By the Time You Read This, I'll Be Dead Page 4

  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.

  Do
esn’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.

  — 16 DAYS —

  There’s chorus rehearsal before school at 7:30 a.m. I’d circled it on Mom’s schedule of events. The visual emptiness of my life, as it draws to a close.

  “I don’t get why you signed up for choral performance,” she says as she backs out of the carport and into the street. “I wish you could explain that to me. There are so many other clubs and activities. Are you trying to draw attention to your—” She stops.

  Failure? Abnormality? No, Mom. You do that for me by making me go to doctor after doctor and school after school.

  It’s just a joke, okay? Call it a tribute to Dad.

  I keep my eyes on the road. Eyes on the road, Mom.

  She gulps a breath, like she’s losing it. God, don’t cry. You see what good that does.

  I’m sorry you don’t get it, Mom. Sometimes I don’t get why I do the things I do. I just know I wake up every morning and wish I was dead.

  In chorus, standing there pretending to belong is part of my punishment. The other girls stare at me. I hear what they call me—the weird girl. The freak. They don’t even bother to wait until I’m out of earshot to tell Mr. Hyatt they think it’s ridiculous to let a mute girl sing in chorus.

  They’re right. But I want them—I want everyone—to see what they’ve reduced me to. A sick joke.

  “She doesn’t even mouth the words,” JenniferJessica says. She’s that mean girl from the restroom. Mr. Hyatt mumbles something about electives. Acceptance of everyone.

  JenniferJessica goes, “Couldn’t you at least put her in the back row?”

  I’d laugh at that if I could. I’m short, so I have to stand in front. Factoid, JenniferJessica. It’s not about you.

  We’re singing Bach’s Minuet in G, which Mr. Hyatt arranged himself for our May Day concert. It’s one of my favorite songs. I close my ears and block it out.

  He’s there, sitting on the bench, in my spot.

  Waiting for me.

  I know what it means when they wait for you.

  Sixteen days, then the waiting is over.

  I could stand inside the gate and hope he leaves. Or go back to the restroom. I hate the girls’ restroom. I hate every second in school.

  Irritated with myself, with my weakness, I push on the gate. He twists his head and smiles. “The beautiful mystery girl returns.”

  What a line. If he thinks I don’t know what he’s doing, he’s dumber than I thought. I take out my notebook and write on the back cover, “Get off my bench.”

  He says, “Excuse me?”

  I shove the notebook in his face. He grabs it and my pen. He writes, “I’ll have you know this is my bench. I saw it first.”

  I take back the notebook. He’s so juvenile. I don’t know what to say, or do. I give him my dead zone gaze.

  He says, “But I’m willing to share.” He scoots over. Not far enough.

  His teasing eyes hold no allure. Except now my stomach feels all fluttery. STOP. I stand a minute, sort of unsteady. Then my knees fail me. My skin, bones, nerves. Betrayal. For a fleeting instant, I wish I was still fat. I’d slam down on the bench and the repercussion would send him soaring.

  Maybe he’d land on his thick head.

  “Hervé wanted to come, but he’s grieving. He’s having a hard time getting over the death of his brother. Have a seat.” He sweeps his hand above the bench corner, over my spot.

  I swallow and it hurts my throat. The operation to repair my esophagus was a nightmare. I wish I didn’t have to wear the brace, but I need it, especially now, to remind me of my mission.

  “It was a natural death. Old age. Hervé’s actually beating the odds.” He’s inched away from my corner while talking.

  Thank you.

  “Which gives me hope,” he adds.

  Whatever that means.

  Despite my instincts and my better judgment, my determination and iron will, I lower myself to perch on the bench. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out my book. Handing it to me, he says, “An enjoyable read. I want to know what happens in the first two hundred pages, though. Why are you tearing them out?”

  I don’t take the book, and I don’t answer.

  “All right,” he goes. “I won’t ruin the ending for you except to say Maggie Louise makes her choice. With an excessive amount of bosom heaving, of course.”

  The book is ruined now. He touched it. No telling where his hands have been. I’ve read it twice before anyway.

  “She doesn’t exactly redeem herself at the end,” he adds. “I mean, she doesn’t even apologize to Charles.”

  Why should she? I think. Charles deserves everything he gets.

  I write in my notebook on a blank page, “There IS no redemption.” I hold it up for him to read.

  “For her?” he says. “Or him?”

  I pull down the notebook and write, “For any of us.”

  He frowns. “You think?”

  I write, “Therefore, I am.”

  He laughs. He has a rumbling laugh, like thunder.

  Now I’m mad at myself for engaging him. He’ll think I like him, and I don’t.

  He scoots closer and I edge away. He stops, scoots back, and sets my book between us on the bench. I reach into my book bag, which I’m keeping on my lap just in case I need to make a sudden and welcome departure. I pull out Desire on the Moor.

  His head swoops down and around on his giraffe-like neck to check out the title. “Ah,” he says. “The saga continues.”

  I open the book and start to read chapter one. He slides all the way over to the opposite end of the bench and falls off.

  I almost smile, then catch myself. Chapter one. Magnolia Louise Delacroix awoke with a start. Would she find her Camelot today?

  Behind me, he goes, “Beautiful mystery girl on the bench, reading.”

  He’s shallow if he believes I’ll buy that line, or any line, or that I’m reading these books because I resemble Maggie Louise in any way. Maggie Louise is the one who’s beautiful and mysterious. She’s powerful and strong. She always felt her Camelot was Charles, but lately he’d been pre
occupied. And not with her.

  Boy sighs. Coming around the bench, he drops to the grass in front of me, rests an arm across one bent knee and says, “Since you asked, no, I don’t go to school. I’ve been homeschooled all my life. I graduated early. Now I’m taking some time off, doing a pre-law course online. Everything you need to know can be accessed, digested, downloaded, podcast, and open sourced. Do you Wiki?”

  When you Wiki suicide methods, your parents find out. They search your Google history and shut you down. Right now they could be tracing my access to Through-the-Light. I’m worried.

  Homeschooled. How lucky. I wonder if it was his choice or his parents’. He’s a combination nerd, geek, and dork. Plus, his ears stick out. Was he teased mercilessly and his parents were more sensitive, more sympathetic than mine?

  He goes, “I hacked into the national weather service, but if you really want a mind freak, check out the patents at the U.S. Patent Office. I’ll send you the link, if you have a computer.”

  I force myself to read.

  “Do you? I pretty much spend all my time online.”

  That makes me glance up. He’s a cyber mole, like me.

  He leans back on both elbows and extends his legs. “Do you know there are 4,014 patents for different types of toilets? My favorite is the unisex activewear garment with fly flap.”

  Fly flap?

  “That’s right. Fly flap.”

  Stop reading my mind.

  There’s something about his voice I can’t block out. His long, lean legs. I pinch my own nerve endings to numb all sensation and read, Fog rolling in off the moor sent a chill up Maggie Louise’s spine. She closed the shutters and scurried back to bed. Charles stirred, then rolled over and drew her into his arms.

  “Maybe we could IM.”

  I shrivel inside like a raisin. I’ll never IM anyone again.

  “My screen name is—”

  Mom’s here. I pack my bag.

  “Wait.” He scrabbles to stand and chases me to the curb.

  I fling open the door.

  He catches the strap on my book bag and I yank on it. But he only lifts the flap in front and inserts my book. My fouled Desire in the Mist.