That hits me straight in the stomach, swift and strong as a fall onto the balance beam. “I would have if I’d known–”
“Thing is, Savs, your life’s like a hallway. Along both sides, the doors are wide open.” Her fingers touch each marble. “People are hanging out the doors. Savannah! Come in! Bring your PSAT scores! My hallway? The faster I walk, the faster the doors close. It’s only me in there.” She tilts the board. The marbles stream across the metal grooves and tumble to the floor. She doesn’t make a move to pick them up and neither do I; I’m rooted to this clinical white blanket, unable to budge until she finishes. “I know what you’re thinking. I could have tried harder, right? Gone to class and shit. But I couldn’t have done anything differently. Do you know what I mean? I wouldn’t have been able to change a thing. It wasn’t in me.”
I want to yell. I want to tug on her bony shoulders and shake her until her eyes focus and she realizes what she’s saying. Instead, my stomach hurts as though her words physically struck me.
Failing my road test, blowing out Dad’s tire, messing up in the gym–none of it compares to the crushing reality that if I’d answered the phone, I could have stopped this. She’s all but said it herself.
“I’m sorry,” I say instead, and I hate that my voice wavers because I need to be the strong one. I can’t fail again.
She inspects the board as if she hasn’t heard me.
I try again. “What are you going to do now?”
She runs her fingers over the grooves where the marbles had been. “They’re keeping me under observation to make sure I don’t make any sudden moves, I guess.”
I wish she had said, “Open those doors.”
CASSIE’S EULOGY. I feel ill even considering it; after all, I would have been the obvious choice to speak. I’d have to stand in front of Ponquogue’s senior class, packed into a church that Cassie never attended. “Hi, everyone, I’m Cassie’s asshole best friend who didn’t answer the phone the night before her suicide.” I would have been the one to throw flowers on her grave.
I’d start with the Cassie that I knew first, when poetry and Beth O’Leary (of all people) solidified our friendship. While kids at every other school on Long Island ran outside for Field Day and ate hot dogs to celebrate, we’d crowded into the library for the First Grade Poetry Jamboree. As the crowd had strained to hear Sarah Langhorne’s “My Puppies and Me,” Beth had leaned over. “Where’s your mom, Cascade?” she’d asked innocently.
“On her way,” Cassie said just as smoothly.
Christina McGovern peeked around Beth’s shoulder. “Beth said your mom’s in the loony bin.”
Cassie stood completely rigid. The applause thundered around us as Beth and Christina stared at her expectantly.
Then Beth shrugged. “I heard it from Liam? On the bus?”
“Liam is stupid,” I said firmly. “Cassie’s mom got a flat tire. She’ll be here soon.”
Despite the fact that there was no way to prove how I had this information, they retreated as I grabbed Cassie’s arm and pulled her away from the sweaty flock of first-graders.
By the final day of school, Cassie and I were best friends. It was simply understood. She braided my hair on the bus and gave chilly looks to anyone who teased me for being short. By the first day of second grade, I was officially Savannah. I slipped on the name like a too-big coat that I’d someday grow into. It was a mature name, one without the childish ring of “Katie.” It didn’t sound like anyone else’s name in my family.
The Cassie that everyone knew best was the girl in middle school. She became fingers and a right eye squeezed shut behind a camera. Sure, everyone believed they were a photographer with their cell phones, but Cassie was actually good at it. She came to all of my meets and captured me upside down. The hallway displays for the photo classes became Cassie’s displays. I became cooler because I was that midair girl in the pictures. Everyone was cooler in her pictures. They were deeper; they had contours and shadings.
Maybe Cassie should have taken self-portraits. Maybe that would have helped.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THEY MIGHT HAVE changed their numbers. That’s my first excuse.
The second excuse is the one I fear–that they’re pissed and have rendered me irrelevant after those early weeks of well-wishes and Come to the gym soon!
Cassie has been in the hospital for three days, which means I’ve had three nights of sleeping for three hours apiece and plenty more hours spent staring up at the shadows playing across my ceiling. I’ve reimagined every conversation. The afternoon we spent in her kitchen after I’d called her that morning, the way she’d shifted from defeated to no big deal, everything’s fine so convincingly. Her arm around me as we stood facing the ocean, her eyes glittering as we talked about New York City. The way Mr. Riley shut her down.
The constantly replaying loop of memories yields one conclusion: I should have known. I shouldn’t have accepted her evasive answers. Instead of letting the phone roll out of my hand, I could have talked her out of it, or talked to her for so long that she fell asleep and stayed in bed that morning instead of driving to the bridge.
Not only am I a shit driver and gymnast, but I’m a shit friend, too.
I stop at Emery’s number. She was the one I felt closest to, the one who laughed the loudest at my jokes and rolled her eyes when Jess preened in the mirror. I click her name first, and before I can talk myself out of it, I add Ally, Monica, and Jess to the group message.
Hey, strangers, I miss you! I’m sorry I disappeared.
Weak, but honest. It’s the best I’ve got right now. The reality–I’m sorry I was too jealous and wallowing to feel happy for you, or to even talk to you–seems a little heavy for an icebreaker message.