“What, did Sasha write about, like, dark thoughts and unicorns and Sylvia Plath or something?” I just can’t stand the weepy pseudo-deepness that is Sasha Cotton. But she’s fooling everyone else, I guess. Even the lit journal. Even Joe. He’s whispering something into her ear, and I swear the feeling travels right to the skin of my ear. I shudder from the abrupt desire. I want his lips to be on my ear so badly, I could scream. I force myself to swallow instead.
“I know she’s lame,” Elise says, “but she’s smart, too. And sort of . . . weirdly sexy. So, I don’t know. Just be prepared. I heard her poem is kinda . . .” Elise can’t seem to come up with the right word, so she makes her eyes go wide and shimmies her shoulders a little. I want to ask for more, but the announcements are starting and the teachers are on high alert, so we both shut up. There’s that rumble of nerves in my stomach, and I grab Elise’s arm for support. She pats my hand quickly and then slides her arm out from under my grip.
After twenty minutes of reminders to buy baked goods at Friday’s sale, and to not park in faculty spots, we’re dismissed for first period. On our way out of the hall, as promised, Heather and the other literary magazine evangelists hand out Libretto, the journal they produce every other month that is chock-full of tortured poetry, SAT-word-heavy short stories, and black-and-white self-portraits. Everyone is obsessed with Libretto. It’s like a barometer for the gossip in the school: who is in love, who is breaking up, who is losing it, who’s fighting, who’s got family issues, who’s talented and artsy versus who is just annoying.
I’ve submitted some writing, and it never gets in. That’s the embarrassing truth that makes me hate them even more.
Elise has a self-portrait on page three: spiky hair, duct-tape-covered mouth, sleepy-sad look in her eyes. She told me the photograph’s title is “Out,” but in Libretto they’re calling it “Just Me.” Elise may be a lot of things, but she’s not out. People suspect. People make fun. People ask me about it. But the simple declarative “I’m gay” has only ever passed through her lips when she’s talking to me.
I’m proud of her, though. The photograph is a step.
I flip through more of the magazine: sketches of the mountains, photographs of inanimate objects, someone’s poem about their dead uncle.
Then there’s Sasha’s poem. It’s not long. It’s extra deep because she uses slashes instead of line breaks, like a real Artist.
When you said not to be scared/ I believed you/ because when I can’t trust myself/ I can trust you/ to know what my body wants./ Underwater your body looks/ like something I could love/ Naked/ and these are things no one else will see/ and we are keeping secrets in the cold and the dark and the way you hold me/underneath/ if you touch me again/ I will drown/ but maybe I wouldn’t mind/ if it’s your hands (mouth? skin?) stopping me from breathing.
It’s titled “Underwater Joe.”
I make myself throw up in the bathroom just to see if it will clear the feelings out of my chest.
It doesn’t. I’m so not cut out for bulimia.
Secret:
I hate my best friend’s boyfriend. Really, really, really hate.
—Roxie
Five.
I hide in the bathroom for, like, twenty minutes and miss part of Women’s History because I cannot possibly face the day. I do a Downward Dog in the handicapped stall, but it does nothing to make me feel calmer. And since I also can’t throw up my feelings, and I can’t scream without attracting some serious attention, I reopen The Secret Garden and consider a few of my favorite notes before lingering on the last page and the website written there.
The link is circled in silver ink, which I hadn’t noticed in the crappy lighting of our living room. Which I guess means my school’s bathroom has better lighting than my family’s living room, but that’s a different issue. The silver ink gives it a magical quality. I lean against the locked stall door, take out my phone, and type in the address. I’m not sure exactly what I’m expecting. Maybe the note taker’s blog or a Secret Garden fan page or something.
But the link doesn’t take me straight to a website. A little gold box appears on the screen first. Are you sure? it says. I press yes, but I am suddenly not.
Can you keep a secret? another gold box asks. I laugh. A tight laugh, the uncomfortable kind that comes from my throat and not my stomach. I look around the stall, like someone might be in there with me. I look in the book again, too, in case there’s some clue that this website is sort of crazytown.
I press the silver-script yes. It reminds me of this princess-themed video game I used to play when I was little. Except when I press yes this third time, the actual website pops up. Dark with gold and silver writing. Life by Committee it reads on the top.
A silver spiral spins in the top right corner. Hypnotic.
I can’t process what I’m looking at, but I also can’t look away. Like a car crash or an eclipse or Joe’s face. I could get lost in it, but it scares me.
There’s a squeak as the bathroom door opens and a group of girls enter.