“Brooke Danvers?” Mr. Clemons came out of his office. The top of his head was bald, but the rest of his head was clinging to the wisps of graying hair around the sides. He was shorter than me, and I’d only spoken to him three times throughout my entire high school existence—at the end of each year, when I was finalizing my class schedule for the following school year. I was hoping our little powwow wouldn’t take long. I wanted to just begin the school day already so that it could end and I could go home.
I stepped inside his office, and he closed the door behind us before taking a seat at his desk and shuffling some papers around. As I sat in one of the round chairs in front of him, I realized that his office smelled a bit like cinnamon rolls. My stomach rumbled. Maybe I should have eaten more at breakfast. I was mostly just feeling nauseous at the idea of coming back to school. But I’d taken my meds. Mom might let me get out the door without downing a huge breakfast, but she was damn sure going to make me swallow those pills.
Mr. Clemons leaned over his desk on his forearms, folding his fingers together neatly. He tilted his head and opened his eyes just a bit wider. This was what I called the how-are-you pose. It was inevitably followed by “How are you, Brooke? I mean, since your little accident.”
I bristled. A. It hadn’t been an accident. B. Clearly my mother had told the school about my suicide attempt, which was just awesome. And 3. I was fairly sure that Mr. Clemons didn’t really give a crap about how I was. I didn’t take well to gossips like him, and I sure as hell wasn’t about to update my high school counselor on the reality of my mental health situation. So I opened my mouth and lied. I was getting good at it. Not that he was deserving of anything intricate. Just a simple lie. Just enough to let him know that I was done with this line of conversation and that it was none of his business. “I’m fine.”
He nodded slowly, disappointment filling his expression. I guess he’d have to chitchat about local news and sports in the lounge this afternoon. “I see. Well, I’m glad to hear it. Are you on any medications that I should be aware of?”
“As I don’t take any medication during school hours . . . No. None that you should be aware of.”
The corner of his mouth twitched and he nodded slowly, formulating the words in his mind before unleashing the Dr. Phil–ness into the world. “Your parents have sent along a letter stating that you should be kept from sharp objects and the like. I thought you should be made aware that we here at Eleos High have nothing but your best interests and safety in mind, so we’ll make certain that such . . . such . . . uhh . . . temptations . . . remain out of reach as best as we are able to.”
Great. Just what I needed. Twenty-four-hour surveillance.
The paper cranes shifted around uncomfortably. Pills were out. Sharp objects were out. We were being watched and needed a new plan. Fast.
Mr. Clemons lowered his voice, despite the fact that the door was closed and no one else could hear. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m available to talk. About anything that might be troubling you. I wanted to reach out and tell you that I care, and I’m here for you if you need me.”
Angry breath caught in my throat, burning its way down into my chest. He had a lot of nerve saying so, when we both knew he was full of it. “Really?”
He nodded again, leaning forward and looking at me with doe eyes. This was his chance. Get all the dirty details and be the popular guy at the gossip table. My guess was that Mr. Clemons had certainly not been the popular guy in his high school days. The eagerness emanating from him was making me even more nauseous. “Absolutely.”
I clenched my jaw and glanced at the poster that was hanging on the wall behind his desk. It featured an enormous image of a rainbow and the phrase “Minds are like parachutes—they work best when open.” When I looked back at Mr. Clemons, my left eye twitched. I said, “If you cared so much about me, then where were you when things were falling apart? Why didn’t you notice? Why didn’t you help me?”
Not that I’d wanted his help, but if he was going to sit here now and pretend to give a single fuck about me, I was going to lay it on thick and call him out on his bullshit. Not today, Dr. Phil. Not today.
His doe eyes suddenly widened as my accusing headlights reached him. “I . . .”
His words trailed off, and I stood and slung my backpack over my shoulder. “You don’t care. You don’t even know me, apart from what classes I’m taking. You’re just nosy. So if you don’t mind, I’m going to class now.”
Mr. Clemons took his time pulling the small pad of yellow paper closer to him. As he scribbled his signature on the hall pass for me, he said, “You’re wrong, Brooke. I do care. Everyone who knows you cares.”
“That explains all the cards and flowers I received at the hospital.” I snatched the paper from his outstretched hand. “FYI, I got one card and one bouquet of flowers. The flowers were from my parents. And the card was from Duckie. So the rest of you can kiss my—”
“Brooke.”
It was stupid, this discussion. Stupid and utterly pointless. What I’d done wasn’t about getting attention or making people notice me. It wasn’t a plea for help or an exclamation of my inner pain. It was about erasing myself from existence. It was about ending my pain altogether. I was sick of myself, sick of my life, sick of everything and everyone around me. I was tired. Tired of trying to fit in. Tired of living. Only I couldn’t even get suicide right. And nobody cared that I was still alive. Oh, they would have wept at my funeral, I’m sure. People like Claire, the head cheerleader, would have hugged people like David, president of the anime club, and cried together over my open casket. For a few hours, there would be no divisions between the kids with money and the kids without. For a few hours, popularity wouldn’t matter and people would say things like “She was so young” and “I just don’t understand.” For a few hours, the world would seem to change in the light of such a tragedy. But it would be back to business the following school day. Because death changes nothing—it just makes people scared of their own eventuality.
I knew, because I’d been to two funerals for kids I went to school with. And each experience was an exact replica of the other. Those kids lived and died, and all they had to show for it was a page in the yearbook. But at least they didn’t have to put up with the bullshit anymore.
As I walked out of the office with that yellow slip of paper in my hand, the cranes flipped Mr. Clemons off, and when we passed the front desk, they flipped Mrs. Kellog off too for good measure.
I moved down the empty hall, past the green-gray lockers to room 131. As I reached out to open the door, I felt my breath lock inside my lungs. There was no turning back now.
Suddenly I was standing on the edge of the stone bridge in the middle of the night. The water below rushed under the bridge, beckoning to me. I leaned forward past my tipping point, and right before my feet left the ground, I thought, There’s no turning back now.
I opened the door. Ms. Naples stopped midsentence as she looked up at me. All eyes were on me as I moved forward and gave her the hall pass in my hand. Someone in the back of the class cleared their throat, but that was the only sound besides the increased beating of my heart. Ms. Naples flashed me that concerned look that I’d been expecting to find on her face. I was sure I’d see it at least once a class today. Seven classes. Seven teachers. Seven concerned expressions. It was enough to make me long for that quick escape that Duckie had mentioned earlier. She took my hall pass and whispered, “Welcome back, Brooke.”