Suicide Notes

sounds so stupid, like the big moment in one of those cheesy made-for-TV movies where the kid who ran away from home and became a hooker does a giant boo-hoo after her mother fights off her pimp with an umbrella to get her off the street. I couldn’t say those things, even if I was thankful for what they did. And I was. I mean I am. Thankful. Sort of. On good days.

What I did say was that I was sorry for making them worry. That seemed like a good compromise, right in between the stony, uncommunicative teen-ager and the cry-till-your-nose-runs breakdown I could have gone with. I said I was sorry that they were afraid for me and reassured them that everything was okay now.

I should have left out that last part about everything being okay now, because that’s one of those statements the doc jumps on like a cat on a mouse.

Sure enough, he said, “What’s different about how you are today from how you were that night?”

Oh, man. He pushed me right into that one. Here we were back at the big Why? I was supposed to show how much I’d learned about myself, and they were supposed to get some answer to explain it all. But like I keep saying, there is no big reason.

I had to say something, though, so I said, “I guess I’ve learned that no matter how bad things get, there are always people who love you.”

I won’t blame you if you stop to go throw up right about now. I know I would. But it sounds pretty good, right? If you were my parents, you’d buy it. And they did. I felt a little bad when I saw the look on my mother’s face. She seemed really relieved, like she’d been worried all along that the reason I tried to off myself was because I thought she didn’t love me. But that was never it. I know she and my father love me. This was never about them.

I think Cat Poop knew I was handing them a big pile of crap and calling it a present, because he pushed me even further and said, “How would you handle things differently now, Jeff?”

What I wanted to say was, “I’d lock my door.” I was getting tired of having to make everyone feel better. I’m sorry I freaked everyone out. I’m sorry my parents are sad about it. But it’s over. Can we all move on?

I thought for a minute or two until I wasn’t quite so steamed, then I said, “I’d talk to somebody.” I didn’t say who. I just said I would talk to somebody. That way they could each think I meant them.

It was the right answer, I guess, because Cat Poop finished with the third degree and moved on to some other stuff. It wasn’t anything exciting, so I won’t go into it. Basically, he talked to us about better ways to communicate. Blah. Blah. Blah.

I was really thrilled when it was all over and my parents went home. I was even more thrilled to go back to my room. Let me tell you, writing a report on Lord of the Flies, which is what I was doing for my English class assignment, is way better than spending an hour with the doc and my parents. Given a choice between discussing the symbolism of a pig head on a stick and discussing my feelings, I’ll take the pig head every time.

Day 23

Something totally weird just happened. I’m not even sure I want to write about it, but if I don’t I’m afraid it will just stay in my head, and I don’t want it in there.

It’s about three in the morning. I woke up a while ago and had to pee, so I walked down to the bathroom at the end of the hall. The guys’ bathroom here is like the ones at school: sinks and toilets and showers all in one big room. When I walked in, I heard one of the showers running. That was kind of strange, because people mostly shower in the morning, and we’re really not supposed to be running around at night except if we have to, you know, go.

Still, it wasn’t really a big deal. I mean, we’re all in here because we’re a little bit off in the first place, so someone deciding to shower in the middle of the night is pretty tame on the scale of things. So I started to pee, and that’s when I heard it. And by it I mean this groaning sound.

I made myself stop peeing—which is really, really hard to do when you have to go, by the way—and listened, thinking that maybe I’d just heard noises in the pipes or something. But there it was again, definitely human, and definitely coming from the shower. Now, besides me the only guy here is Rankin, so I knew it had to be him, unless one of the night attendants had suddenly decided to practice some personal hygiene. And judging from the noise, Rankin wasn’t feeling too well.

I wasn’t sure if I should ask if he was okay or just leave him alone. Then the groaning got a little louder. My bladder was about to pop, so I finished peeing and walked toward the shower. I didn’t want to scare Rankin, so I didn’t say anything. If you’re taking a shower in the middle of the night and not feeling too well, the last thing you need is someone pulling a Psycho and yanking the curtain open.

The thing about those curtains is, they don’t really cover the opening to the shower totally. There are gaps on either side, almost like the steam from the showers has made the curtains shrink. It’s not like you’re flashing the whole world when you take a shower, but you can definitely see around them.

What I saw through the crack was definitely Rankin. Too much of him, actually. I didn’t mean to, but what I saw was his hand moving back and forth somewhere around his waist, if you know what I mean. Even with all that steam, it was pretty obvious what was going on. Suddenly the groaning made sense.

I wanted to turn around and get out of there, but I couldn’t. I was afraid if I did anything, he’d hear me and think I was spying on him. Even my heart beating sounded like a drum banging away inside my chest. I just stood there, watching him but trying not to, and thinking of any way to get out of the bathroom.

It isn’t like I’ve never seen a guy with a hard-on before. Sometimes a guy in gym class will get one in the showers, and everyone points and makes fun of him and calls him a fag, but we all know it’s just what happens to guys. We can’t help it. It’s like that thing is just there and it does whatever it wants. It totally is out of our control.

And it’s not like I’ve never jacked off. I’m fifteen years old. Of course I do it. Any guy who says he doesn’t is lying. That would be like having the coolest video game ever and never playing it. No one’s that stupid.

But I’ve never seen someone else doing it. It’s one of those things you don’t really think about other people doing, probably because if you did, every time someone shook your hand you’d be thinking about what else it had been holding on to. You just don’t go there.

Only now I was there, live and in person. Not two feet away from me, Rankin was going at it like he was all alone in his bedroom with the door locked and the stereo on so no one would hear him. I could hear him getting more and more excited, and I knew what was going to happen. I could partly see his face. His eyes were closed, his mouth was sort of open, and he was breathing hard. Then he sort of grimaced, and I knew it was time to get out of there, while he was still riding high and probably wouldn’t notice if a train crashed through the wall of the bathroom.

I waited too long. I was about to turn and get out when he opened his eyes. He looked right at me. At first he just blinked a couple of times, like he thought maybe he was seeing things and needed to clear his head. Then he realized I was real, and he gave me this half smile and nodded, like we were just passing in the hallway. “Hey,” he said.

I nodded back. “Hey,” I said. Hey, like that. What an idiot. Rankin didn’t say anything else, so I turned and left.

I don’t know what I expected him to do. I don’t know what I would do if someone caught me spanking the monkey like that. Probably I’d drop dead. I know I wouldn’t just say, “Hey.”

And now I can’t get the image of Rankin out of my head. That’s the worst part. I keep picturing his hand going up and down and hearing that groaning. I feel like such a queer. I have to stop thinking about it.

Why did I have to go in there? Why did I have to see that? I can’t tell you how much I did not need to see that tonight. Or any night.

Maybe I shouldn’t make such a big deal out of it. It’s not like Rankin seems to care, so why should I? I should just try to forget it ever happened. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll go to bed and forget about it.