How the hell do I tell Mrs Crannon? She’ll be devastated. I can’t stop fixating on that fifty-dollar bill. I know the money is such an insignificant thing, compared to everything else, but I’ve been raised to appreciate its value. I’ve been ruled by it. Fifty dollars to me is the whole world. I agonize over that unbelievable show of love and support and confidence in me – in honor of Mrs Crannon’s wonderful father. Her dead father.
I’ve let them both down. But not nearly as much as I’ve let Betty down. After everything she’s done for me, everything she’s given up, every last sacrifice she’s made. Every extra shift she’s picked up, every painkiller she’s swallowed, every chance at retirement she’s turned down. Every time she’s put my needs before her own. She’s worked and worked and worked so I can afford to stay in education, so I can afford to write screenplays in my spare time, so I can have shoes and toothpaste and running water. So I didn’t have to live with the Wells when my parents died. So I could keep being me against all the odds.
I owe her the world and this is how I repay her.
9.14 p.m.
My phone bleeps. At first my heart leaps, hoping it’s Ajita finally returning my messages, but instead a text from a number I don’t recognize flashes on the screen.
Kill yourself, slut.
I hit delete as soon as I see it, but it’s too late. The words are already burned into my brain.
9.16 p.m.
I’ve got something special, Tom said. They’d be happy to welcome me back. I should persevere, despite the fact I’m the lowest form of scumbag imaginable.
My conversation with Ajita about how maybe People Like Me don’t belong in Hollywood feels like an eternity ago. I was right. People Like Me don’t belong. Unless you’re perfect and classy and perfect and eloquent and perfect and poised and perfect and rich, you don’t belong. This email confirms that.
Look at Vaughan. He’s done everything I’ve done. He drank beer, had sex, sent a nude picture. And he just got an offer from Stanford. Why is his life worth more than mine, just because he’s rich and male?
My heart hurts. Imagine being deemed so lowly and awful that not even your talent and hard work are enough to keep you afloat in the career you want more than anything. Imagine one lapse in judgment stealing everything from you.
One moment can change everything. In the time it takes to send a nude, or in the time it takes to crack a joke about your best friend’s sexuality, or in the time it takes for your car to be crushed by a drunk driver, your whole life can come crashing down around you.
One moment can change everything, and that’s the most terrifying thought in the world.
How do we even function knowing that? Knowing how tenuous our existence is, how fragile our happiness? It’s debilitating when you really think about it. And now that I’ve thought this thought, I can’t ever unthink it.
9.21 p.m.
I used to believe I could handle everything by myself; that I didn’t need help from anyone. The last few weeks have shown me how completely and utterly wrong that is. I do need people. I need my friends and my Betty. I need them so much. The irony is that I’ve learned this too late, and I’m already losing everyone.
I can finally admit that I need help, but nobody has the energy left to give it.
I feel so fucking alone.
9.27 p.m.
As I toss and turn in my bed, agonizing over every second of the last few weeks, my mistakes gnaw at me from the inside. All I want is a time machine.
I’ve figured it out, why people just sometimes spontaneously combust: regret. It’s enough to set you alight.
Too much. This is all too much. And I’d do anything to make it stop.
9.30 p.m.
It’s now, in probably the darkest moment of my life, that my phone bleeps again.
I almost throw my phone at the wall because I’m so sure it’s more hate, so sure it’s another message telling me to end it all. But, just in the vague hope it’s Ajita, I look.
Another unknown number, but a different one.
Hey, Izzy! It’s Meg. From math class? I hope everything’s okay with you. I know you must be having a rough time, but I just want to say that I think you’re so strong and brave for the way you’re handling it all. Sorry it’s taken me so long to work up the courage to text you . . . I didn’t want to come on too strong! Anyway, I’m around next weekend if you wanna hang out at some point? Mx
Some of the tensed-up muscles in my chest relax. I’m not alone. I’m not.
With every scrap of resilience I have left, I force myself to bury the dark thoughts – thoughts about permanent ways in which I could make all of this stop – and keep breathing.
I dry my damn eyes, pull back the covers and climb into bed, knowing tomorrow can’t possibly be as bad as today.
Sunday 10 October
7.20 a.m.
I fall asleep cuddling the bottle of bleach Ajita gave me. After crying for roughly eight millennia I wake up with my standard raccoon eyes and scarecrow hair, but I wake up. And things feel a little brighter.
Pulling on a crumpled sweater and some jeans, I deliberately avoid my reflection in the mirror, knowing I probably look a bit Wicked Witch of the West. The apartment is silent. Betty must be out, or still in bed. I grab my phone and purse and head for the door.
I know where I need to go. Somewhere I haven’t been since I was thirteen; since Betty let me stay off school because of a paper cut.
Outside it smells of wet grass. The sun is weak and watery, but there’s no wind. The streets are that kind of Sunday morning quiet – barely any cars, barely any people, just the odd jogger and dog-walker. And pigeons. Lots and lots of pigeons.
My bike’s ancient gears clank and groan as I pedal almost robotically, staring two feet in front of the handlebars at all times. The odd thought flits into my mind, but I let each one fizzle out, not engaging with it on any real level. I feel tapped out, emotionally and physically, and it’s sort of nice just focusing on the slight ache in my legs as I crest a hill I haven’t mounted in so, so long.
The cemetery sits on the only hill in our town, which is generally as flat as the Netherlands. There’s a tiny church, which seems empty – I think it’s too early for morning mass – and one giant oak tree shading the oldest tombstones in the graveyard, most of which are covered in thick moss. They’ve all been tended to immaculately, though, and the grass is neatly trimmed. One fresh grave near the entrance is swarmed with bouquets of flowers and notes. It makes me sad to look at, so I turn away. I’ve got enough grief of my own without absorbing a stranger’s.
There’s a bench I used to come to a lot when I was eleven or twelve and I first got my bike. It was the first time I was really allowed to go out alone, without my grandma with me, and I used the opportunity to visit my parents a lot. I know I could’ve done it when I was younger, with Betty by my side, but I always got the sense she dealt with things by not thinking about them and just pushing through. Seeing the spot where her dead daughter was buried in the dirt would make it pretty hard to do that.
Overlooking my parents’ gravestones – modest and plain, side by side, the exact same death date – is a memorial bench, made of a dark stained wood. It’s not covered by the oak tree. Instead it sits with its back to a low stone wall, basking in the low autumn sun. Far enough from my parents that I don’t have to read their names and birth dates, but close enough that I can still feel their presence.
Everything looks exactly the same as I remember it; exactly as I pictured it would be. Except for one thing.
Betty is sitting in the spot I used to, right in the middle of the bench where the plaque is. Her white-gray hair is wrapped in a purple paisley scarf, and she’s leaning her arm on a walking stick I haven’t seen her use in years. I’ve always suspected she used it when nobody was watching; when nobody could witness her needing help. She’s as stubborn as me.
She doesn’t look up as I approach and prop my bike against the wall, nor when I perch next to her on the bench. If she’s surprised to see me here, she doesn’t show it.