“The Retard’s Guide to Mapleview”—which is horribly offensive—reads like a compilation of strange online dating profiles. I’ve made it back to school and to my car and even through the terrible drive home without throwing up. I open the link because I need distraction.
I’m tired of the constant hole in my stomach, that slow burn of loss. I will never see my father again. Nothing I will ever do can change that. I wonder if one day soon I will forget the sound of his voice. I can’t imagine a world where I can’t conjure up its deep bass. Where I can’t conjure up the planes of his face or the feeling of his hand on my forehead. That’s not a world I want to live in.
At first glance, the guide just looks like a bunch of scanned pages from a handwritten notebook. Alphabetical entries about different people in our class. A list of rules, the first three of which say, “Do not engage with anyone on the DNT list.” What does DNT mean? Annie, who speaks acronym, would probably know.
There’s a long list of people’s names with random descriptions and observations that are equal parts poetic and bizarre. Violet is described as “cinched” because of her predilection for pointed collars and belts; Jessica’s blond hair is called “offensively fluorescent,” Abby’s perfume “the olfactory equivalent of dying of asphyxiation by an old lady’s farts,” which is, come to think of it, remarkably accurate. A list of Notable Encounters for almost every person in our class and elaborate charts about different friend groups.
What the hell is this?
My phone dings.
Violet: KIT DID YOU GET THE LINK I SENT!?!?
Annie: READ IT NOW!!! HOLY CRAP!!!
Something about their texts makes me look away from the screen for a second. I try to think of other things. David’s hand in mine. That was nice. Innocent, friendly hand-holding. I think of his tape measure. And his haircut. I think about what it might be like to kiss him. Not that I really think of him that way—like a boyfriend or even just a hookup—but still, I imagine kissing him would feel good.
A true thing. A real thing. I imagine he tastes like honesty.
And then I see it, while I’m absentmindedly flipping through the pages on my phone. A lovely sketch of the back of a girl’s neck. A drawing of a circle of freckles on a clavicle.
They look oddly familiar.
That’s my neck. That’s my clavicle.
And then it hits me—this is David’s notebook.
Oh. Shit.
3.141592653589793238462643383279502884197169399375105820-97494459230781640628620899862803482534211706798214808651-328230664709384460955058223172535940812848111745028410270-193852110555964462294895493038196442881097566593344612847-564823378678316527120190914564856692346034861045432664821-339360726024914127372458700660631558817488152092096282925-409171536436789259036001133053054882046652138414695194151-1609433057270365759591953092186117381932611793105118548074-462379962749567351885752724891227938183011949129833673362-44065664308602139494639522473719070217986094370277053921-717629317675238467481846766940513200056812714526356082778-577134275778960917363717872146844090122495343014654958537-105079227968925892354201995611212902196086403441815981362-977477130996051870721134999999837297804995105973173281609-631859502445945534690830264252230825334468503526193118817-101000313783875288658753320838142061717766914730359825349-042875546873115956286388235378759375195778185778053217122-680661300192787661119590921642019893809525720106548586327-886593615338182796823030195203530185296899577362259941389-124972177528347
Again: 3.1415926535897932384626433832795028841971693993-751058209749445923078164062862089986280348253421170679821-480865132823066470938446095505822317253594081284811174502-841027019385211055596446229489549303819644288109756659334-461284756482337867831652712019091456485669234603486104543-266482133936072602491412737245870066063155881748815209209-62829254091715364367892590360011330530548820466521384146-9519415116094330572703657595919530921861173819326117931051-185480744623799627495673518857527248912279381830119491298-33673362440656643086021394946395224737190702179860943702-770539217176293176752384674818467669405132000568127145263-560827785771342757789609173637178721468440901224953430146-549585371050792279689258923542019956112129021960864034418-159813629774771309960518707211349999998372978049951059731-73281609631859502445945534690830264252230825334468503526-1931188171010003137838752886587533208381420617177669147303-598253490428755468731159562863882353787593751957781857780-532171226806613001927876611195909216420198938095257201065-485863278865936153381827968230301952035301852968995773622-59941389124972177528347
Stop. No. It’s too much. The noise and the light and the vibrations and the thoughts in my head, looping tighter and tighter, like they’re fingers choking my neck, and the sun stabbing my eyes and an unknown hand squeezing my balls, all at once.
I burrow under my heavy blankets. One last time. I need to escape this feeling one last time: 3.14159265358979323846264338-327950288419716939937510582097494459230781640628620899862-80348253421170679821480865132823066470938446095505822317-253594081284811174502841027019385211055596446229489549303-819644288109756659334461284756482337867831652712019091456-48566923460348610454326648213393607260249141273724587006-606315588174881520920962829254091715364367892590360011330-530548820466521384146951941511609433057270365759591953092-1861173819326117931051185480744623799627495673518857527248-912279381830119491298336733624406566430860213949463952247-371907021798609437027705392171762931767523846748184676694-051320005681271452635608277857713427577896091736371787214-684409012249534301465495853710507922796892589235420199561-12129021960864034418159813629774771309960518707211349999-998372978049951059731732816096318595024459455346908302642-522308253344685035261931188171010003137838752886587533208-381420617177669147303598253490428755468731159562863882353-787593751957781857780532171226806613001927876611195909216-420198938095257201065485863278865936153381827968230301952-03530185296899577362259941389124972177528347