screwed guys who were too stupid to know girls could have them? I had to lie to her then, if only so I could make my point.
I wish I hadn’t now.
I wish I could have told her she was right about the guys I picked. I wish I could have told her that having one scared the shit out of me.
I pushed and then shoved at Patrick till I was free, getting up and throwing on my clothes as I rushed out the door we’d snuck through. I looked back once. I don’t know why I did. He was just sitting there, staring after me, and I saw his bewildered face, the tiny marks I’d left on the tops of his shoulders. I saw him and I wanted to go back.
I never wanted that, not ever, no matter how much I drank, and so I ran. I ran as fast as I could. I went to Julia’s car, got in and locked the doors. I curled into the backseat, into the dark.
J found me later, like she always did, and said she was sorry for earlier.
“What have you been doing?” she said, and I lied to her.
“Nothing,” I said. “I’ve just been here.”
I’m sorry about that now. I just didn’t think she’d understand. Sex was always something Julia hoped would lead to more, to really being with someone.
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I never wanted it to lead to anything. I had sex when I was drunk because it was a way to be close to someone without really being close at all. I know what people say about it, the physical and emotional intimacy of sex and whatever, but less than a minute of latex-covered flesh inside me isn’t intimate. It’s not even skin touching skin.
I don’t know why I’m thinking about this. About Patrick. It happened ages ago and it doesn’t matter. I just feel so awful about this whole stupid day and all my stupid classes, and I have to get up and do it again tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that and—
I just called Julia’s house. I had to. I didn’t say anything when her mother answered. I couldn’t find the right words, couldn’t find any words, but I guess she knew it was me. She told me she hoped I was proud of myself.
She said, “How does it feel to know you’ve taken someone’s life?” I don’t know if she meant herself or Julia’s. Maybe she meant both.
I said, “I’m sorry,” the words fi nally starting to come, but it was too late. She’d already hung up and I spoke to silence. To no one.
40
88 days
J,
Things aren’t going back to how they’ve always been at home, and it’s kind of freaking me out. Not “going to take a drink” freaking me out, though I suppose if I knew how to do drama right I’d be doing exactly that. But then I never did know how to do drama, did I? No matter how gone I was, I never confronted my parents or danced on tables. I just slumped onto sofas or chairs at parties and nodded at people or talked to you. I had sex fi ve times— three times in ninth grade, twice last year. (I know what you’re thinking, and yes, I know you know about Patrick now, because I bet you know everything, and yes, I should have told you, but I don’t want to get into that again. Okay?) When I first got to Pinewood and had to talk about the things I did while “under the influence,” I got these 41
looks, these “That’s your story? That’s all you did?”
looks.
They went away when I talked about you. What I did.
The thing at home is that my parents keep talking to me and it’s—well, it’s weird. I don’t know how to talk to them. I alternate between wanting to scream at them for not caring enough to do it sooner and wanting to tell them everything.
Everything, J. I want to tell them it’s too late and why. I want to tell them I feel lost. I want to tell them how creepy it is to be in classes with the grade-obsessed freaks. It sucks that you had to die before they realized that maybe they should try talking to their own kid once in a while.
Let me illustrate the weirdness. This was the conversation I had with my mother yesterday after she drove me home from school:
Mom: [calling] Amy. [long pause] Honey. (Apparently, she’s trying to get the hang of the endearment thing too.) Where are you? Maybe we should talk about your—oh.
You’re in the kitchen.
Yours Truly: Yeah. Remember, we came in here about five minutes ago? You watched me sit down and said you were going to put your bag away?
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Mom: Of course! I just thought you might have gone up to your room.
YT: Oh, I can. I mean, I will. Just let me get my stuff and—
Mom: No, no, stay. [sits down] How was your day?
YT: Um. Fine.
Mom: How are your classes?
YT: Fine.
