Keep Holding On

  “Does anyone have something they’d like to share?” Mrs. Henley asks.

  When I got to physics and saw Ms. Scofield, I could tell she was shattered over Ali. I almost went up to her. But Mrs. Henley was hovering nearby. All I know about Mrs. Henley is that she’s the social worker. Which supposedly means she deals with tougher issues that regular guidance counselors aren’t equipped to handle. We had to put our desks in a sloppy circle so we could all see each other. Mrs. Henley started by saying a bunch of stuff about loss and anger and how important it is to let your feelings out. I wasn’t really listening.

  Now she wants to know if anyone feels like sharing.

  Here’s the truth she doesn’t want to hear:

  People avoided Ali. No one knew her well enough to be grieving right now. They don’t have the right to be sad. And P.S.? Mrs. Henley can’t just chuck us in a circle and expect everyone to suddenly open up in front of people they would never talk to. That’s just not the way it works.

  “I know it’s hard,” Mrs. Henley says, “but this is a safe space. You can talk about anything that’s on your mind.”

  Hilarious. The woman is beyond clueless.

  Jolene DelMonico raises her hand. Mrs. Henley nods at her encouragingly.

  “I think what happened was tragic,” Jolene says. “Ali was so nice.” Jolene sniffs loudly. She digs a pack of tissues out of her bag. “I just wish we could have done something to help her.”

  Bitch, please. Like you even knew her.

  “It’s natural to want to blame yourself,” Mrs. Henley says in what is supposed to be a soothing tone but is actually grating on my nerves. “But this was no one’s fault. There’s nothing anyone could have done.”

  Someone snorts loudly.

  Everyone looks at me.

  Oh. I guess I was the snorter.

  “Is there something you want to say?” Mrs. Henley asks me.

  Why, yes, there is.

  I want to say that there were lots of things we could have done.

  I want to say that I hate how everyone’s talking about Ali like they knew her.

  I want to say that bullies shouldn’t be allowed to destroy people’s lives.

  Most of all, I want to yell at myself for being so afraid. No one tried to stop Carly. If there’s anyone who understood how it made Ali feel, it was me. But I didn’t try to stop Carly, either.

  I don’t say any of those things. I just stay quiet and shake my head at the floor.

  This is like what happened to Tyler. He was a boy in college who killed himself. It was all over the news. Tyler’s roommate hid a webcam in their dorm room and streamed him in bed with another boy. The next night, Tyler jumped off the George Washington Bridge.

  Carly and Warner and those guys make me wish I were dead all the time. I totally understand why Ali wanted to make everything stop. Being tormented day after day after relentless freaking day weighs on you. After a while, that weight becomes too much to carry. Ali needed a way out. So she took the only one she could see.

  Ali was like me in so many ways. We were both careful not to let our secret agony show, even when we were screaming inside. Why didn’t I do something to let her know she’s not alone? That she wasn’t alone. I wish I’d told her about The Road. About how it can lead to a better life if we keep holding on. If she had just held on a little longer …

  I don’t know how I’ll ever stop hating myself.

  FACTS

  Fact #1 Mean people suck.

  Fact #2 Bad things happen to good people.

  Fact #3 Good doesn’t always prevail over evil.

  I was hoping that mother would be in one of her sulky moods at dinner. The last thing I wanted to hear tonight was a tirade. So of course she’s on one of her worst negativity benders ever.

  “These people have a serious problem with reading,” she’s complaining. “There’s a sign right above the counter that says ‘no refunds will be issued without a receipt.’ So, you know, I’m trying to keep it together. I say, ‘There’s a sign right above you that says you need a receipt to get a refund, ma’am.’ But she keeps insisting on a refund. You’d think I was speaking another language. So I explain our exchange policy …”

  I can’t eat. Not that a boiled hot dog and a lump of revolting potato salad is remotely appetizing.

  Ten years later, mother takes a breath and actually glances in my general direction.

  “You’re not eating,” she says.

  I stare at my plate.

  “You should eat,” she says.

  “Ali Walsh killed herself.”

  “Who?”

  “A girl at my school.”

  “Oh, right. I heard about that.”

  “You did? Where?”

  “At work. There was something about it on the news.”

  Seriously? Mother knew about Ali and she didn’t even mention it? And she just spent all this time ranting about her own problems? How could she hear something like that and not even ask if I’m okay?

  “Then why didn’t you say anything?” I ask.

  “To who?”

  “To me.”

  “Why, was she a friend of yours?”

  “You really don’t get it, do you? How can you be that insensitive?”

  “You shouldn’t talk to your mother that way.”

  “You just spent the whole dinner complaining about work. You don’t care that I have to sit here and listen to you spew every night about how horrible your life is. I might as well be this … busted candleholder! And how ridiculous is it to have candleholders on the table when you never even light any candles?!”

  “I don’t complain every night.”

  “All you ever do is complain! You never ask me about my day. In case you haven’t noticed, there are other people in the world. And their lives suck, too.”

  “Oh, really? Are those people single mothers trying to put food on the table and pay the rent in an expensive town? This isn’t easy to do alone, for your information.”

  I suddenly realize that I’m shaking. I’m so furious I don’t even know what to do. I want to throw her against the wall and bash her skull in.

  “You act like you’re the only single mother in the world. There are lots of single moms who are actually doing what they’re supposed to. Just because you’re alone doesn’t give you an excuse to neglect your kid.”

  “How am I neglecting you?”

  “Seriously?” I bolt out of my chair so fast it tips over. I’m shaking even harder. “You never talk to me about anything besides how much you hate your life. You keep telling me that I’m the reason you’re so miserable. You don’t even look at me. You don’t get me the things I need. There’s never anything to eat—look at this!” I go over to the refrigerator and yank it open. “There’s nothing in here. Do you realize I have to make mayonnaise and mustard sandwiches for lunch? Do you have any idea how humiliating that is?”

  “I don’t have to listen to this.”

  “No, you do have to listen! You never showed me how to do laundry. You yell at me for normal stuff like turning the heat up or eating the rest of the cereal. You don’t even let me take a freaking shower in the morning. How can you not know how disgusting that is?!”

  Mother’s eyes pierce mine. The sudden eye contact is a searing shock to my system. My heart is racing. I’m shaking so hard I’m sure she can see it. Good. I want her to see how upset she’s making me.

  “It’s perfectly acceptable to take showers at night,” mother says in her Scary Voice. Her Scary Voice is really quiet and trembly with an undercurrent of rage. “You’re making me sound like some kind of monster. You have a roof over your head and food on the table. If you don’t want to eat it, that’s not my problem.” She looks at me with disgust. “I made dinner after a long day at work and you didn’t even bother to eat it. And now you’re complaining that there’s nothing to eat?”

  This could be the night I finally lose it. Mother may have driven me officially insane. But if I
get medieval on her ass, then I’ll look like the crackpot and she’ll look like the lucid one.

  I stomp to my room and slam the door. Trying to make her understand is useless. She wants to keep living in her own delusional world and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  There should seriously be prerequisites for being a parent.

  I reach way back on the top shelf of my closet behind the blankets, grab my secret box, and lift it out. This is the first time I’ve taken the box out in over a year.

  There was a time when I felt like I couldn’t hold on anymore. So I put some things in this box and hid it. I wanted to be ready if I had to let go.

  It would be so easy to escape like Ali did. Then maybe mother would care. Maybe everyone would.

  But I can’t do that. Because Ali could have been me. Ali saved me. She woke me up. She did the unspeakable thing I’ve been thinking about doing for so long. I owe it to her to keep living. I have to hold on to this life and never let go. I have to do it for Ali. I have to do it for myself.

  Because I am DONE.

  I am done being afraid to say the things that need to be said.

  I am done letting a bunch of idiots I won’t ever see again after next year affect my emotions.

  I am done being humiliated by things that aren’t my fault.

  I am done feeling like I can’t do anything to improve my life.

  My life is happening right now. And whether it remains a complete disaster or starts getting better is up to me. I can’t control everything, but there are some things I can change.

  We’re products of our choices. I can make a choice to do more than just survive. Which is why I’m going to start shaping my life into the one I want.

  twenty-one

  monday, may 30

  (14 days left)

  Sherae has taken over.

  It started right after I told her the truth about my home life a few weeks ago. One of her new things is to pick up me and my laundry bag, take us to school, and then take us to her house after to do laundry. The dryer isn’t drying anymore and mother refuses to tell the landlord about it. We’re on our way to school, singing along to the radio.

  This is the first good day I’ve had since Ali died. I wasn’t expecting to be anywhere near okay again for a really long time. It felt like I was underwater and everything above the surface was distorted. I went to the movies with Sherae, but I couldn’t really concentrate on the dialogue. All I could hear were these dark thoughts that wouldn’t leave me alone. I couldn’t stop obsessing over what I could have done to help Ali. But then I started throwing myself into my artwork. I made three new mobiles in a week. One of them has intricate spirals that took forever.

  Emerging from my depression makes me feel guilty. But something tells me Ali would approve.

  Every time I saw Carly, I threw her a cold glare, almost daring her to come up to me. But for some reason she didn’t.

  Sherae turns the volume down.

  “I know, I suck at this part,” I say. “You can turn it back up, though—I promise to shut up.”

  “It’s not that. We need to fix the Julian situation.”

  “Sorry, did you not get the memo? There is no Julian situation.”

  “But there should be. It’s ridiculous that you’ve been keeping yourself from him.”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “I’m declaring your reasons to be invalid.” Sherae clicks her blinker to turn onto the road to school. “You don’t want him to get too close because you’re afraid he’s not going to like you anymore, right?”

  “Something like that.”

  “So we can change the things you think he won’t like about you. Okay, we can’t trade your mom in for a working one or get you a nicer home, but Julian’s not going to care about those things. Trust me. And everything else is fixable.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely! Did I not say I was taking over?”

  “You did say that, yes.”

  “Well, this is me taking over. There’s no reason you can’t be with Julian. After school we’re going to go to my house, start your laundry, and make a list of what we need to do.”

  I should explain to Sherae why it’s too late for me and Julian. But I don’t. I just sit back for the rest of the ride with the warm wind all around me. It’s nice to be taken care of for a change.

  “Nice essay,” Simon compliments me.

  “Thanks.”

  Simon rolls his chair over to my desk. “No, I mean … this is really good.”

  When I joined lit mag, I told Simon that I wasn’t going to write anything for it. But Ali inspired me. This essay for lit mag is my way of helping people understand why some kids commit suicide.

  “Mr. Gilford is picking three of our writers to read their pieces to some English classes,” he says. “I’m going to recommend you.”

  “What?”

  “As much as I hate to admit it, not everyone reads the Spectrum. This would be a way for you to get your message out. What do you think?”

  “I guess that would be cool.”

  “Dude.” Simon springs out of his chair. The chair zings across the room. “We need to think bigger. Do you know how many kids out there are tortured every day? And we only hear about a fraction of the suicide cases.”

  A breeze blows in through the big window. They let you open the windows all the way down here on the first floor. The upstairs windows only open a crack. I guess they’re afraid that if those windows opened any higher, we’d be jumping out of them.

  I go over to the window and open it some more. The breeze is soft. It smells like trees mixed with something sweet. The weather has been amazing all week. School totally has that end-of-year vibe. I take a deep breath. Summer is in the air. Breathing is easier.

  “What are you doing this summer?” Simon asks.

  “Working. If I can find a job. I seriously need to save for college.”

  “Want to start a zine?”

  “What kind of zine?”

  “The kind that will reach out and bring people together.”

  “Uh, yeah, I think I could make some time for that.”

  “Should it be online or in print?”

  “Definitely online. We’ll reach way more people that way. And we could get contributors from all over the world!”

  “What if we did both?” Simon suggests. “We could focus mainly on the website, but also print a few hundred copies.”

  “Sounds like a lot of work.”

  “Not really. Zines were all physical cut-and-paste back in the day. We could use the same technique to make ours authentic and then just scan the pages. That way, we could still keep it old-school.”

  We frantically begin planning our zine. We want it to help anyone who feels alone by connecting people from all over. If we can get the first issue ready by the time school starts, we can even distribute some paper copies here as an underground thing.

  Then it hits me. “Okay, thinking even bigger … what if we distribute them outside of school? Even outside of town? That would spark more interest in the website.”

  “I like it.”

  “We could ask around in the city and see if anyone would stock it. Like in bookstores and coffeehouses and stuff. And we’ll put our website right on the cover so people know where to go.”

  “You. Rule.” Simon sticks his fist out for a pound. I give him an exploding pound with sound effects.

  This summer is going to rock. I’ll find a job. I’ll work on the zine with Simon. And maybe I can find a way to start making things better now instead of waiting until later.

  Part of being done means that I have to say the things I’ve been too afraid to say. Even though I am beyond nervous, I’m waiting for Julian at his locker. I told Sherae I was ready to talk to him after getting charged up in lit mag. She immediately insisted that I come over tomorrow instead.

  When Julian comes down the hall, I almost faint from emotional overload. I seriously doubt h
e’ll want to hear what I need to say. He’ll probably just keep ignoring me the way he has ever since he found out about Matt. But I have to try.

  He does not look happy to see me.

  “Hey.” I move aside so he can open his locker. “I’m … I totally understand if you don’t want to talk to me. But can we go somewhere? I have some things I need to tell you.”

  Julian is busy packing his bag. My bag is already packed. I ran to my locker right after precalc so I could get everything I needed and be ready to go in case Julian agrees to leave with me. Which is still highly doubtful.

  “Like what kind of things?” he says.

  “Like … how I’m really, really sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you away. I hate that I did. But there are reasons why and … I can’t tell you everything, but I want to tell you most of it.”

  Julian shuts his locker. He slings his messenger bag over his shoulder. “Let’s go,” he says.

  We walk through the emptying halls in silence.

  Out in the student parking lot, we get in Julian’s white Trans Am. The only reason I know it’s a Trans Am is because I heard Julian talking about it with his friends once. It’s this rare vintage find his dad bought from a collector.

  No one says anything.

  “Are … can we go somewhere?” I say.

  “Let’s talk here.”

  “Okay.” Cars are pulling out all around us. People are looking in at us as they walk by. Simon passes by on my side and makes a discreet power fist. I try to hide my smile.

  “What’s so funny?” Julian asks.

  “Nothing. Simon Bruckner was … I’m really sorry, Julian. If I could take back what I said to you, I would.”

  “Which part?”

  “All the bad parts. Like when I said I couldn’t be with you. Because …” I take a deep breath. “I really want to be with you. It wasn’t just because of Matt. There are some things in my life that I’m embarrassed about and I thought if you found out about them, you wouldn’t like me anymore. And the only way I could think to hide them from you was to push you away. But I’m ready to take a chance.”