Miss Me Not

Page 8

"Please, I just want to be friends," he pleaded.
"You don't have to save me."
"I know," he said quietly. "Friends?" he asked, holding out his hand so we could shake.
"I'm not a good friend," I said, looking at his outstretched hand.
"Obviously, neither am I," he said, shooting a sad smile my way. "We can learn together."
"Your regular friends are going to give you shit for it," I said, thinking of the note from earlier.
"Not if they're my real friends."
I snorted. "Do you go to the same school as me?"
"I'll handle my friends. Trust me, okay?" he said, moving his outstretched hand closer to me, waiting for me to be the one to make contact this time.
"They'll make our lives a living hell," I prophesied.
"Are you scared?" he teased, knowing he'd won.
"Nothing scares me," I lied. "It's bound to crash and burn anyway," I added, knocking the smile off his face.
"Willing to place a wager on it?" he asked.
"It's a sucker bet, but as long as you don't mind being a sucker," I said, reaching out willingly to someone for the first time in years.
"I'll prove you wrong," he said, releasing my hand. "Come on, I'll give you a lift home."
"Actually, do you mind making a stop on the way?" I asked, deciding if I was jumping in, I should go for broke.
"No problem."
An hour later, I was the not-so-sure owner of my first cell phone, and two hundred dollars lighter.
"All right. I've programmed my number in. Do you have anyone else you want me to add in?" Dean asked from his perch on the floral-disaster couch.
"Nope," I answered, fiddling with the remote control. Now that I had committed to trying out the whole friendship thing, I was having serious second thoughts. Having him in my house was unsettling, especially since I knew I was breaking taboo rules. James being in my house didn't count since obviously he ran for the opposing team. The last time I had someone over it had irreversibly changed my whole life.
"What about your mom?" he asked, looking up from the phone.
"Nope," I said again, waiting for the barrage of questions that were sure to come.
"Okay-y-y," he said, dragging out the word. "Well, I guess you're set. It's just like your iPod Touch," he added, indicating the device on my lap. "Except now you can make calls."
"Thanks," I said as he handed it over.
"So, I guess I better head home for dinner," he said, standing up. "My mom will have my head if I miss meatloaf night.
I nodded my head and glanced at my watch. I forgot from all my sitcom watching that normal people ate at a certain time every night. I'd never had a meatloaf night. Come to think of it, I wasn't sure I'd ever had meatloaf. Maybe, I guess, when I was younger. Just maybe, Donna used to tie on an apron and bustle around the kitchen creating our very own meatloaf. I just couldn't recall. Church always came first during the week. Mondays were bible study, Tuesday was worship practice, Wednesday was praise and worship service, Thursday was another round of worship practice and Friday was family fun night at the sanctuary. I stopped attending all of the above the year I turned twelve. My mom attended them all, including Friday family fun night. I wondered which family she had fun with. So, I guess maybe meatloaf night in my house was a myth.
"Can I call you later?" he asked, breaking into my train of thought.
"I guess," I answered, but I was pretty sure I'd be a complete dud on the phone.
"Don't sound so enthused," he said, smiling at me.
"It'll be your ear bleeding at my lackluster phone skills," I said, trailing him to the front door.
"That's a risk I'm willing to take," he said, heading toward his car.
"Hey, Dean," I called after him.
He turned to look at me.
"I'm sorry about your friend," I said, quickly closing the door to stop any further conversation. For some reason, saying those five little words had been harder than anything I'd done in a while. Saying I was sorry made me feel like I was betraying all my previous thoughts on death. Death was supposed to equal relief, not sorry. It was supposed to be closure, not an open, ragged wound. Death was such an asshole for tricking me all these years.
My dinner that night wasn't meatloaf, although the package did boast the contents included a Salisbury steak. I would have to take Swanson's word for it since I'd never had a regular Salisbury steak to compare it to. Maybe even the home-cooked version came out looking like mystery meat. I washed my dinner down with a soda and grabbed an ice cream bar from the fridge before heading to my room for the night.
I was settled on my bed watching TV when my new cell phone rang, scaring the shit out of me.
"Hey," I said, once I figured out how to answer.
"Hey, yourself. What are you doing?"
"Working on my voodoo doll collection. How about you?"
He laughed. "That's exactly what I needed to hear. I'm chilling out. It was a rough night. My parents and I spent some time with the Petersons this evening."
"Oh," I said, lost for words. Comfort wasn't my thing. Hell, talking on the phone wasn't my thing.
"So, do you have one of me?" he asked.
"What?" I asked, confused by his question.
"Do you have a voodoo doll of me? Because I swear I just felt a sharp pain in my scalp. Are you pulling my doll's hair?"
His words made me want to laugh. It bubbled up in my throat, but I clamped it down. I was already breaking the rules by being his friend.
"Nah, but I stuck a pin in the ass. Did you feel that?"
"Damn, that mofo hurts," he teased.
"Okay, torment is over. I'll put my toys away," I said, trying to sound reluctant.
"So, what are you going to do now?" he asked.
"Watch TV, I guess. How about you?"
"That's what I'm doing. It's nice to watch something that doesn't make my head hurt from overthinking."
"Overthinking an issue for you?" I teased.
"You'd be surprised. My brain needs an off switch for sure. What are you watching? Discovery Channel? Jersey Shore?"
"Gah, I think I just puked a little. Just some sitcom."
"What? I wouldn't have pegged you as a sitcom watcher. Discovery Channel maybe, CNN, or I guess, ESPN."
"Aw, so I see you're trying out for your own comedy spot. Discovery Channel? No. I hate seeing animals hunt each other. CNN? Absolutely not. I need to see the suckage of the world like I need a bullet in the head. As for ESPN, I'm not sure that channel has ever seen the light of day on my TV," I said, pulling the throw blanket over me that was folded at the foot of my bed.
"Hey, that's blasphemy. SportsCenter is a national institution. What about the cooking channels? Please tell me you watch those," he begged.
"I don't cook. Are you telling me you do?"
"Heck yeah. You're talking to the reigning grill master here. My dad handed over the tongs in defeat to me this past summer."
"Impressive. It's been years since I've had anything grilled," I admitted without thinking.
"Seriously? How is that possible? We live in the grilling state," he said incredulously.
I bit my lip, hating that I let my guard slip. "It's just not our thing, I guess."
"Well, I'm making it my mission to prove to you it could be your thing. I make a mean burger," he boasted, making me uncomfortable with the things he was taking for granted.
"Uh, Dean, you know we're not dating?" I said, trying to make sure he knew where I stood.
"Take a chill pill, Mads. Friends can hang out and grub on good food. It's not my fault if you get all hot and bothered watching me dominate the grill."
"Wow, ego much? I think I need to pull out your voodoo doll. I think a little dunking headfirst in a bowl of water will help clear out all the hot air floating around."
"Hmm, maybe I'll make my own voodoo doll of you and stick it in a bowl of sugar to suck up some of the vinegar in you. Turn you all nice and sweet."
"I've never been sweet, and I'm never going to be," I said, tapping the screen to end the call. Hanging up was an easy out. I regretted my impulsiveness instantly. It shouldn't matter that I may have scared him away. But it did.
The phone rang insistently on the bed beside me. I snatched it up immediately and fought the urge not to answer it after the first ring. When I could stand it no longer, I pushed the button, but didn't say anything.
"So, what are you watching now?" he asked, doing a complete one-eighty.
"Still sitcoms," I answered, relieved he'd called back and that he'd gotten the hint. "How about you?" I asked.
"SportsCenter, baby."
"Of course you are."
"So, you are a sitcom junkie, huh? What's your favorite show?" he asked.
"That one on Wednesday. The family one, 'Modern Family.'"
"Me too. What else?" he probed.
His questions were never ending and we talked through all the shows. The questions should have bothered me. I hated opening up to anyone, but his questions were different. Maybe he was playing me by keeping things light. Time would tell. The hours bled away and before I knew it I was startled by the opening of the front door. Donna was home from Friday family night. I couldn't remember the last time I'd been awake when she returned home from church.
"I gotta go," I told Dean when our conversation had hit a lull.
"Oh shit, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to keep you on the phone so long," he apologized.
"It's all good," I said. "Besides, my ear is barely bleeding," I mocked.
"I'll try harder tomorrow. What's a phone conversation without a good ear gusher?"
"Night," I said, feeling the corners of my mouth rising slightly.
"Night, Mads, I'll talk to you tomorrow," he said, not asking for permission. He knew me well already. Tonight had been fun. It'd be wrong to do it again the next night. Maybe I just won't answer the phone when he calls again. I am such a liar.
Our call the next night went much the way the previous night had gone. We talked about our favorite shows, teachers that drove us nuts, places we wanted to go, which stumped me since I never thought I'd be around long enough to travel. We steered clear of the taboo subjects like suicide and my family life. I knew it was only a matter of time before he'd get sick of the fluff topics. I dreaded that moment.
Sunday dragged for me. Dean had told me at the end of our conversation the previous night that he'd be out of touch all day Sunday. He had some family reunion in Flagler County to attend. It was insane to miss him. A week ago he wasn't even a blip on my radar.
Sick of waiting for a call that wasn't coming, I threw myself into straightening up my room and cleaning out my school bag. As I was organizing my bag, the note from Friday slipped out of my world history book. I crouched down on my floor and extracted a wooden box that I had named "The Coffin," out from under my bed. It was covered in dust bunnies because I hadn't taken it out in a while. I pulled the lid off to reveal the stack of notes inside. It had been almost four years since I added my last note to the box. I climbed back up on my bed with the wooden box cradled on my lap. As I slowly leafed through my hate mail, my sins from the past began to resurface, threatening to strangle me. I had no secrets from my peers. They knew everything. The crinkled papers in my lap proved that. Extracting the bottom one from the stack, I recalled with clarity the day I'd gotten it. It was the day after my father had fled our house, horrified and without a word of goodbye. After a weekend of screaming, tears and rants, his silent departure was observed with grief from me, and indifference from Donna. Their words had torn each other to shreds, leaving a tattered mess behind. I stood in the middle of their crossfire, completely to blame for the wedge that had popped up between them. I smoothed the paper in my lap, studying the one word that was scrawled in red across its surface:
WHORE
As insults went, it wasn't very clever, and as the months following my parents' separation slid by, the insults from my classmates became more imaginative. I became the queen of fading into the background, abandoning my flamboyant ways I'd adopted to get attention. I gave up the black and purple streaked hair I had sported all through junior high, and went back to my natural plain auburn locks. The eyebrow ring that had hurt like a bitch to have done was removed along with the bar in my tongue that I never liked. A tattoo on my right wrist was my final act of rebellion. I'd slipped the tattoo artist an extra hundred to ignore my age so he could use his tattoo gun to scrawl two words on my wrists. The words were used to remind me of the lives I'd ruined with one unforgivable act. I threw away all my provocative clothing, which even at thirteen had turned heads of men twice my age, and at times, three times my age. Loose jeans and even looser black t-shirts replaced them. I used my new change in appearance to fade into the background, and eventually the gossip died away. By freshman year, I was officially a shadow. The notes of hatred stopped and my peers ignored my existence. I kept the Coffin filled with the notes to remind me of the life I had lost.
I sat on my bed reading through the notes for more than an hour. The despair I'd felt so many years ago began to fester inside me. This was why I contemplated taking my life. This was why I'd made the pact. I had no place on Earth. For years I'd believed I could leave the world the way I lived it—silently. In one week, Mitch's death had changed everything for me. I would not leave a mess behind. Pulling a clean sheet of paper out of my binder, I scrawled out my own note to join those in the Coffin.
We had a pact.
Leave the world behind much as we lived it.
No one would miss us. No harm, no foul.
Our personal demons would be left behind once and for all.
It was the only thing we could count on.
It was all we had.
Living is hell.
Death would have been so much easier.
It felt weird to see our pact written out. I felt a wrenching ache of sadness to be letting go of something that had kept me going for so long. I gathered the stack of notes together, placing mine on top and laid them gently in the Coffin. With one last look, I closed it back up before sliding it under my bed. It may be the death of me, but it was time to live.