out loud didn’t make it so.

  “Gretchen, you didn’t study,” I explained to her.

  “But I said it,” she replied. “I claimed it.”

  I wanted to tell her real life wasn’t a motivational seminar where you’re brainwashed into believing that writing down daily affirmations and chanting them over and over made them come true.

  “Are you listening to me?” Gretchen asked, and I was yanked back to the present. “I said get better!”

  “And how do you propose I do that?” I asked.

  “Go fuck that guy from the funeral,” Gretchen suggested. “Even if it is totally messed up.”

  “Oh my God. You’re sick,” I replied.

  “I’m not sick. I’m helping you. You need to move on. Move on from Finn and Beth and the whole mess,” Gretchen said.

  “First off, don’t—”

  “—say his name again. Yeah yeah. I got it,” Gretchen replied.

  “Second, I am not interested in getting involved with anyone this year. Especially not with a guy I met at a funeral. Number One—”

  “Wait, I’m confused. First, second, number one?” Gretchen teased. She liked to make fun of the way I listed things out loud in outline form. Headings and subheadings. Sometimes it got a little confusing, especially when I threw in the lowercase letters. It was my thing, though, and it helped me keep my thoughts organized.

  “Shut up and just listen.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Okay, so Number One, I’m a senior in high school who’s planning on attending a very prestigious university when I graduate. I don’t have time for boys.”

  “Right. Are we talking about UNC-Asheville?”

  “What is your beef with artists?” I asked.

  “I’m just saying that it’s no Princeton. And I don’t really dig scenes with hippies or hipsters or any other groups of people with ‘hip’ in their names. It’s like, girl, go shave your armpits already. Know what I’m saying?”

  “Whatever. Number Two. I think it’d be really weird to date a guy that I did, in fact, literally run into at a funeral. I could never admit to people how we actually met.”

  “True,” came Gretchen’s reply.

  “Furthermore—”

  “No, Brooke. There’s no ‘furthermore’. That’s not even a label for an outline anyway, and I don’t care,” Gretchen said. “This conversation is getting boring.”

  “Oh my God, and I’m the bitch?” I asked.

  She laughed. “I want you to tell me all about class registration. Scope out the hotties. I want to know, damnit!”

  “Did you not just hear a word I said?”

  “Whatever. You may not want to be in a relationship, but that’s not going to keep you from looking. I know you, Brooklyn.”

  I giggled into the phone, and it felt delicious and wrong. I suppose Gretchen was right that I couldn’t be depressed forever. I just wasn’t expecting to laugh so soon after Beth’s passing, or flirt, however unsuccessfully, with a guy at her funeral. The flirting was definitely wrong, but maybe laughing with my friend wasn’t. What was the psychology behind it? What would doctors say about my behavior? Gretchen thought it was normal, and I instantly recalled Scott Peterson shown on camera laughing during his missing wife’s candlelight vigil. The wife he was later found guilty of killing. He was a fucking sociopath. Oh my God. Was I a sociopath, too?

  “Are you listening to me?” Gretchen huffed.

  I shook my head to rid the thought. “Never,” I teased. “I never listen to a word you say.”

  “Total. Bitch,” Gretchen said. “Kisses. I gotta run!” And she hung up before I could throw an insult at her.

  Gretchen Stevens was the o
nly girl on the planet I allowed to call me a bitch. I knew other girls did, but she was the only one who had permission. She was the only one I loved for it. She was honest with me—brutally honest, especially when I messed up with Beth. She gave me hell over it, but she never rejected me. She remained a friend through all of it, even when I sank into a depression and started therapy sessions again. Gretchen likened the whole cheating incident to the Sex and the City episode where Carrie admits her affair with Big to Samantha. Carrie expected Samantha to judge her, but Samantha didn’t.

  “So it’s like I’m Samantha,” Gretchen had said.

  “Except that you have judged me,” I replied.

  “Yeah, but that’s because what you did was totally shitty. I’m still gonna be your friend, though,” Gretchen said, and then hugged me until I stopped crying. “I’ll always be your friend, Brookey. We’re allowed one huge mess-up in our lives.”

  “Just one?” I blubbered.

  “Just one,” she said.

  I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling thinking of Gretchen’s words. We’re allowed one huge mess-up. I wish I would have saved mine for later on in life. Eighteen felt like too young an age to already use it. I didn’t think it was fair, and then wondered why I kept blaming everyone and everything around me for my bad decisions.

  I blamed Finn for the dissolution of my friendship as though I had no hand in it. Like he forced me to sneak around with him and have sex with him and find excuses to avoid hanging out with Beth so I could see him. I actually found myself blaming Beth at one point: if she weren’t so mopey all the time, I would have wanted to spend more time with her! I conveniently forgot about her confession to me as the reason for her deep depression. Sometimes I wondered at the size of my heart, if I even had one at all.

  I blamed my mother for the fact that I didn’t own any closed-toe pumps and had to wear hers to Beth’s funeral. It wasn’t even important, but somehow I made it out to be a big deal. If I hadn’t been wearing those heels, I wouldn’t have almost fallen in the hallway at the church forcing me to grab Funeral Guy’s hand to keep from going down. I went so far as to convince myself that I wouldn’t have even run into him had I not been wearing those shoes. Yes, it was all my mother’s fault. She was the reason I flirted.

  How could a genuinely intelligent girl be such a fucking idiot?

  I felt so tired, but I was reluctant to fall asleep. I was afraid of dreaming about unpleasant things. I knew it was wrong, but I closed my eyes and conjured Funeral Guy’s face, imagining the things his blue irises said to me. I think you’re beautiful, they said. I think I love you. And I drifted into a self-absorbed slumber that eventually betrayed me, summoning ghosts from my past in favor of the boy with the translucent eyes.

  “Why don’t you get that sexy little ass over here?” Finn said playfully. He reached out for my leg, but I was standing too far away.

  “Your girlfriend will be here any minute,” I replied, giggling.

  We decided to meet at Beth’s house and ride together to my All-Star cheerleading competition. Beth was running late, leaving Finn and me alone in her bedroom.

  “I don’t care,” Finn said. He jumped up from the desk chair and grabbed me before I could escape to the other side of the room. He wrapped me up in his arms and planted a series of kisses on my neck.

  “I care, Finn,” I said breathlessly, feeling my body surrender to his mouth.

  “No you don’t,” he mumbled into my neck, walking me over to Beth’s bed. He sat down on the edge and pulled me onto his lap, hands resting on my bottom under my cheerleading skirt. “Now, I have a good idea about it, but I want you to tell me anyway,” he said. “Why are these little things called spankies?” He squeezed my bottom, and I squealed.

  “They’re not called spankies anymore,” I corrected. “They’re called cheerleading briefs.”

  Finn scrunched up his nose. “Gross. I like spankies much better.”

  I chuckled and nuzzled my face into his neck.

  “You never answered my question,” he teased. His forefinger traced the waistband of my spankies then dipped under the fabric. I squirmed.

  “I don’t know,” I said, feeling my face flush.

  “Well, I think I know,” Finn said softly. “Were you a good girl at school today?” he asked, his lips brushing my ear, hand patting my bottom.

  “I’m always good,” I managed to get out. I felt myself already growing wet, and I didn’t have time to get all hot and bothered.

  “That’s not what I heard,” Finn continued. He lifted me off his lap and laid me on the bed. I tried to get up, but he held me still, wiggling his eyebrows at me before rolling me over onto my stomach.

  “Don’t you dare,” I warned, feeling my skirt flip up.

  “Damn, Brooke,” he said. “You have one fine ass.” He leaned over me and whispered in my ear again. “And I’m about to teach it a lesson.” He straddled my back facing my feet and ran his hands all over my backside.

  “Finn!” I squealed when his hand came down on me, lightly smacking my bottom. He squeezed me then did it again. And again until I was thrashing about wildly trying to buck him off of me. I didn’t realize I was laughing so hard until he mentioned it.

  “You’re in trouble, young lady,” Finn said, trying for a serious tone. “Why are you laughing?”

  “Get off!” I yelled between breaths.

  “No way,” Finn replied. “You haven’t learned your lesson yet,” and he spanked me again. This time a little harder.

  My head flew up and I almost yelled, “No!” but that wouldn’t have been right because I wanted him to do it again. I arched my back pushing my ass up and heard the sharp intake of his breath. He spanked me again, but I stayed quiet.

  “You’re not even gonna cry for me a little?” Finn asked. He spanked me again. Harder. And I let out a tiny whimper.

  He climbed off of me and flipped me over, grabbing hold of my spankies before I could protest. He pulled them down my legs along with my panties but was too impatient to work them over my sneakers. Instead, he let them rest around my ankles as he lifted my thighs up and over his shoulders. I was slightly distressed in this position, most of my weight resting on the back of my neck and shoulders.

  “Finn!” I screamed completely exposed to him. He had done this to me before—many times—but always in the dark. Right now daylight streamed through the slats of the window blinds giving him a perfect view of everything I liked to keep hidden.

  “I’m the luckiest guy in the world,” Finn said, and then he ran his tongue over me.

  I moaned and twisted my body, but it was useless. He held me still, his muscular forearms pressing into my lower abdomen. He licked me softly, eliciting cries and occasional screams until I thought I wanted to die. It felt too good, and I knew I didn’t deserve it. I fisted the sheets on either side of me and begged him to stop.

  “I will,” he said, his lips still on me. “When I’ve made you come.”

  “No no no,” I said halfheartedly. “I have a competition. Beth. Beth will be here any minute.”

  He ignored me and kept up his gentle assault. His tongue all over me. His light kisses. I wanted to come and knew I would harder than he’d ever made me in the past. I don’t know why it was so powerful this time. Perhaps because we were being too reckless, too dangerous, and the rush was a powerful, addictive intoxicant.

  But I should have paid attention to the unsettling feeling deep inside my heart. It was a warning bell with a big flashing red light. I could hear the smooth, calm female voice over the intercom system—the one in all the sci-fi movies: “Attention. Ten seconds until detonation.” And then the ship exploded, and my body along with it. I screamed into space, felt the oxygen ripped out of me, the stars popping one by one behind my eyes, inside my heart, throughout my legs.

  “What the fuck is this?”

  I lay there sated, frozen. I didn’t want to turn my head, but I forced myself to. Beth stood in her doorway. Her face w
as white, and in my stupefied state, I wanted to tell her that—that there was something wrong with her face. And then somehow I came to, and I realized what I looked like. Lying on her bed with her boyfriend’s face between my legs. Finn lifted me off his shoulders, and I scrambled to pull up my spankies.

  “What the fuck are you doing?!” Beth screamed.

  “Beth, oh my God, I don’t know!” I said. I stood on the other side of her bed, trapped like a scared animal.

  “You don’t know?!” she yelled. “My boyfriend was just eating you out, Brooke! And you don’t know?”

  I opened my mouth to reply, but there were no words.

  “Answer me, you fucking bitch!”

  “Beth, stop,” Finn said.

  “Are you kidding me? ‘Stop’? What were you doing? How could you do this to me? My boyfriend!”

  “Beth, you and I both know it’s over. It’s been over,” Finn said. “You don’t even like me.”

  “You got that right, you fucking prick!” Beth shouted. She turned in my direction. “You were my best friend, Brooke.

  The hurt in her eyes broke me to my core. I choked on the sob. I choked on her word. Were. “You were my best friend.”

  “Why are you crying?” Beth asked. “Because you got caught? Or you all of a sudden feel guilty? How long has this been going on?!”

  I shook my head.

  “You’re gonna tell me,” Beth demanded. She advanced towards me a few paces before changing her mind and standing still.

  “A few months, Beth,” Finn answered, and I wanted to hit him.

  Beth gasped. “A few months?!”

  “And we love each other. I’m sorry I hurt you,” Finn said. He sounded like a complete jackass. And what the hell was he talking about? Love? We never said anything about loving each other.

  Beth laughed derisively. “Wow. Love. Okay.” Her face streamed tears. I watched as one clung to her jaw before plopping to the floor.

  “Beth, please,” I whispered.

  “Get out of my house,” she said. “Now.”

  I didn’t move.

  “Now!”

  Finn grabbed my hand and led me out. I thought Beth would lunge at me when I passed by her, but she stood stoic, staring at me as though I were a stranger. And then I heard the door slam, and my entire world shifted in an instant.