By the Time You Read This, I'll Be Dead (4 page)

I see her and Dad exchange a glance. Something’s up.

I stand and leave the table.

Mom calls, “Take your jean jacket. It might get cool in the mountains.” I close the bathroom door behind me. She’ll hover between the kitchen and bathroom, timing me.

How to handle this? The jean jacket went in the trash on Thursday. It had a pink flowered frill around the bottom. So hideous.

I brush my teeth, not looking in the mirror. The sight of me sickens me. I flush the toilet and open the door so Mom doesn’t die of asphyxiation from holding her breath.

As we head into the hills (I dressed in layers), Mom tells me about this time in high school when she tried out for pom-pom girls. What is pom-pom girls? It sounds obscene. “My friend Bonnie was the one who really wanted to make the team, and you had to try out in pairs. I’m not athletic, as you know, but we worked hard on our routine.”

My mom’s not athletic like the Pope’s not Muslim.

She says, “I knew I was terrible, deep down, but Bonnie convinced me we’d make it. Deep down I knew she didn’t mean ‘we.’ She meant her.
She
had to make it.”

Did you know that deep down, Mom? Maybe you should mention it to Dr. No.

A wide-bed trailer stalls on the highway and Mom has to slam on the brakes. Instinctively her arm shoots out to brace me. I wish she’d swerved over the cliff.

We pass the trailer and Mom picks up where she left off. “The day of the tryouts I was so nervous. I think I actually threw up. Bonnie and I watched all the girls ahead of us, since we were last. They were good, but not as good as us, Bonnie said. She’d whispered in my ear, ‘They’re nowhere near as good as us, Kimmy.’ Deep down I knew the truth. But she made me believe.”

Deep down did you ever want to die?

“Her passion was contagious,” Mom says.

This is weirdly similar to my audition, which I’d just as soon forget. The exit to Tiny Town is one more mile.

One more mile to sno-cone city.

“We got out there in our matching outfits that Bonnie’s mother made, and the pom-poms we made. I don’t even remember doing the routine. I didn’t fall flat on my face.” She smiles.

Is there a point to this?

“We had to wait for the results. It was nerve-racking. I thought for sure I was going to barf all over Bonnie.” She gives a little laugh. Sort of hollow. “Suddenly I knew why I was doing this. For me. I wanted it. I wasn’t the most popular girl in school, as you can imagine.”

Why would I imagine that? I know nothing about my mom in school. Why wasn’t she popular? Was she bullied? She wasn’t fat, like me. She never talks about how it was for her growing up. She’s never mentioned Bonnie, or any of her childhood friends. She signals to exit and slows for the turnoff.

“I lacked self-confidence. I don’t know why. I was smart and people liked me. Being a pom-pom girl just seemed so out of reach for me. But I took a risk. I tried out.”

This is more than she’s ever shared, even in family therapy. I realize suddenly my mom and I are kind of alike. We have secret lives. The road to Tiny Town narrows and descends. “When the results were posted, I was stunned,” she says. It grows dark as we veer into the forest.

I wait. She doesn’t continue.

Come on, Mom. At least finish what you started.

“Ours was the only team,” she says finally, “where one person got in and the other didn’t.”

I wish I could twist my head to look at Mom. In my peripheral vision, I see her eyes are on the road. She’s smiling. Oh, my God. My mother was a pom-pom?

Her smile dissolves. “Bonnie made it.”

I expel a short breath.

See? Life sucks. You have no power over anything.

We arrive at Tiny Town and Mom parks in the lot. She switches off the ignition and sits a moment. “I don’t know why I told you that story.” She shakes her head. “The things you remember.”

Your failures and your faults. They stick with you. They glob into ugly, cancerous growths inside you and make you want to die.

The trip is a total waste because Tiny Town is closed until summer. The sno-cone stand is boarded up. Why do I think Mom knew this the whole time? While we were away, Dad was busy at home. He installed a network to link his computer to mine.

He stands in front of the router, looking sheepish. “It shouldn’t interfere with . . . whatever you’re doing on your PC,” he says.

What I’m doing can now be monitored 24/7. I’m not stupid.

Dad shrugs like, sorry. It was necessary.

“We love you,” Mom says.

Can I go back to bed?

— 17 DAYS —

I count the minutes until school is out. I’m going through the motions, but it’s draining. By the final bell, I’m sucked dry.

“On the weather wire, fair to partly cloudy with a twenty-percent chance of precip east of the Continental Divide. By morning, patchy fog with desire in the mist.” He’s reading from a little laptop.

I look at him for a minute and he says, “Cool, isn’t it?” I’m guessing he means the laptop. He has this smirky smile on his face, like he’s scheming, like he has me now.

He doesn’t.

I swing my legs around on the bench, my back to him, and retrieve my book.

Maggie Louise felt his presence in the room. She dreaded this meeting with Emilio. She had to do it. For her. For Charles. The magnetism that drew her to Emilio was pure energy, bottled and fused. If you struck a match—

Heat prickles my skin, and it’s quiet. He’s stopped keying. I hear the lid click on his computer, and turn my head just a little. Because I don’t trust him. What’s he up to? I smell licorice on his breath.

“Okay. If geek gadgets don’t impress you, how about this?” A hand stretches out over my shoulder with something furry clenched in it. “His name’s Hervé.”

I scream inside and lurch to my feet. It wrenches my neck.

“Hervé Villechaize.”

Throat. Hurts. I need water.

The nose twitches and I drop my book as I’m tripping over a clump of grass to put distance between us. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

He gets up, adding, “Junior. We’re in mourning because his brother, Harvey, passed on.”

Oh, my God. What is that? Where’d it come from?

He holds the . . . the thing . . . to his lips and kisses it. Gross. “It’ll be okay, Hervé. Harv’s in a better place now. Pet him.” He thrusts the thing at me.

I jump back. It’s a rat. The hairless tail flicks around like a snake.

“When my winning personality fails me and tech toys don’t tantalize, I find small furry rodents to be reliable chick magnets.”

My eyes raise to his face. He’s so weird. So . . .

His tender smile at the rat is kind of sweet.

“Rattus norvegicus.”
The boy releases the rat onto his shoulder. The tail wraps around his neck and I wince, like there’s a rope around mine. “Commonly known as the brown rat or fancy rat. Not because he’s decked out in finery, but it seems some people fancy rats.” He shoots that wide-open grin at me.

I focus on the rat, on filth. Rats
are
filth.

It’s wearing a string harness, with a leash. Its front claws cling to the collar of the boy’s crew. Both the rat and him are staring at me now. I feel it, the consensus.

I know I’m ugly. Don’t look at me.

“You’re not afraid of rats, are you?” he asks.

No, stupid. I’m terrified.

“Come on.” He moves closer to me. “Pet him.”

I rush back toward the gate.

“Wait. I’m sorry.” He hustles by me, blocking my escape. “You didn’t seem like the kind of girl who’d be squeamish.”

He doesn’t know what kind of girl I am. I’m not the kind who plays games and throws herself at boys.

He touches my forearm. “Come back.”

I jerk away.

“Sorry,” he says. He backs up a step, then two.

The bench or the hellhole that is school? What choice do I have?

He tracks me back to the bench, bending over to pick up my book. “In our last episode our heroine was tugging on our poor studly sap’s heartstrings.” He flips open to a random page. “Has she led him down the trail of broken tears?”

Just give it to me.

Seventeen more days.

The rat scrabbles down the boy’s arm and sniffs the book. He chomps the cover.

“Hervé, no!” Boy wrestles book from Rat. “Sorry,” he says to me again. “He’s a voracious reader.” A slick smile creases his lips as he hands the book to me.

Now it’s infected with rat poison. I’m not touching it.

He studies my face for a long time. I KNOW I’m ugly.

He keeps looking. What? I’m not meeting your eyes. Uncontrollably, blood gushes to my cheeks.

He reads something in my face that’s not there. “For us?” He cradles the book to his chest. “Hervé, the mystery girl has given us a gift. The gift that keeps on giving.” He kisses the book and the rat rests a paw on it. “Hervé can really sink his teeth into fine literature like this.”

I take out my pen and my econ folder. I write on the back page, “I hate rats. Fancy and otherwise.”

He reads it. He mock spears a stake through his heart.

He’s a dork.

He’s confusing me because I think—I
know
—boys only want one thing. At least, in my experience. But he’s not like any boy I’ve known. Maybe dorks are different because they can’t get girls. Even with the dyed, spiky hair, and his cool demeanor, his swagger, deep down he’s still a nerdy dork. Which makes him sort of desperate?

The laptop on the bench has a neon blue skin and I reach over to touch it. It is cool. Small and thin. I wish Dad had gotten me a laptop instead of a PC.

The boy sits and lifts the computer to his lap. He says, “You want to take it for a spin?” He opens the lid. “It’s touch screen.”

BFD. So’s mine.

I shouldn’t have violated his property.

I’m feeling my skin prickle again and he’s smiling and the rat is staring at me from the boy’s neck and there’s roaring in my ears and the gray is swooping in. One word flashes in my head: ESCAPE.

Where’s Mom? Read, read. I have other books, but they’re at home.

“There’s no reason to fear rats,” he said. “They have a language all their own, you know.”

Mom’s CR-V turns the corner and I leap to my feet.

He adds, “Like women.”

I stumble to the curb and swing the door open. As I plop in, my labored breathing betrays me.

Mom says, “What’s wrong?” Her eyes slit. “There’s that boy again. Is he bothering you?”

I latch my seat belt. Go.

He approaches the car.

GO!

He knocks on my window. Mom says, “What should I do?”

I point ahead. My index finger jabs at the dash.

The window scrolls down. Is my mother insane? Don’t talk to him.

“Hi,” he says, leaning in. “I’m Santana. This is Hervé Villechaize Junior.” He scratches the rat’s head. Beady eyes burn me, Boy’s and Rat’s.

Mom looks freaked. I told you to go. You never listen.

“Okay, then.” Boy backs up. “Hervé and I have a reading assignment.” He winks at me and pats the book.

Mom looks at me too. What? What! I told you to go.

* * *

Carbon Monoxide Poisoning

Effectiveness:
4
–5, as long as you’re not rescued.

Time: Minutes to hours depending on concentration.

Availability: 5. Carbon Monoxide is emitted through car exhaust. To accumulate sufficient CO concentration (.32% to .45%), a confined area such as a closed garage is required.

Pain: 1, although symptoms are unpleasant.

Doesn’t it stink? I wonder. Wouldn’t you cough?

Notes: Actual cause of death is asphyxiation. CO binds to hemoglobin, crowding out oxygen, eventually leading to fatal hypoxemia. Early symptoms are headache, dizziness, and weakness, followed by decreased visual acuity, tinnitus, nausea, progressive depression, confusion, and collapse. Unconsciousness may be accompanied by convulsions. At .32% concentration, death occurs in approximately one hour. If you live, you will have brain damage.

Okay, that isn’t an option.

What else?

Jumping Off a Building

Effectiveness:
4
–5 for six stories or higher.

Time: Seconds (or hours if unlucky).

Availability:
4
–5. You must have access to the top floor windows or roof.

Pain: 5. But if the fall is fatal, pain is over quickly.

Notes: Very frightening. Difficult to overcome fear of heights. Easily discovered if seen. Unsuccessful attempt is likely to result in paralysis or the possibility of spending your life confined to a wheelchair.

That is NOT an option.

This condo complex is only two floors anyway. The tower at St. Mary’s might be six or seven stories, but I’m not doing it there.

I hear a sound down the hall and freeze. It’s Dad in his office. Is he spying on me? I power down, imagining the possibility that he might’ve seen what I read. My heart pounds like a jackhammer in my chest.

A person has no privacy anywhere. Ever since the first time I slit my wrists, I feel like I’m always being watched. If I’m not
looked
at or
sneered
at or
judged
.

Anyway, I’m going to die at home. That I know for sure. I don’t want my body to be lost or mutilated so badly I can’t be identified. My parents are annoying, but they shouldn’t have to spend the rest of their lives wondering—or hoping—I’ll return.

They are my parents, after all. My legacy to them will be peace of mind.