Sliding my arm across his desk, I yank up on his shirt, exposing his scars. He tries to push his sleeve down and quickly glances up at Mrs. Benton, then his gaze finds mine. He looks as if he’s seen a ghost or something he never thought he’d witness. I pull up my sleeve and show him my matching scars.
His eyes widen and for the first time since we were kids I think he actually sees me. It’s like he’s never noticed me before this moment. He darts out of the seat so fast I almost fall over my chair. His shoes squeak on the floor as he runs out of the room.
? ? ?
I’m wired when I get home from detention. I want to know more about Dean and how he tried to kill himself—what methods and how they failed. I can hear how all that sounds in my head, and I know I’m doing the right thing by dying. Anyone who has that many morbid thoughts should just be snuffed out. I search online, Twitter, anything I can find and there’s nothing. I suppose it’s a medical thing. I should be grateful, since I don’t really want the Internet to have my suicide details either. I’d rather it just say that “she was found dead” and leave it at that, and then name all my non-accomplishments when I was alive. Like I won a lame softball trophy when I was seven or shit like that. As if people really care.
I close my laptop and tap my fingers on the lid. I glance around the room and stare at the books scattered on the floor, my guitar in the corner I don’t play anymore, the light blue heels I bought for the dance last year where Jackson and I took the Johnson twins. I grab my nail polish to paint my nails but change my mind when I realize it wouldn’t dry fast enough. I click through every channel on the TV and stop on a random Food Network show. I wish Mom could cook like them. All the smiles when they try their food. That must be what it looks like when you taste something good. I’ve never seen that smile on anyone my Mom’s cooked for. I get bored after about five minutes and call Jackson.
“Talk,” he says.
“God, I hate when you answer like that, you know you sound like a complete douche.”
“Is that you, Mom?” He laughs.
“Ha ha. Why’d you give my number to Colter?”
He pauses and I can almost hear the churning of his brain.
“He wanted it.”
“What if he was dangerous and you gave him access to my personal information.”
“He was pretty convincing. He is a security guard.”
“Yes, which means he has access to . . . I don’t know, a baton?”
He laughs again, this time harder. “A baton. Really? Are you scared of Colter?”
I sigh. “No.”
“Exactly. He’s a good guy. Plays soccer, is nice to old people. I didn’t see the harm. Next time I’ll have him fill out the Ellery-approved pre-number form.”
“I would appreciate that, thank you. I have copies here if you need ’em.”
“So, I have to know something,” he says, with a serious tone.
I take a breath in, ready to hear something important. He knows. He can feel my desperation. “Okay.”
“What are you wearing?” He laughs again. He does this to me every time. He thinks it’s so funny, and I fall for it every time.
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Night, Ellery Bellery.”
“Night, Jackson Douchebag.”
“Hey, that doesn’t rhyme.”
I hang up before he can say anything else and toss my phone onto the bed. I open my laptop to torture myself in a different way and Google my dad, crying myself to sleep.
9
26 Days
I clutch my stomach as I near the choir room. I have no idea why I agreed to this. Trying to be Happy Ellery is exhausting. I was in choir my freshman year and loved it. The sound of my voice mixing with everyone else’s, the movement of the chord progressions. It was the only thing I could do well. I just didn’t want to be part of it after Tate died.
A cacophony of voices singing different notes materializes in the air as I near the room. They’re warming up. I turn around to run, but remember what my mom said about Dr. Lamboni. He’d see right through me if I visit him. He’d ruin my plan.
You only have to do this for another twenty-six days.
I take a deep breath and pull on the door. The tones continue to crescendo into a thunderous wake, the room shaking underneath me. It’s amazing how something inside all of us can do that—literally move you. I don’t recognize anyone but Janie Reynolds at first. Aunt Sue is in front, plunking on the piano, guiding her fingers across the keys, looking up at the four rows of singers. I stare up the sloped stairs of the room and spot someone at the top I never expected to be in choir. His eyes are squinting as he laughs with the grinning girl next to him. Colter looks different when he’s smiling, lighter, but there’s something more to his smile, something I’ve never seen in my interactions with him. He’s never smiled around me. I guess that’s my fault.
I take a step in and it’s like a knife cut everyone’s vocal cords in half. I swallow in the silence as Aunt Sue halts playing, leans around the piano, and winks at me.