Kendall shifted on the wall and placed the bottle down beside her, took a deep breath, and then quickly pushed out the words. “When you sliced up your arm. You’ve always said you weren’t trying to kill yourself. Is that really, truly true?”
Now that the question had been asked, she seemed to deflate with relief.
“Yes,” I said. “Of course it is. All this time, you never believed me?”
Kendall’s face took on extra shadow. In that shadow, I saw the things that kept changing between us, all the distances and differences we were constantly trying to bridge.
“Can you blame me for not being so sure?” she asked faintly.
I held out my left arm and pushed up the sleeve. “Look how high these cuts are. They’re nowhere near my wrists or even a main artery. You think my grasp of anatomy is that bad?”
Kendall looked long and hungry-curious at the scars. I’d never invited her to examine them before.
She swallowed hard. “So then, why?”
I paused and looked up at the sky, which seemed full of extra stars. I couldn’t articulate it to myself, let alone Kendall. The pain, and the urge to punish myself for feeling it in the first place, and the need to let it out. The unbearable relief of watching my skin open up. Imagining the gashes were mouths that screamed Help into the silence.
“All I can tell you,” I finally said, “is that at the time, I couldn’t not do it. Does that make some kind of sense?”
Kendall thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “It actually does. But why . . . why . . . the other stuff . . . ?”
“You mean, why was I depressed in the first place?”
“Did something happen or . . .”
She stopped, hoping I would finish the sentence and maybe it would be one shocking revelation that would explain it all. Here came the truth I’d only admitted to my therapist.
“That was the hard part . . . ,” I began, forcing the words out quickly. “Nothing happened. There was no reason. I have a mom and a stepdad and a half sister who love me. I didn’t get hurt or traumatized. My biological father checking out on me was pretty bad, for sure, but that was so long ago.”
I paused, and Kendall stared, and in the darkness I hoped she could see how tough this was for me.
“But still,” I continued. “It came. Or maybe I should say, I think it’s always been there. I get now that it’s part of who I am.”
A car pulled into the parking lot just then and we both glanced up to watch it. A young couple climbed out and perched themselves on the hood to light cigarettes.
“Truth,” I finally said, smoothing my sleeve back down. I didn’t want Kendall to say anything; I wanted it to simply be out there, floating on its own, with no need for a response to make it more true. “So now it’s my turn?”
“Yup,” said Kendall.
I thought hard about which honesty I wanted, and realized I wanted honesty, period. The specifics didn’t matter.
“Tell me something you haven’t told anyone else.”
“Too vague. Don’t wimp out on me here.”
I sensed she was inviting me closer, over some extra barrier I didn’t know was there.
“Tell me something you’ve been afraid to tell me,” I said. The words felt risky and raw.
Kendall smiled, like I’d asked the right question, then searched my face. For what, I wasn’t sure. Then she turned back to the view and finally said, “I’m spending the first semester of next year in Europe.”
I laughed hard. But she gave me a look.
“Oh,” I said. “You’re not kidding.”
“It’s called the Movable School,” added Kendall. “It’s just for girls. We’re going to England, France, and Italy. I’ll get full course credit, but the classes aren’t traditional. Everything’s a hands-on experience. And I’ll get to write. I’ve already set up a blog where I’m going to post travel pieces and photos.”
I examined her face. “You’re really not kidding.”
She took a sip of beer, swallowed hard. “It’s been set for a while, but I didn’t know how to tell you. And I couldn’t tell anyone else before I told you. So now I’m telling you.”
Kendall had never said anything about wanting to spend a semester away. In Europe. I wasn’t sure what was worse: the fact of her being gone, or that she’d kept all these plans to herself.
“You know how hard school has been for me,” she said, wiping her mouth. Staring out at the lights scattered in front of us like ships in their own ocean. “This is my chance to save this whole four-year sentence and turn it into something meaningful.”
“You’re going to have a blast,” I said. Which was true. We were still playing Truth, right?
“You’re not upset?”
“I’m excited for you.” Another truth.
I asked Kendall more about the Movable School. How many students would be in the program, where exactly they were going, and all the other things I knew I was supposed to ask. Things I really, honestly, did want to know. (Truth.)
She’d be leaving at the end of August.