You Don't Even Know Me (5 page)

We don't have cells. We can't afford them. And I'm with him all the time, unless I'm at school. “Dad! Dad!” I'm screaming.

People want to know if I'm okay.

“No,” I say, when the fourth person asks.

“Was your dad wearing a red shirt with a white collar?” a man asks.

I just look at him.

“Was he a big guy—fat?” His arms go out in both directions like my dad is the size of a tank.

“Yeah.”

He points up the street. “I saw him, sitting by the curb. The heat got to him, I think. So some people helped him to his feet; got him over to a table back there.”

I take off. Yelling for him the whole way. Finally, at this restaurant where the sign out front has a picture of a fish with a pipe between his lips, I see Pops, sitting, fanning himself. Six glasses of ice water are on the table. People are asking if he's okay. Willie would call me a baby, but I hug him so hard he has to ask me to let him breathe.

He's okay, a few people say. “Almost passed out, but we held on to him.”

They're standing around Pops like they know him. “He said you were up the street. We were just coming for you.”

A woman in a black halter and a guy in a suit ask Pops if he wants to go to the hospital. “We'll call an ambulance, or take you ourselves.”

“We have to get sneakers.”

“No we don't,” I say.

He drinks more ice water. “Yeah, we do. I promised.”

I don't want them now. “Willie's getting the same ones, the exact same color.”

“You gonna look better in yours,” he says, trying to stand.

One man's name is Neil. He bends down. He's got a solution. “Let me drive you two up there. I'll stick around. Drive you home, too.”

I look at him. Pops does too. “My car . . .”

His wife asks for our car keys. “I'll follow my husband and we'll get that home too. Just tell me where it is.”

“I swear. I am so embarrassed.” He digs in his pocket for the keys. The ad falls out. “Gonna lose this weight. I swear. I promise.”

The guy stands. So does his wife. They start to help Pops get up; I do too. Then three other guys walk over. “Need some help?”

I always help my dad. But I can't do it by myself, not today. “Sure,” I say, watching them help Pops to the car.

He is wider than our washing machine and dryer put side by side. But his smile is even bigger than that when the people walking with us ask him about me. Everything hurts on him, I can tell. But he keeps his head up. And he winks at me when he tells them I made high honor roll last semester. “For the fifth year in a row.”

I think about Willie. I think about all my friends and what they will say when we get home and they see strangers helping Pops into the house. But Pops is thinking about my sneakers. “They still got the red ones, right?”

“Right.” I squeeze into the back of the car—a silver Mercedes 360 with a sunroof. I lean close to his head, listening to him breathe, once he gets in. “They're the best sneakers in the store,” I tell him.

“For the best boy in the world,” he says.

Willie would say I'm a wuss, a punk, or something worse, but I move even closer and kiss my dad on the side of his neck. I am not embarrassed. This is my father. I'm his son. And we're doing alright, thank you very much.

Pimples

Mom telling me I stink

Girls saying I ain't—

Tall enough

Fly enough

That I can't jump and shoot the ball high enough

That's me

Stuck in puberty

Shaving hairs I ain't even got

Waving at girls that say I better not tell nobody
that they know me

Living in the shower

Hiding magazines

Staying up half the night looking at websites not meant for me

Texting girls who never text me back

Knowing I would never treat them like that

Glasses on my nose

Braces on my teeth

Everyone complaining how I eat and eat and eat

But who cares how unfair life can be?

Stuck in puberty

All alone

Just me
and me.

My father leaves the office every day at ten p.m.

My mother complains,

But tomorrow he'll do the same thing again.

Walk in late,

Kiss her on the face,

Ask about my day,

Pray over microwave chicken, asparagus sticks,
and mashed potatoes from a bag.

Dag.

You'd think he could do better than that.

Nov. 15

SOME GUYS KEEP DIARIES. My brother TJ says only punks do. Well, I don't have to keep hiding my diaries from people now. I'm done with 'em; for good. Done with everything, even waking up every day pretending like living is fun.

Nov. 18

I was gonna give Derrick my iPod, but he says it's too old. He's seven; everything is older than he is. Little brothers are a pain.

Nov. 20

I think I'm gonna to do it; on Christmas Day. Reynolds says absolutely not. I'll ruin everyone's Christmas forever. I know. But that's my favorite holiday. I won't be afraid if I do it then. The turkey will be in the oven, stuffed. The ham will be done and so will the pies. I usually hate it when Aunt Betty cooks chitlins. They stink. But I won't mind this year. I want it to be that way, all the smells that I'm used to, hanging around the house when it happens.

Nov. 21

Mom wants me to take an SAT prep course. Why?

Nov. 22

I don't know what I'm gonna do with Justin's things. They're still in his closet. Reynolds won't take clothes—not mine, not Justin's for sure. He says it's morbid. But he took some CDs, the tennis racket I got last summer, and some games. Here's what I'm wondering. If I had gone first, would Justin be trying to follow me? I think he would. A half a twin is never a whole person.

Nov. 23

Here's what I figured. It's gotta be quick. It can't involve blood. And pills are out of the question.

Nov. 24

Reynolds wants to know why I don't blog. Diaries are for you. Blogs are for everyone else. Justin would understand. He was sorta different, too, carrying that dictionary on him all the time. Everything had to be perfect, even his spelling. Now here I am trying to be like him and hating it. That spelling club I joined makes things even worse. Now for sure people at school will say I am weird.

Nov. 25

Thanksgiving.

I was having fun, and then Mr. E showed up. It wasn't fair,
him
being there, ruining everything. Before we ate we had to say what we remembered and loved about Justin. I skipped my turn. Dad asked if I was okay. I told him I was
perfect.
That was Justin's favorite word. His biggest lie, too. If he was perfect he'd still be here, alive, telling everybody at the table what happened to him.

Nov. 27

I have to slow down on my giving. Mom was in my room, and she wanted to know where my things were. I said the first thing that came to my mind: that Reynolds's dad got laid off. She kissed me for being a good friend. Then she went to Justin's closet. It's still full.
Do you think Reynolds wants some of these, too?
she asked me.

They haven't gotten rid of any of his things. They try, but it's for me to do, I tell them. I'm the only one who knows who should get what. But every time I start to do it, I have to stop. His smells are still in his clothes, so how can I throw 'em away? Mom and Dad don't fight me on it, because they don't want to go through his things anyhow. Besides, they have me—an exact copy—not the real thing, but just as good—to keep them from being so sad.

Nov. 29

Somebody is telling my business. A girl at school walked up to me, asking if it was true that I was going to kill myself. I told her that just because Justin and I are twins doesn't mean we do everything alike. She said she was glad because it would be awful if I did it too. Awful is being all by yourself, without your shadow. Awful is being in the spelling club when you know you aren't a good speller, and being sad all the time too.

Sometimes I hate him for what he did.

Nov. 30

Saw Mr. E. Crossed the street as fast as I could. He had a lot of nerve trying to speak to me.

Dec. 1

I bought a rope today.

Dec. 2

TJ came into our room. He just stood there watching TV with me for a while. He was trying to be nice, I think. He told me I could go shoot pool with him and his friends. But I've made up my mind. I will clear out Justin's closet today.

Dec. 2, 1:30 a.m.

All of his pockets are empty. No change. No candy, lint—nothing. That's how Justin is. Was. Perfect. Liar. Everything always looked just right. But it wasn't. He could have told me, though. No secrets, we always said. Then he swallows Mom's pills; downs a pint on top of that. I could kill him, if he wasn't dead. Lots of people had it worse than him. Like me. It's worse for me. Now I don't have anybody to talk to about it.

Dec. 2, 2:38 a.m.

Found something today.
The Astronomers Club Handbook
. TJ saw me reading it on the john. Dad made us join that dumb club. Mr. E said it would be good for us. He lied.

Dec. 3

Reynolds says if he were me, he'd poison himself.
Ropes hurt
. He was lying across Justin's bed when he said it. He's the only one besides family that I'd let do that. We three hung out together. “The weird club,” TJ called us. We had telescopes and stars, our laptops and Madden games. And when it got too tough at school, we had each other.

I feel bad for Reynolds. He doesn't know why I'm doing this. When I'm gone, he'll be mad, just like I was when I found out why Justin killed himself. Reynolds isn't in the astronomy club. Never has been. His father didn't like the looks of Mr. E. I keep trying to tell Reynolds. I try to tell my parents too about what Mr. E. did. But I can't. It's my fault. I had a feeling that something wasn't right. Mr. E liked his curls too much.

Dec. 4, 3 p.m.

TJ caught me burning my old diaries. He gave me this funny look.
Why?

I ran out of things to say.

He told Dad that something was up with me. Dad spent two hours in my room, talking, mostly about Justin. He still can't figure out why Justin did it.

I see why Justin didn't tell on Mr. E. It's hard to say out loud that you were . . . that somebody made you . . . I can't even write the words. Hate to think about it. What's it matter now, anyhow? He killed us both.

Dec. 4, 6 p.m.

I wish they would quit coming in here, sitting in my room, watching me.
What's bugging you? If you do some
thing crazy, it will kill us
, they say.
I am not crazy
.
I am perfect
. That did it for them. They are calling the doctor tomorrow and making an appointment for me. But I already have an appointment.

Dec. 4, 10 p.m.

They're baaaack. They came up with a date for clearing out the rest of Justin's things. January 1.
A new year
.
A new start
. Dad came up with that one. Mom opened Justin's closet and said it looked like he was spending the night at a friend's and would be coming home any minute. She picked up his spelling bee medals. She thanked me for keeping his side of the room so neat and dusted. I have to. In his letter he asked me to keep everything in place. I'm not like him. My side of the room used to always stay messy. It's hard, keeping it this way— perfect. I try to do what he wanted, except for one thing. I never did give Jennifer her letter. Mom and Dad got theirs. I got mine, so did Reynolds. But not her.
Don't Read This, James
he wrote on the outside of her envelope. He should have known better. Jennifer was not his best friend. Jennifer was not his twin. She wasn't even a girl that would date someone like him, so why did he tell her what Mr. E did to him? If he had told me earlier, he'd be alive. And Mr. E. . . . we woulda figured out what to do with him. Sometimes I wonder if the other kids in the club know how much he likes the planetarium.

Dec. 4, 11:59 p.m.

The note. I woke up thinking about it. Can't forget what it said. I think he wrote it to her 'cause I didn't listen when he tried to tell me all those times.
You never listen
. He always said that to me.
I don't want to hear about Mr. E, Justin,
I said the night before he committed suicide. Complaining about Mr. E and his boring astronomy club was our thing. Skipping astronomy club meetings twice a month was my thing. Justin, you always covered for me. Made up a good reason why I wasn't there. Mr. E never told or complained. Now I know why.

Dec. 6

No school today. Too much snow. I rode my sled. I used the snowblower on our neighbors' pavement, then went with Reynolds to shovel sidewalks when I ran out of gas. We made ninety bucks each. I bought Derrick a new video game. It was a good day.

Dec. 7

More snow. I wish it would quit. Too much snow means I spend more time in my room. I dusted and waxed. Then I got mad at Justin because that is him, not me. The other day I was in the kitchen putting food away for Mom. I put the soup away just like he did—alphabetical order, six rows behind the baked beans, Capri Sun, and the crackers. TJ is right. Justin was weird. I am weird. Now I'm weird all by myself.

Dec. 7, 6:30 p.m.

He texted me. I deleted it. Then I went to the bathroom and puked.

Dec. 8

My cooking teacher asked me to stay after class today. She says there is this crazy rumor about me planning to do something stupid. People don't like to say suicide. Reynolds says
When you do it,
or
When you bite the bullet
. I took out my cell and showed Mrs. Miller a picture of my Wii game, the one I already gave away
. I just got this. And nobody's gonna end up with it but me
. She is the best. She took some cold spaghetti out of the fridge, and she and I ate it. I hate lying to her. She is the person I go to a lot here. She's not like other grown-ups— your secrets are safe with her.

Dec. 9

There's a website with a clock on it, for people like me. You set the day. You set the month. You kill yourself right on time. That's ghoulish. It should be against the law, too. When I write my note and tell people why I did what I did, I'll bring up that clock. When you are planning to kill yourself, you have a clock ticking in your head already. It doesn't bother you, that clock. It excites you; calms you sort of, knowing that it will all be over soon. But a clock on the Web counting dead bodies around the world—that's just plain wrong.

Dec. 10

Sheryl Mitchell called me. She never called me in her whole entire life. No girl has. She wanted to know if it was true. I made her come right out and ask, not hint around like she was doing. She never knew anyone who had done it before, so she asked how I was going to do it. I lied and said I hadn't made up my mind.
When I know, would I tell her?
she asked.
Not that I think you should do it. But if you are going to do it, I want to put it on my blog
.
I like to be first on things
. I had to think about that one. Then I said sure. I would call her right before I did it. Then she could e-mail everyone else. That's a good plan, I think. It saves me the trouble of setting my computer to send e-mail afterward.

Dec. 11

If you want girls to blow up your cell, just tell one of them that you're going to kill yourself. That's what I was thinking today when Sarinda called me. I've never given her my number. I didn't ask how she got it. She just said she had
heard
. And she was calling to cheer me up. She was the second girl to call in two days. I'm thinking that more girls will text or call. I was never popular. I'm starting to be, I guess.

Dec. 11, noon

I'm supposed to see a therapist next week. Mr. E needs a therapist, not me.

Dec. 11, 2:30 pm.

I won't do what Justin did. I will leave my diary for my folks. They will read it and find out about Mr. E. And do what? Something horrible . . . I want something bad to happen to him.

Dec. 11, 4 p.m.

I think I want to have a party. Reynolds says I need to say good-bye to people before I go. He's right. Justin didn't do that. He just mopped the kitchen, cleaned our room, and left.

Bad news
, say my parents. Good news to me. Therapist is on hold. Insurance problems.

Dec. 12

No mistakes. Everything must be one hundred percent perfect.

Dec. 12, 11:50 a.m.

I was in the bathtub when I remembered. The first time Justin met Mr. E he was afraid of him. Dad left us with him at the club. I caught him rubbing Justin's curls. Three years in that club. Three years of him hurting Justin, or was it two years, or six months? My brain won't shut up. I still have a million questions for you, bro. So I have to go and be with you; to say in person that I'm sorry; to ask you when it started and was it my fault . . . I hated astronomy club. Stars aren't as much fun as racing cars or playing video games. That's what I thought.

Dec. 13