As usual, Duckie was sitting in the back of the room. There was an empty desk right beside his, and I was grateful he’d saved me a seat. At least he wouldn’t push me to talk about the river or why I’d done it or ask me ridiculous questions about how I was feeling. Not yet, anyway. I moved to the back of the class and Ms. Naples picked up where she’d left off, rambling on about the importance of economics or some such crap. As I took my seat, I dropped my backpack on the floor beside me.
Quentin was sitting to my left. I gave him a little wave, but he squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. I wondered how long it took for gossip to flow from the head office, all the way through the halls, permeating an entire school. Did Quentin know about my attempt? Did everyone?
Duckie leaned over and whispered, “I sure hope you plan on taking notes, because I am so over this crap, it’s ridiculous.”
Ever his hero in economics, I pulled out a notebook and scribbled down what sounded like test-worthy information. It was cool, though. I’d always saved him in any class that was even close to being math related, and he rescued me in all the sciences. We both had a strong grasp of all things word related, so we never really worried about that.
About midway through class, Ms. Naples started helping a few students with questions they had. Duckie had fallen asleep at his desk, a thin line of drool connecting his face to the books he was lying on. I made paper cranes and stared at the clock, willing it to move faster. When the bell rang at the end of class, I nudged Duckie awake and stuffed the new cranes in with the ones I’d made in the office. I imagined them nodding to one another in greeting, maybe shaking the tips of their wings together like tiny hands. They didn’t have names. They didn’t need names. The cranes were me, and I was them.
Once in the hall, Duckie and I pushed our way through the crowd like salmon swimming upstream, all the way to our lockers, which were somehow, blissfully, right next to each other this year. On the door of my locker, someone had written “RIP” in big, black letters with a Sharpie.
At first I didn’t really get why it was there—maybe someone had heard about my attempt and thought that I’d succeeded. Maybe I had died after all and high school was my eternal hell—if there was such a thing.
After a few moments of contemplation, I realized what the vandal had meant. They hadn’t meant “Rest in Peace.” They’d meant “We know, Brooke. We know you tried to kill yourself, and rather than give you reasons not to, we’re punishing you for having failed. Maybe we thought you were normal before, but now we all know what a freak you are, and we will never, ever let you forget it.”
It should have hurt, I suppose. But really, I was numb to it. It didn’t matter. I was just a ghost to them now. Despite breathing, walking, and talking—despite my heart beating in my chest—I was already dead.
Duckie’s face flushed red with anger. He muttered, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll tell the janitor and he’ll have it scrubbed away or painted over before the day is out.”
For some reason, he was good friends with all the janitors at Eleos High. Just as he’d been friends with the janitors in our middle school, and in elementary. I’d asked him once why he went out of his way to get to know them and he’d told me that they were some of the nicest people he’d ever met. He hated the way some of the kids looked down on them just because their job involved a mop and broom. Duckie was the kindest person I knew.
I stared at the thick, black letters on my locker, which had been very carefully written. Whoever wrote them took their time doing so. They wanted to drive that message home, for sure. Across the hall, Sarah Emberson and her girlfriend, Kristah Neil, were standing there exchanging whispers and gesturing to my locker. They weren’t alone. Several students had noticed the graffiti, and so had one of the office ladies who only filled in whenever somebody was sick. Maybe whoever did it was also watching now, waiting for tears to well up in my eyes and for me to run down the hall in pain. But I was beyond that sort of pain now. “It doesn’t matter, Duckie. They’ll just do it again anyway.”
Duckie leaned against the lockers and brushed a pink strand from my eyes. “It does matter. Because you’re a person, not a headline . . . or a punch line.”
I met his eyes, and for a moment, I wanted to apologize for what I’d put him through, what I was about to put him through. But then I looked away. For some things there were no words. Besides, no one could know that suicidal plans were still brewing inside of me. Because if someone had even a hint of an idea that I was going to try again, my plan would fail. And I wanted to get it right this time.
I just had to figure out how.
Turning the dial on my locker, I was somewhat surprised that I remembered how to open it after a month and a half away. It felt like I hadn’t been to school in a million years, in another lifetime, on another plane of existence. But there it was, my combination, as if it had been engraved on my brainstem: 24-6-12.
I opened the door and exchanged my economics book for government and a copy of Twelfth Night. I wouldn’t see Duckie again until lunch after third period, and I was dreading facing two classes without him. Duckie must have been feeling the same way, because as he opened his locker to get his books, he sighed. “Maybe we should just volunteer with Ms. Quinn the rest of the day. I’m sure she’ll give us a pass, and she is in the middle of reorganizing the entire library.”
From inside my backpack, the paper cranes gave me a collective, reassuring nod. I shook my head at Duckie and said, “I’ll keep it in mind, but let’s not seek asylum there just yet. Maybe later.”
He hooked his right pinkie with mine and shook it, just like we used to do in middle school whenever we made promises to each other. “See you at lunch. Don’t take any crap.”
I moved down the hall to Mr. Rober’s government class. The chairs were all in a semicircle, because Mr. Rober said it was an equalizer. Ironic that a man who frequently talked down to women would think his students needed equalization. But whatever. I took the seat nearest the door, just in case I needed a quick escape. For a moment, I lost myself in a fantasy in which I bolted from the room, impossibly backflipped all the way down the hall, and ran out the door to the Beast, where Duckie was waiting. We peeled out in a haze of exhaust and burnt tires and left the school behind forever. In my head, Alice Cooper’s “School’s Out” played as we made our dramatic exit.
Students filed in, including Penny Curtis and Steve Hillard. I looked at them as they entered, but rather than sit near me, they moved quickly across the room and took their seats there. My heart sank a little. Apparently word had traveled fast.
Unfortunately for Claire Simpson, there were no other chairs left open but the one to my left. She sighed heavily as she took her seat. I laid my head on my desk, using my folded arms as a pillow, willing the class to pass quickly. I didn’t mean to fall asleep, but the next thing I knew, the bell rang, signifying the end of class. I sat up, wiping the drool from the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand and hating Mr. Rober even more for having let me sleep the whole time, where everyone could see. But then, I went out of my way to find reasons to hate Mr. Rober. The guy was a jerk.
As if sensing my hatred, Mr. Rober said, “Miss Danvers. A moment, if you will.”