22
What makes someone appetizing to someone like All_BS? Why did he choose to help Meg and not, say, Sassafrants, or the guy who always asks about rat poison? And how can I get him to think I’m one of those people?
I go back through his posts, looking for a pattern. He responds more to girls than to guys—particularly to smart girls. He doesn’t ever reply to the illiterates, or the ranters. He also seems to take an interest in people at the beginning of their journey, the ones who are just starting to think about “catching the bus.” And he likes philosophy—his posts are full of quotes—and seems drawn to those whose posts are philosophical too. No wonder he liked Meg.
The first step is obvious. I’ll have to post something on the boards. An opening, like Meg’s. Something that introduces me to the group, announces my intentions to kill myself, couching those intentions in a question. If I’m too sure, if I’m already shopping for rat poison, I won’t seem like a mouse.
It takes me several days to come up with something, and then I get stuck thinking of a username. Everything I want to use is related to Meg, and I don’t know how much she told him about herself, so I don’t want to give myself away. I glance at the overdue stack of library books and use them as inspiration.
Kafkaesque
Opening Salvo
I’ve been thinking about catching the bus for a while. I think I’m ready to buy my ticket. I just need some encouragement. I’m worried about my family and not succeeding, and let’s be honest, succeeding. I’d welcome intelligent thoughts.
As soon as I post it, I regret it. It sounds fake, nothing like me, and nothing like a suicidal person. I fully expect to be called out as a fraud by everyone on the boards. But the next day, there are several responses. As with Meg, most of them are so nice and encouraging—Welcome! Congratulations!—which, in an odd way, is gratifying. Except All_BS isn’t among the responders. I might have fooled some of these people. But not the one I’m looking for.
I switch usernames and think of Meg’s post about Scottie and try again.
CR0308
Survivor
I have been thinking very seriously about taking my life for several months now, but what’s held me back is my mother. It’s just her and me, and I worry about what it’ll be like for her if I’m gone. Can I live with myself? Will I have to?
This one also smells of bullshit. It’s not entirely accurate to say Tricia didn’t want me, because she did keep me. It’s more that I don’t think Tricia wanted children. What mother makes her two-year-old call her by her first name because she says she’s too young to be called Mommy? I know Tricia would probably be pretty bummed if I killed myself, but I also know she’s looking forward to having me out of her hair. She tells me this on a regular basis.
I get a bunch of responses, some of them telling me that, yeah, it’s a pretty fucked-up thing to do to a single mom. That maybe I should wait for her to remarry or something. Which makes me laugh. Tricia can’t remarry until she marries, and with her three-month-relationship shelf life, I can’t see either of those ever happening.
There’s nothing from All_BS. I have this weird feeling that as long as I lie, I won’t get a response. Which is kind of a catch-22, because how can I do this without lying?
I pick a new username, something vaguely Meg-related—the Pete and Repeat—but ambiguous enough not to be tied to her. Instead of trying to channel Meg, I try channeling myself.
Repeat
The Truth
I recently lost someone. Someone so integral to me, it’s like a part of me is gone. And now I don’t know how to be anymore. If there’s even a me without her. It’s like she was my sun, and then my sun went out. Imagine if the real sun went out. Maybe there’d still be life on Earth, but would you still want to live here? Do I still want to live here?
The next day, there are a bunch of responses, though not one from All_BS. Some of them are weird scientific explanations of how unlikely it is for the sun to actually go out. Others are more understanding of my loss. Others yet suggest that if I were to die, I’d be reunited with the person I lost. They are so certain, as if the Final Solution people have visited death, taken notes, and come back to report. I’m reminded that for so many of these people, this is a kind of entertainment.
But I am starting to understand the appeal of the boards. Yesterday when I hit post, I felt this massive sense of relief. This whole thing might be a charade, but for the first time in a long time, I am telling the truth.
x x x
A few days later I’m at work at the Thomases’, trying to figure out how to smoke out All_BS. I’m lost in thought, which is maybe why I don’t hear Mindy Thomas walk in while I’m cleaning her bedroom. If I had, I’d have gone and pretended to clean the garage or something.
“Hey, Cody,” Mindy calls in a singsong voice. “How’s it going?”
“Great!” I say with all the enthusiasm I can manage while holding a feather duster.
Mindy is trailed by her posse, girls all a year younger than me whom I haven’t seen much since I graduated. Sharon Devonne waves to me. Sharon was one of Meg’s acolytes. She adored her, used to follow her around like Meg was a movie star. Meg pretended to be put out by this, but I knew she thought Sharon was sweet, particularly because she was nice to Scottie. She was his counselor at the Y camp, and he had a huge crush on her.
“Hey, Cody,” she says shyly.
“Hi, Sharon. How’s senior year going?”
“Almost done.”
“Any plans for after graduation?”
“Sleep.”
“Yeah, I hear that—”
“You know what?” Mindy interrupts, clapping her hands. “I have the best idea. Cody should come to the party. It’s next weekend. My parents are going out of town, and it’s going to be a rager.”
Before I have a chance to make an excuse, Mindy continues: “It’ll be so perfect. You can come to the party and do the cleaning up afterwards.” Her laughter follows her out of the room.
I stand there, too floored to say anything. Mindy Thomas? We used to take dance class together. She always wore these perfect outfits: leotards, leg warmers, ballet shoes, all matching. Tricia couldn’t even afford the class—the teacher, a friend of hers, let me take it for free—so I just threw together what I could: leggings that were ripped, a tank top, mismatched legwarmers that I found at a thrift store. But then one day Mindy came in wearing the same getup as me. I’d thought she was making fun of me, but when I’d told Tricia, she’d laughed. “The little brat is copying you.” I had my doubts. One thing I knew for sure: A year ago, Mindy Thomas never would have spoken to me like she just did.
Sharon lingers after the other girls leave. “She’s just being a bitch,” she whispers. “You should come to the party.”
“Thanks, Sharon,” I say. I hold up my feather duster to show her it’s time to get back to work. She hesitates as if she wants to tell me something else, but then Mindy calls to her and she trots off.
x x x
Later, at the library, I can’t stop thinking about Sharon, the way she used to idolize Meg. Meg may have stood out in town, but she definitely had her admirers. She had that thing. People, at least smart people, were drawn to her: people from school, musicians she met online, All_BS—they all found their way to Meg.
How am I supposed to attract All_BS? I don’t have what Meg had. People may have called us the Pod, but it wasn’t really an accurate description. There was Meg. And me, lassoing myself to her.
I can’t do that anymore. To find All_BS, I have to be all me. I take a breath. And I start to type.
Repeat
Repeat
I’m not one of those people who has spent a lot of time thinking about death, or imagining her own death, or dreaming of it, or wanting it. At least I didn’t think I was. But so much shit has happened in the last year of my life that I am questioning whether I even have a life, or if what I thought was my life is actually an illusion, or maybe a delusion. Because it doesn’t seem like living to me. It seems like persevering, like that’s the most I can hope for. I’m not that old, but I’m already so tired. Even getting out of bed each morning seems like an enormous chore. Life seems to be about endurance, not enjoyment, not fulfillment. I don’t see the point. If someone told me I could go back and undo my birth, I think I might. I really do.
Is that the same as wanting to die? And if so, what does that mean?