Oh, no. I really have gotten under his skin. Before I can make it right, he beats me to an apology. “I’m so sorry, that was inappropriate. Please forgive me, we’ve all been on edge since what happened with Mr. DeRocher.”
When Braden DeRocher stepped in front of the train that awful morning a few weeks ago, most people froze. Not me. I went dashing to the newspaper office to grab a proper camera. I ditched most of my morning classes to document what was happening. Nothing gristly, but I felt that this was a pivotal moment and it was my duty as a newspaper staffer to record everything.
Choking back tears, I snapped shots of the rescue personnel and the emergency vehicles, of the forlorn sneaker by the side of the tracks, still white from being earmarked for back to school. I focused on the crowd of commuters, each one wearing a different expression, most of them in various stages of shock and disbelief, but a few who seemed almost relieved at the news that it wasn’t their kid. That their ticket wasn’t the one pulled.
Over the next few days, I took shots of the grief counselors in their nubby jumpers, of the chalk drawings scrawled all over the school’s sidewalks, declaring the students’ love for ‘The Roach’—I guess that was his nickname. I captured images of the custodial staff going along after the students and collecting all the mementos they left at the ersatz memorials around his now-dented locker. I snapped THE ROACH spelled out with Solo cups inserted in the chain link fence around the back of the practice field and of the poster boards with their declarations of “hearting” him stuffed in the bins.
Every single picture broke my heart but also told a story, one the school newspaper refused to report. My shots were summarily rejected so I tendered my resignation.
In my opinion, we can’t go on pretending this didn’t happen; it’s unhealthy. I had no clue these tragedies occurred with such frequency here and I wanted to do something—anything—to make it stop. I felt that pushing reality under the rug was the wrong call.
Mr. Gorton uses one of the napkins to blot at either side of his mouth and he suddenly seems tired and beaten, far closer to fifty than thirty. “Let me explain something to you about the Werther Effect. Are you familiar?”
I shake my head no.
He sighs before he speaks, like he’s steeling himself for the explanation. “The Werther Effect is where others are inspired to imitate suicidal behavior after seeing it reported in the media.” He reaches into his desk and retrieves a pamphlet, then hands it to me.
He says, “There’s such a prevailing belief that suicide is ‘contagious’ that the World Health Organization has set up specific guidelines for reporting on these stories. The overarching message is that of restraint. No sensationalism about the suicide. No prominent placement or explicit description. No particulars of the site where it happened. Actually, no use of the word suicide in the headline should be permitted. Definitely no footage of the scene, Miss Chastain. So, your pictures, regardless of the quality, of the ‘artistic intent,’ are inappropriate for so many reasons.”
I begin to shrink in my chair, clutching the pamphlet, as he continues.
“The media, including the school newspaper, has to do everything it can to avoid glorifying or romanticizing the notion of suicide to keep it from spreading.”
I feel two inches tall. Why, why, WHY is my first impulse always the wrong one?
“Did you notice how the memorials were removed after two days? There’s a solid rationale behind that—many of the students didn’t know Mr. DeRocher and seeing evidence of his suicide every day is jarring. Disconcerting. For those in mourning, encountering something about the deceased reopens that wound. We’re not trying to ‘cover up’ Mr. DeRocher’s death, nor is our intention to ‘censor’ you. I believe those were the words you used with your journalism advisor?”
I sink lower into my seat. I want to spread open the pamphlet and cower behind it. If crawling under the chair were a possibility right now, I’d do it.
He says, “We’re attempting to keep the emphasis off the story, because the more we focus on someone else’s suicide, the more it puts the option on the table for another student. Does this make sense to you, Miss Chastain?”
Christ on a bike. I’m an arsehole. I came in here all self-righteous, spurred on by my nice chat with Liam, embracing my inner cowgirl, ready to take on the world. I was so convinced of being right, of needing to express myself as an artist, that it never occurred to me that my own actions could be detrimental.
I say, “I... I sort of want to die now.”
Mr. Gorton blanches.
I quickly amend my statement. “I keep stepping in it, don’t I? Again and again.”
He gives me a weary smile. “Happens to the best of us.”
I clap my hands together. “Right, new plan. I’m going to find some ACT prep work and spend the next few weeks getting ready for this test. But first I’ll swing by the journalism room and apologize to Mr. Tompkins. I’m sorry, I’m so very sorry—I didn’t know. Does that cover everything in your file?”
He glances down at his note. “It’s a start.”
I can tell we’re not done talking, although we’re through with this particular conversation. This doesn’t mean I can’t take my gap year or that I have any clue as to what I’m meant to do as an adult. Nor does it mean he won’t try to convince me about how important college is. But for the moment, I want to meet him in the middle. I want him to have a win. How hard have the past few weeks been on him? Poor man. So if Mr. Gorton feels I should have the test in the bag in order to keep my options open, then I will.
I mean, I was wrong—so unimaginably wrong—about the photos, so it’s possible that I don’t have every last bit figured out just yet.
18
MALLORY
Well, that’s ironic, I think. My friends are all wasted, too. And I also hate this club party.
Snakehips is blasting from the JasHole’s elaborate sound system. The components look like something out of NASA and the subwoofer’s the size of a coffee table. The heavy bass radiates up every vertebra in my spine. Anyone else would just play music on their phone with a couple of portable Bluetooth speakers, but not Jasper.
Of course not Jasper.
The crowd raises their glasses and sings along. Everyone, that is, except me. Not feeling it.
You’d think that no one on a team would drink, given the consequences of being caught. NSHS has a zero-tolerance policy and if you’re found at a party where there’s liquor, boom, that’s it, your athletic career is over, no questions asked, do not pass go/do not collect two hundred dollars, even if you’re not imbibing yourself. Were this party to get busted, our entire men’s soccer, water polo, and lacrosse teams would be decimated, as would most of the women’s field hockey and cross-country teams. PS, shake a pom-pom goodbye at the entire spring sports cheerleading squad, save for Brooke, who’s only home because she had her wisdom teeth removed today.