I must be in shock right now because I can’t feel anything. I can’t run, I can’t walk, I can’t take a single step. Instead, I’m thinking in facts and figures. Data points are easier to manage than feelings.
I’m rationalizing that suicide is not uncommon in moneyed communities where academic success is valued over almost anything else. Take Palo Alto, a San Francisco suburb like North Shore, where six kids committed suicide between 2009 and 2011. Four more died by their own hands in 2015. In Fairfax County, Virginia, four teenage boys killed themselves in a one-month period of 2014, with fifteen other teens ending their lives in the three years previous. I’m staggered by the numbers. But I’m numb to them, too.
Even though it’s an epidemic.
I’m rationalizing that somehow being a part of a problem larger than just this community makes it less terrible. Less tragic. At least that’s what I tell myself.
I’m rationalizing that in towns like mine around the country, multiple times a year, kids will acquiesce to that desperate voice inside themselves, the one that tells them they’re broken, that they can’t be fixed. That their lives are a burning building and they’re trapped on the fortieth floor, where it’s easier to jump than it is to be taken by the fire. They’ll give in to the temporary urge for a permanent solution, the urge to make it stop, for it all to be over.
I’m rational because I’m afraid of what will happen if I’m allowed to be irrational.
This is not okay.
THIS IS NOT OKAY.
If I could make it stop, I would.
I watch Simone’s innocence slip away as she’s briefed on what that sound means, on what just happened. Her broad grin collapses in on itself, replaced with a horrified rictus. Without glancing back at her friends, she takes off across the quad, her book bag banging against her side as she plows through all the static bodies still frozen on the paths.
Welcome to North Shore, Simone; now you’re truly one of us.
“Please step inside the building, Signorina Goodman. Andiamo,” says Ms. DeMamp, my Italian Lit teacher. Her words are sharp, urgent. Her eyes are like two black dots in the middle of a sheet-white face, stark relief to her flashy embroidered peasant blouse.
I start to say “The bell hasn’t—” but she’s not hearing it. She hustles me through the doorway and shoos me down the hallway. We students need to be herded like cattle into our respective classrooms by clearer heads. And in some cases, the teachers require herding, too.
As I sit down at my desk, I want to turn to my classmates, demanding they tell me why.
Yet I already know why, at least some version.
The why is because whatever problems these kids have are compounded by not getting enough As in their honors classes so they can’t become neurosurgeons or litigators or tech gurus or investment bankers and make enough money to buy big houses with rolling lawns and send their kids to whatever schools starts the cycle all over again.
I guess now the question is who.
We’re all suddenly the residents of Panem, waiting to see which tribute is broadcasted.
*
I move like a zombie through my morning classes, through hushed hallways.
No one knows what happened yet, but the rumors are flying. The true answer is imminent, even though we don’t want it. The teachers are the ones tasked with breaking the news. They have a form they’re supposed to read; they simply fill in the blank with the deceased’s name.
How messed up is that?
This happens so often the school has printed a form.
Each of our teachers is given the slip of paper with the name to insert and they all tell us concurrently.
So we wait.
I should be experiencing a mounting sense of dread, a panic that causes me to sweat through my shirt, a fear so thick and bitter and heavy in my chest that I can’t pull air into my lungs.
But I can’t feel anything.
To feel would be to acknowledge.
I can’t acknowledge. I won’t acknowledge. Not now. Not yet. Not until.
Right before lunch, we’re told that Counselor Gorton is about to make a school-wide announcement this time, rather than our individual teachers.
I steel myself.
The loudspeaker snaps and hums as it comes to life. “North Shore students and faculty, I...” Mr. Gorton’s voice breaks as he finds the words. “I have extremely sad news about your classmate who perished this morning. The extremely sad news is...”
He exhales so loudly that the speaker in the classroom crackles with feedback. I wince. He clears his throat and begins again.
“Crisis stations will be located throughout the school this afternoon to provide grief counseling for those who wish to talk with one of our therapists. Information about the funeral will be provided when it is available, and students may attend with written permission from a parent or guardian.”
We all look at each other in confusion. Did he not tell us who? Did he miss that key piece of information? Who? Who was it? We’re like a pack of owls in here, all who? Who? WHO?
Who the fuck is he talking about?
We hear some shuffling in the background and then the sound of a hand covering the microphone. There’s more muffled mumbling and then Vice Principal Torres takes the mic. “North Shore students and faculty, the extremely sad news is that Braden DeRocher has died. We want to...”
Nothing he says after that registers.
I am a vacuum. A void. A black hole.
I glance at my phone.
11:34 a.m. That’s when time stops.
Collective gasps resonate throughout the whole school, sounding like someone suddenly sucked out all of the air. When the dismissal bell rings at 11:35, girls cluster together in the halls, taking turns sobbing on friends’ shoulders and consoling each other.
Meanwhile, I don’t shed a tear.
I’m too numb, too empty, too pissed off at the freshmen who are keening like fishwives—a lot of these girls never even met him. I know this because he’s not just my brother’s best friend, he’s mine, too. So why are these randoms weeping? What do they have to feel bad about?
They’ve never kicked Braden out of their rooms when he lingered in their doorways, looking like he might have something to say.
(Not because they didn’t want to hear it, but because they were busy studying for a test they had to ace or else.) They’ve never watched his smile fade when they told him to grow up already.
(Not because he’d done anything wrong, but because they were hangry from too much exercise and too little food.) They’ve never asked him if he even had his own house to go home to.
(Not because they resented having him there, but because they were having their own meltdown and had hoped for some privacy.) If anyone cries, it should be me. Braden is my surrogate brother who annoys the crap out of me, but whom I secretly adore. But now I won’t ever have the chance to make sure he understands both parts of the equation.
Goddamn it.
*