I Swear (5 page)

I wasn’t sure why I took them.

But all at once, I had a plan.

7. BETH

When Jenkins started the assembly, it was silent, and that’s saying something. Over one thousand living, breathing anythings are generally noisy. Over one thousand high schoolers can be deafening. I’ve heard it. Last fall when I scored a perfect 10 on the beam in competition, I thought the roof was falling into the gym, the cheering was so loud. Coach Stevens was the only one who was quiet. He stood there looking at me as I walked toward him, his hands on his hips, shaking his head. It wasn’t until I got right up to him that I saw he was crying.

He waited until I got next to him, then he grabbed me and wrapped me up in the biggest bear hug I’ve ever had and whispered into my neck so softly:

“Atta girl. You’re going all the way.”

That made me choke up, and of course, I had to stare up into the lights to keep my eyeliner from running all over the
place, and I just hate watching wimpy girls cry—especially at the Olympics. I mean, I am all for being happy that you win and jumping up and down and everything, but, c’mon. Crying and whispering “Thank you, God” to the ceiling? Because God wanted you to get a perfect 10 on the beam that day? Like he didn’t have anything to look after in Haiti? Quake victims have no clean water, and half the kids on the island are dying of dysentery, but, sure—God stopped by the gym at Westport High in Seattle to make sure that you nailed the dismount.

Urrrgh. I just hate that.

And I hate peppermint tea, which is what Katherine brought back when she slipped into the assembly and slid into our bleacher.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “They were all out of the chamomile. Hope peppermint is okay.”

Peppermint is not okay. It makes me think of Christmas at Grandma Cratchin’s, which is always awful and long and boring, and Grandpa always makes us take turns reading Luke 2 in the living room before we can open presents, while Grandma is pouring everybody enough peppermint tea to make us float to Bethlehem without boats.

But I just took the cup and smiled back at her. There’s nothing to do but smile back at Katherine’s smile. It’s a billion watts of perfect teeth that’s been practiced in front of a mirror for enough hours to win tiaras and sashes in seven different pageant systems so far. It’s sort of a weapon of mass destruction,
really. Not a lot of black girls winning pageants in Seattle—or seats on the student council at Westport High until last year.

It’s wild. Macie replaced Jillian on the ticket without even telling her. Just showed up, and blam—Katherine was the VP. It was nuts that first week of school last fall. Jillian was crazed, trying to keep up with what was going on, but not stepping on Macie’s toes. Trying not to let the news that she was high pissed show on her face.

But make no mistake. She was pissed. Pissed, but silent. The Jillian way.

Everybody was silent now, as Principal Jenkins ticked off the facts:

1. FACT: Leslie Gatlin was found dead this morning of carbon monoxide poisoning in her mother’s Audi, which had been idling for some seven hours with the garage door closed.

2. FACT: Leslie Gatlin’s mother had called the paramedics, who had rushed to the scene.

3. FACT: After trying to resuscitate Leslie Gatlin, she was pronounced dead on arrival at University of Washington Medical Center.

4. FACT: Students were asked to seek the help of the guidance counselor, Marilynne Hennesy, if they needed to talk with someone about any feelings that Leslie’s death was bringing up for them, or any suicidal thoughts they might be having as a result.

5. FACT: Student council president Macie Merrick had a few words to say before we were dismissed.

6. FACT: Students were asked to report to regularly scheduled classes beginning with second period at the end of this assembly.

When Jenkins mentioned Macie’s name, she slid from her seat on our bleacher near the front, took the cup of tea out of Katherine’s hand, swallowed a quick sip, handed it back without looking at any of us, and strode toward the waiting mic in Jenkins’s outstretched hand.

“I don’t know what to think about this . . . loss.” Her voice was low but strong. “I don’t know what to think about anything, but I do know how I feel about this. I feel angry. I feel robbed. I feel cheated of knowing our friend. I may not know what to
think
about this loss, but I sure know what I want to
do
about this loss.”

The gym was silent. There were people sniffing. Looking down. I saw the volleyball girls from the bathroom clasp hands; the redhead had tears running down her cheeks.

“I’ve spoken with Principal Jenkins this morning, and we are going to hold a suicide-awareness seminar during lunch hours on Thursday. This afternoon at the student council meeting I will be bringing a proposal to set up a memorial scholarship fund in Leslie Gatlin’s name for a senior who
enters college specifically to pursue the mental health fields, so that her parents can always remember with heads held high the impact that Leslie had here at our school; that because she lost her life, other lives will be saved.

“And finally, we will begin talks to institute class credit for shifts at the TeenReach Hotline—Seattle’s teen suicide prevention line—to make sure that there is an ear for every student in need at this school, freshman or senior, black or white, boy or girl, gay or straight.”

Macie grew silent again and slowly surveyed the assembly before looking down at the mic in her hands for a moment. “Maybe you’re like me, and you don’t know what to think of all this. Well, today I want you to feel with me,” she said, banging a clasped fist against her chest, her voice rising. “And then tomorrow I want you to come back to this school and I want you to
do
with me. I want you to help me do things to make sure that this will not happen again. Not on our watch. Not at our school. Not at Westport. Never again!”

Over a thousand teenagers roared in the way that only a thousand teenagers can. It sounded again like the roof might fall into the gymnasium.

I realized that Katherine wasn’t sitting beside me anymore. She had slipped away somewhere. But off at the far end of the gym, by the doors that led to the athletic offices, I caught a glimpse of Coach Stevens. He was silent, standing there as I walked toward him.

I stood in front of him for what seemed like forever.

“Beth?” he said. Only it was a question. And in that question, everything I was afraid of came blazing to the surface. Coach Stevens reached out his arms to hug me. “I know you loved my niece,” he said, so softly I thought for a moment that I’d imagined it.

Slowly, I looked back over my shoulder. Macie, Brad, and Jillian were standing in the circle painted in the center of the gym, watching me.

I turned back to Coach Stevens, frozen, my mind racing. He just stood there with his arms out—an invitation, really. I wanted to run into them, to hug him, to tell him the whole story, to let him know that it would be okay. To cry onto his warm-up jacket until the tears ran out.

Instead, I turned toward the exit in the corner by his office, and for the second time that day, I ran.

8. JAKE

When Jillian and I were little, before we could speak words you’d recognize, we spoke our own language. Dad told me about it one time when we were painting the new cabinets he’d put up in the garage.

“What would we say?” I asked him.

“Who knows?” he said with a chuckle. “But you were definitely communicating. The two of you would laugh and sing and jabber and talk yourselves to sleep. Sometimes it would take hours. But you never cried. You were happy as clams just being with each other.”

Dad paused while he poured paint from a five-gallon bucket into a roller tray. He put down the bucket and turned to wipe his hands on a rag, and glanced out toward the street.

“So funny . . . ,” he said softly. “Best one ever. Best moment of my life,” he said, smiling. “Your mom and I leaning over the
counter with a cheap bottle of red, eating take-out stir fry, and listening to you and your sister giggling over that little baby monitor walkie-talkie. We would never have planned on twins. Sometimes life gives you what you need, not what you think you want.”

I caught a drip with the brush before it rolled off the cabinet door. “I wonder what we were saying?”

“Dunno,” he said, dipping a brush into the paint and edging out some inside shelves. “I always told your mom that you were giving Jillian NFL stats, but secretly I liked to think that you were telling her that you had her back—that everything was going to be okay.”

•  •  •

Today everything is not okay. Today nothing feels like it will ever be right again.

Mom called her assistant when she found me in the kitchen, and told him to clear her schedule for the morning. She kicked off her shoes and sat down on the rug at the kitchen sink and just held me for a minute. It felt so weird. I’ve been taller than she is since I was in eighth grade, but I just sat there and cried into her shoulder.

Then she got up and made me some hot chocolate. She didn’t ask me any questions. She didn’t tell me what to do. She just sat there with me. She listened when I talked. She was quiet when I didn’t.

Finally, I told her I had to go to school. I told her I had to
find Jillian. She didn’t try to make me stay home. She didn’t say that it would be okay. She didn’t say anything at all except “I love you.” Then she dashed off a note to Principal Jenkins and slipped it to me along with a kiss as I walked out the door.

It was almost noon when I got in my car, and I had four texts from Brad asking where I was. I texted him
on my way
and drove to school.

•  •  •

Lunch was in full swing when I showed up. I checked in at the office and dropped off the note that Mom had written me, then headed to my locker. When I walked up to it, Brad saw me and was at my elbow almost immediately, as I watched Jillian, Macie, Krista, and Katherine head down the stairs to lunch in the cafeteria.

“Hey,” he said. “C’mon, let’s get some food.”

“I’m not hungry,” I said, following Brad toward the stairs where the girls had disappeared.

“Hold up, man,” Brad said. “Are you okay?”

“No,” I said, suddenly angry. “I’m not okay.”

Brad held up both hands as we walked into the mayhem of the cafeteria. “I’m not the enemy,” he said quietly. “And neither is Jillian.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I snapped, a little too loudly. A couple of girls at the table near the door turned around, and Brad pulled me over by the bank of vending machines. Macie had led a charge in the student council last
fall to dump the Doritos and Cokes. Now the glass of the shiny new machines gleamed over Caesar salads and fruit juices.

“C’mon, Jake,” Brad whispered. “Not here. I know you had a thing for Leslie, but it’s not Jillian’s fault that she’s dead. Or Macie’s, for that matter. It’s Leslie’s fault. Plain and simple.”

I leveled my gaze at the table across the room. Macie had seen us and was glancing over at us every few seconds—watching us but pretending not to.

“Besides, Jake. She just wasn’t that into you, man. She barely gave you the time of day for the last few months.”

I looked at Brad. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “Jillian knows something about what happened last night. I’m guessing your girlfriend does, too. Leslie was supposed to go to her aunt’s in Portland.”

“How do you know?” Brad asked.

“Because I talked to her last night. She was supposed to call me when she got there. She never left her garage,” I said. I took a deep breath. I could feel a choking feeling in the back of my throat.

Brad put a hand on my shoulder. “Jake, there’s no way to explain this. It doesn’t make sense, because killing yourself is . . . senseless. It’s a crazy thing to do. Nothing about it is logical.”

“And you know what’s even less logical?” I asked. “Me leaving her house at eleven thirty last night with her set to drive to Portland, and Leslie being dead in her garage this morning.
What happened between the time I left and the moment she decided to sit in her garage and breathe car exhaust until she didn’t wake up, Brad?”

“I don’t know, man,” Brad said.

“I’ll bet you and Jillian and Macie do,” I said.

“Now is not the time, Jake,” Brad said, grabbing my arm as I headed toward their table by the windows.

I shook free of his grip on my arm. “It’s as good a time as any.”

9. JILLIAN

I knew that Jake was in the cafeteria before I saw Macie catch a glimpse of him, and then pretend that she hadn’t. That’s the thing about being a twin: Somehow you know. It’s not magical; it’s powerful. The difference being that magic doesn’t exist, but power does.

Power exists for Macie in the way that she orchestrates the moments in her life. For Brad, the power is there in his kiss—in the moments when he feels like he’s given Macie the slip. Between Jake and me there is this power of knowing—this real, deep knowing.

I knew the minute he fell in love with Leslie Gatlin that summer after eighth grade. He came back to the hotel suite. Mom and Dad were asleep in their room, and I had opened the sliding glass door off the balcony to listen to the surf pound
the sand. I was standing there on the balcony in a hoodie and shorts when he walked into the room.

“Hey,” I heard him say behind me, softly.

“Hey,” I said without turning around. I could feel the moonlight reflecting off my cheeks. I licked my lips and tasted the salt in the air that had settled in the fine mist.

We were quiet for a while, listening to the swoosh-crash of the waves.

“Is Leslie a good kisser?” I asked without looking at him.

“Yeah,” he said softly.

There was no protest or denial. He knew that I knew.

I glanced behind me and saw his big, goofy grin. His nose was a little red from sunburn, and it looked like he was blushing even though I knew he wasn’t. Jake isn’t that guy. He’s never embarrassed of anything.