My Heart and Other Black Holes

  I take a breath and I feel my rib cage expand. Nope, we’re not normal teenagers. Yes, the black slug is still there, devouring any happy thoughts I allow myself. “Saturday night works for me. I’ll put it in my calendar as Death Day Planning.”

  He smirks. No half-moon smile this time. He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket. “We should exchange numbers.”

  There’s something poetic about the fact that the first boy to ever ask for my number is the same boy I’m going to die with. I bet John Berryman would have had a field day with that. Actually, probably not—he would likely find it very boring.

  I give Roman my number and then add him as a new contact. I put him under FrozenRobot. He squints at my screen.

  “What?”

  “Why’d you put me under that?”

  “It’s easier to think about you like that.”

  He shakes his head at me again. “You should stop trying to make this easy. Nothing about this is going to be easy.”

  I know, FrozenRobot. I know.

  FRIDAY, MARCH 15

  23 days left

  Mr. Scott is tapping his foot on the linoleum floor like he’s auditioning for a role in Waiting for Godot. The bell rings and he springs into his spiel. “Today is one of my favorite days of the year.”

  I look at the date. Pi Day was yesterday. I wonder what else could get Mr. Scott so geeked out.

  He frowns as his eyes scan the class. We’re all slouched at our desks, most of us trying to pretend like we aren’t spending every second staring at the clock.

  Mr. Scott sighs. “Doesn’t anyone want to know why I’m so excited?”

  “I do, Mr. Scott,” Stacy Jenkins says. She flips her shiny auburn hair and gives him her token suck-up smile.

  “Anyone else?” he prompts, and the class groans.

  “I’m glad to see how enthusiastic the young minds of the future are.” His attempt at sarcasm falls flat. We all continue to look at him with glossy blank stares, our mouths slightly open. I bet if someone filmed Langston High’s classrooms and then compared the footage with film taken of mouth-breathing sea creatures, the similarities would be striking.

  “What’s going on, Mr. Scott?” Stacy coaxes. I don’t admire many things about Stacy, but I have to admit it takes some ovaries to talk to your physics teacher like he’s a puppy. Mr. Scott doesn’t seem to mind, though.

  “Today I assign my world-famous physics photography project.”

  The class groans again. Projects are the worst.

  “You’ll each be assigned a partner.”

  More groaning. Scratch what I said before. Group projects are the worst.

  “Oh, come on,” Mr. Scott says, smiling. “My students always love this project.”

  “What do we take photos of?” Stacy asks as she twirls her pencil between her fingers.

  “Patience, Stacy. I’m about to explain that,” he says, and for the first time ever, I sense a bit of irritation in his voice. I wonder if Mr. Scott dreamed of being a physics teacher when he was our age. I doubt it. I bet he thought he’d land a fancy job at NASA or something. Poor guy. I can think of few fates worse than teaching the young minds of Langston, Kentucky.

  Mr. Scott continues, “You are going to take five photographs in the real world that represent the principles of the conservation of energy theory. The photographs must be related to a theme of your choice.”

  “Theme?” Tyler Bowen interrupts.

  “Yes. Theme,” Mr. Scott says. “In the past, I’ve had students use basketball as a theme. All of the photos were taken at a Langston High game. Other past themes have been amusement parks, dogs—”

  “Like shopping could be a theme?” Tanya Lee volunteers.

  Mr. Scott winces and then quickly returns to his neutral facial expression. “In theory, you could take all your photos at the mall.”

  Tyler Bowen raises his hand. This is new, him raising his hand instead of simply blurting out whatever’s on his mind.

  “Yes?” Mr. Scott points at him.

  “Do we have to take the photos ourselves or can we just pull them off the internet?”

  Another wince. “Good question. You must take the photographs. A big part of your grade is going to be—”

  “That’s not fair,” Stacy protests. “This isn’t photography class.” Stacy isn’t as good as Georgia at masking her whines as valid arguments, but I’d still give her an A for effort.

  “You aren’t going to be graded on the quality of the photographs per se,” Mr. Scott says quickly. “But I’m going to expect that you’ll . . .” He trails off. “Hold on. I might as well pass out the worksheet that better explains the project before I continue rambling.”

  The class mutters, a mixture of groans and sighs. Mr. Scott’s face reddens and he fumbles with the worksheets. “Does someone want to help me pass them out?”

  No volunteers.

  “Aysel?” he says in a pleading voice.

  “Uh, sure.” I stand up from my desk even though I would rather eat staples than interact with my classmates. I don’t make eye contact with anyone as I pass out the worksheets. No one seems that interested in looking at me either. Every time I reach someone’s desk, I sense the person stiffening their back, holding their breath, willing me to go away. Part of me wants to shout that they don’t have to be afraid of me, but another part of me, the bigger part of me, holds it in because I’m not so sure.

  Once I’m back at my desk, Mr. Scott continues explaining the project. He tells us that he expects us to mount our photographs on white parchment paper and then organize the photographs into a booklet. Each photograph is expected to have a detailed written explanation under it, describing the history of the principle and the formulas that correspond to it. We’ll be graded on the clarity of our photographs, our descriptions, and our explanations of the physics principles involved. We’ll also earn points for how well organized our booklet is and the creativity of our theme. Additionally, if we don’t have access to a digital camera, we can borrow one from the library. Mr. Scott is leaving little room for excuses.

  “So now all that’s left is to choose partners,” he says, clasping his hands together. “I think the most fair thing to do is pull names out of a hat.”

  As predicted, the class erupts with protests.

  “That’s totally not fair,” Stacy says.

  “Yeah,” echoes Tanya. “We should get to choose our own partners. Especially since our grade depends on them.”

  Mr. Scott scratches the back of his neck, his eyes twitching. “In the years that I let people choose their own partners, I got unoriginal themes and uninspired photographs. In years where the partners were chosen at random, I got much more creative work. I think it has to do with pushing students out of their comfort zone.”

  The class continues to argue with him even as we all write our names on small sheets of notebook paper and hand them to him. He grabs the Cincinnati Reds cap he has on his desk and puts all the names inside it. As he calls out the pairings, the groans and sighs become louder.

  I clench my teeth and wish I’d been smart enough not to hand in my name. Maybe then I would’ve gotten to work alone. Even better, I wouldn’t have to listen to my partner throw the World’s Biggest Fit once they find out they’re stuck with me.

  “Aysel Seran,” Mr. Scott announces as he pulls my name out of the hat.

  The class goes silent.

  “Your partner will be Tyler Bowen,” Mr. Scott says cheerfully, completely oblivious to my social leprosy.

  “Oh God,” Stacy says. She reaches out to pat his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Ty.”

  Tyler’s face darkens like someone just murdered his mother. I guess given my family history I shouldn’t joke about that. I almost feel bad for Tyler. I know that any association with me is bad news for him socially. But the thing is, our project is due on April 10, so in the end it doesn’t matter.

  I’ll be gone before we have to turn it in.

  SATURDAY, MARCH
16

  22 days left

  The last ten minutes of my shift at TMC are always the slowest. I debate calling the next person on my log, but that would mean I actually care about being a good employee, which I don’t. Instead, I play around on Smooth Passages.

  I read more of the postings in the Suicide Partners section. It’s strange how some people post multiple times. I wonder if they didn’t like the people who responded to them, and then I wonder if someone other than me responded to Roman. Did he pick me over someone else? The thought makes my stomach flip in a way I’m not used to. Mostly because never in my life have I been picked when there was another alternative. Though, if I’m being completely honest with myself, Roman probably didn’t have any other choices. Willis, Kentucky, is the middle of nowhere. Lucky for him, Langston is only fifteen minutes west of nowhere.

  “I told you to stop checking dating websites when you’re at work,” Laura grumbles.

  “Why do you care, anyway?” I quickly minimize the window before she can get a better look at the website.

  She picks at her chipped pink nail polish. “I don’t care. Though I have to tell you I think you’re only going to find straight-up weirdos on there.”

  She has no idea how right she is. “Thanks for the advice.” I do my best to maintain a straight face, but I can’t. Laura shakes her head.

  “Don’t blame me when your computer gets a virus.” She points at my screen.

  “I’ll make sure to inform Mr. Palmer that the straight-up-weirdo website was all me.” I give her a wink before I pick up the phone, trying not to laugh, and dial the next number on my list—Earl Gorges, who lives on Rowan Hill Drive.

  “Hello?” a deep voice answers the phone.

  “May I please speak to Mr. Earl Gorges?”

  “Speaking,” the voice says.

  “Hi, Mr. Gorges, this is Aysel Seran, I’m calling from Tucker’s Marketing Concepts on behalf of Fit and Active Foods. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Go to hell,” he says, and hangs up the phone.

  I turn to Laura. “That man just told me to go to hell.”

  This time it’s her turn to laugh.

  I decide to take the long way when I drive to pick up Roman. My hands start to tremble as I pull onto Tanner Lane. I’ve avoided this street as much as possible since everything with my dad happened. Tanner Lane sits on the outskirts of town, home to only the recreational center and a few run-down shops. As I drive down the road, I let myself glance to the left.

  And then I see it. My dad’s old convenience store. The shabby gray cement building doesn’t look any different now that it’s abandoned, which says more about its past state than its current one. The town keeps talking about tearing it down. Apparently some developer bought it and plans to turn it into one of those fancy gas stations where you can treat yourself to a slushie of any color, buy a hot pizza, and fill up your tank. All you could get at Dad’s old store was a candy bar, a cup of coffee, and the newspaper.

  I know I should be eager for it to be torn down, hungry to see the memory crumble. Maybe if the scene of the crime no longer exists, people will start to forget. But I know that’s not true. And even if it were, I don’t want to see the building go. For better or worse, it’s my childhood.

  I stare at the building and remember sitting inside, behind the counter with my dad. We’d share a Snickers bar and listen to Bach. He’d tell me how when he was younger, he used to fantasize about learning how to play the piano. He said that once he made enough money at his store, he was going to pay for me to take piano lessons. He was going to send me to a fancy music camp. I guess things didn’t exactly go the way he planned.

  The parking lot is empty. I pull my car up to the building and turn off the engine. I step outside and run my hands over the familiar concrete blocks. I walk around on the front curb and search for the place where I pressed my palms in the wet cement of the sidewalk when I was ten.

  When Dad first discovered what I’d done, his eyes blazed with anger and the vein in his forehead bulged, but then he stared at the tiny handprints and back at me and finally burst out laughing. He flung me over his shoulder and said, “I guess it’s fine, Zellie. This way everyone will know the place belongs to you.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and put my hands into the old imprint. They’re too big to fit now, but it still feels like more of a fit than anywhere else in the world does. I tilt my head toward the sky and slowly open my eyes. The sky is gray and still, like it’s holding its breath. I hold my breath too and wait for the pressure building in my throat to fade. It doesn’t.

  “I miss you, Dad,” I whisper as I turn my eyes back to the cement curb. “I know I shouldn’t, but I do.”

  My phone beeps and I see a message from Roman. I tell him I’m on my way and I jump back into the car. When I reach FrozenRobot’s house, I text him to come outside. I don’t want to have to face his mom. But when the door opens, I see Mrs. Franklin standing there. She walks toward my car at a brisk pace.

  I take a deep breath and roll down the window.

  “Aysel,” she says, her voice tight, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  It doesn’t sound like it. I nod at her because I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say to that.

  “Roman didn’t get out of bed yesterday and refused to go to school. But he just told me that he’s planning to go out with you. Is that right?” She squints at me like she’s trying to determine what my allure is. Poor woman. She has no idea that it’s not me that holds the appeal: it’s death.

  I nod again. “Yeah. We’re going to hang out.” I try to keep my voice neutral, afraid that even the slightest shake in my voice will give our true plan away, the real reason for our hangout.

  “Where?” She puts her hands on her hips. I sink farther into my car’s seat. I hadn’t prepared for an interrogation.

  I’m fumbling around for an answer when Roman comes up behind his mom. “We’re going to the playground.”

  Her gaze darts from me to him and back again. A worried look crosses her face and she pinches her lips. Then she smiles slowly, but it’s a weak one. “Are you going to play basketball?”

  I look to Roman for the answer. His shoulders are hunched, as if he can barely stand to hold himself up, like he’s uncomfortable with his own height. But he’s one of those people who can never be invisible, even if they want to be. “Yeah. I’m going to teach Aysel how to shoot.” He slowly gestures toward me, his hands clumsy and sluggish. I wonder if he used to talk with his hands, but now he’s out of practice. “You’re looking at the next basketball superstar.”

  I force myself to smile and can only imagine how awfully fake it looks. “He claimed he could teach a cat to shoot, so I gave him a harder student. Me.”

  Mrs. Franklin laughs, but I still sense a bit of hesitance. “Okay, well, you kids have fun. But Roman . . .” She puts her hand on his shoulder and her pink lacquered fingernails glint in the glow of my car’s headlights. “Will you call me if you’re going to be out late?”

  “Yeah, no problem, Mom.” He gives her a weak hug and I look away as she runs her fingers through his short buzzed hair.

  She waves at us as she walks back into the house. Roman slides into the passenger seat and we sit for a few moments in silence.

  “Nice to see you, too,” I say.

  “I told you to stop making jokes.”

  “That wasn’t a joke.” I turn back on the engine. “So are we really going to hang out at the playground?” I use his same words from the other day. “Hang out” sounds so much less morbid than “Where should we go to plan our joint death?”

  “Sure. The old playground sounds good.” He stares out the window and seems even more distant than he was when I first met him.

  I steer my car down his street and take a left turn onto Main. “You forget that I’m not from Willis. I don’t know what you mean by the old playground.” Maybe he’s the type of person who turns his lies into truths in his
head. Like just because he told his friends we met at the old playground, somehow the universe made that true.

  “Keep going this way and then take a right turn onto Possum Run.”

  Only in Willis, Kentucky, would that be the name of a street.

  “You had me at Possum Run,” I say.

  He glares at me.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll be serious.”

  “You’re freaking me out,” he says.

  “Why?”

  “With the jokes. You seem serious about this whole thing, but then whenever you start to talk about it, you’re all lighthearted.”

  I let out my laugh. The same one that comes out whenever I’m talking to Laura. It’s high-pitched and strangled.

  “See?”

  “Sorry. I laugh when I get nervous.”

  “Why are you nervous?”

  I take the right turn onto Possum Run. “Because you’re interrogating me about my motives. Besides, I once read that a side effect of depression is an overwhelming desire to make stupid jokes.”

  He frowns.

  “I’m serious.”

  “I don’t think that’s true.”

  “Look it up.”

  “Okay, I will.” He crosses his arms over his chest and looks out the window. “So are you going to tell me or what?”

  “Tell you what?” My car bumps over a pothole on Possum Run.

  “Why you want to do it.”

  I see the playground on the left side of the street. The “old playground” apparently consists of a rusted swing set, a cracked basketball court complete with a metal chain basket, and three rotting picnic tables. It looks like it used to have a sandbox, but at some point, I guess, the sand got replaced with gravel. Soda cans and plastic potato-chip bags are littered across the muddy grass. In some ways, the playground feels more like a graveyard. Like it’s a decrepit testament to faded memories, better times. Maybe that’s why FrozenRobot likes it so much.

  I park the car and look over at him. His knees are folded up and knocking against the dashboard, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His hazel eyes are wide as he studies the playground.