By the Time You Read This, I'll Be Dead (12 page)

— 6 DAYS —

Kim’s voice sounds softly in my ear, “Daelyn?
You’re going to be
late.”
Consciousness swims from the underworld. Mushrooms and mold. Worms crawling out of my eyes. I choke on a clot of dirt and retch.

“Honey? Are you all right?”

My arms push out to shove her away. I dig myself out of my grave.

I slept hard. And dreamed. When I do sleep through the night, I have terrible dreams. This one shrink called them night terrors.

All the way to school the cemetery dream haunts me. I’m cold. Graveyards creep me out, the notion of being buried. Dead or alive.

My dream was one scene: me in a grave.

I hadn’t planned on leaving a suicide note. Now I wonder if I should; let Kim and Chip know I want to be cremated.

Kim’s voice echoes in my ears, “Have a good day, honey.” Good day. Good day.

I sit in the chapel and shiver. I’m not talking to you, God. Don’t even ask. Santana is the first person to ask about my scars. I know people see them, because I feel their stares. They avoid me because they think I’m contagious. He even asked a decent question: Were you scared?

He admits to being scared. Which means maybe . . . he’s telling the truth about his cancer? If he really is dying, I feel jealous. Why couldn’t it be me? I’d be happy to trade places.

I’m on my way to econ when Emily descends. “Did you read the chapter on derived demand? I don’t get it. I don’t even understand the model of supply and demand. I sort of do, but maybe we could study together?”

Her desperation makes me sad. I’ve been there.

I have to do what I’m going to do. I speed up.

Her heavy footfalls sound behind me. “Are we late? My watch says we still have two minutes.”

Don’t, Emily. Please.

I practically sprint into the classroom and take a seat. It’s not my usual seat by the door. As I slide in, I see her pausing in the threshold, uncertain.

Trust your gut, Emily.

She squeezes into her regular desk. Smart girl.

My mind wanders. Dirt. Ashes. I’m at lunch, eating alone. One J_Doe on the Final Forum suggested a suicide note like this:

Dear

__mother

_
_
father

__lover

__other

There was nothing you could do to stop me because:

__I’d already made up my mind

__I have been suffering my whole life

__you were too slow to notice

__you weren’t there

I offed myself because:

__you suck

__the world sucks

__my life sucks

__my job sucks

__my vacuum sucks

You shouldn’t joke about suicide. But it was kind of funny.

The fungal, moldy taste sits in my mouth. I see Emily, eating alone too. She reminds me too much of me. Except she has kind of a bubbly personality, where mine is inert. I eat lunch in the kitchen, while the cooks are serving. Kim and Chip arranged for the cooks to blenderize my shepherd’s pie and let me eat it there.

I think about Santana, and I wonder if it hurts to have cancer. He doesn’t appear to be suffering. How long does it take to die?

Emily gets up and leaves. JenniferJessica trips her and I lose my appetite.

He’s on the bench, elbows on knees, picking at his cuticles. “Hey.” He smiles up at me.

He seems different. Why?

He’s left me room at the end. I’d decided to write him and tell him to leave me alone. Please, in a nice way, go away, I really can’t deal with you. I pull out my econ spiral, which is mostly blank.

“What does this look like to you?” he says. He claws down his collar and cricks his neck toward me. “Right here.”

His hand grazes a bump. I turn my head slowly to look.

“If it’s another lump and I’m already on chemo . . .” He pulls up his collar and shudders. “Man.” Straightening his back, he stretches his arms over his head and says, “I’m just paranoid. That never goes away.”

Without even realizing it, I write, “I know.”

His eyes meet mine and there’s something. Under- standing?

I avert my gaze.

His legs extend and he sprawls back on the bench. An arm slithers across my shoulders. Are you crazy! I scoot forward.

“I’ll probably need high-dose chemo and stem cell transplantation this time. Fun and games.”

He’s making me feel queasy. My spiral starts to slip and I smack it onto my lap.

“Maybe I’ll lose my hair again. I’m pretty hot as a skinhead.” He turns and grins.

I can’t stop my fluttering stomach. Am I blushing? I brush hair across my face to hide it. I start to write, “Would you please—”

“I don’t want to tell Ariel about this new lump. She’s already in hyper mode about the relapse. Do you think I should? I mean, there’s nothing she can do. It’s my war to win. She’ll only cry and make both of us feel miserable and guilty that we have to get through this again, and she’s not even the one who’s sick.” He shakes his head. “I know it’s hard on her. If I don’t tell her she’ll kill me.” He pauses. “That was supposed to be funny.”

I write, “What is chemo like?”

He reads it and says, “Indescribable horror. I must be getting used to it, though, because the side effects aren’t so bad this time.”

I swallow and it hurts.

“If I have to, I’ll do chemo to fight the beast. Whatever it takes to stay alive.” He touches me and I bolt upright. The only escape is school, so I charge for the gate.

Who do I run into? JenniferJessica. A black Mercedes pulls to the curb and honks. On her way past, she looks from me to Santana. “Hey,” he says.

A sneer curls her lip.

I hope he sees.

“Whassup?”

She doesn’t answer him.

Santana watches as she climbs in the Mercedes and it zooms away. He widens his eyes at me. “She’s a scary bitch.”

He has no idea.

“Daelyn—” He snags my arm.

I pull away and slam the gate after me.

Question:
How will you be remembered?

Subject to interpretation, again.

Not with a headstone, I can tell you that. Do
not
put me in the ground.

Here lies Daelyn Rice.

She was nice.

No, she wasn’t. She was horrid.

Flush me down the toilet. Human waste.

I suppose I’ll be remembered as dull. Timid.

No one ever knew me. People came. They went.

I was kind, I think. Not sympathetic, but considerate of others. I always gave up my place in line. I loaned out pencils and paper, or let people take them from me. I never reported a sexual assault.

How will you be remembered?

No one will remember—

A knock on my door startles me. Kim appears. She’s different too. What’s going on? She’s solid and . . . glowing. I have her light brown eyes.

“You have a phone call,” she says. In her hand, she holds her cell. Who would call me? Not Emily. Please.

“It’s Santana.”

She walks toward me with the phone. She looks at it, like she doesn’t know what to do. She’s not the only one. “Okay, here she is,” she talks into the cell. She hands it to me.

I don’t know why I take it. Or hold it to my ear.

“Daelyn, it’s me. I was going to ask you something, but I chickened out. Now or never, right?”

What’s he talking about?

“Do you have a pen?”

A pen? I search the top of my desk. Then think, This is dumb. Why?

He says, “Tap once for yes. Twice for no.”

I glance up at Kim.

“Oh. Sorry,” she says. She backs out of the room, smiling.

“The thing is, my birthday’s next week. Friday, actually. It’s my eighteenth. I was wondering if you’d have dinner with me.”

Is he serious? Like, a date? What if he doesn’t show up, or gives me the wrong address, or—

I feel the phone in my hand. I hear their voices in my head

Taunting me. Teasing.

“Tap once for yes. Twice for—”

I snap the phone closed.

What would you like for dinner?

Is that all you’re going to eat?

Do you want to see a movie?

What are you working on?

How are you feeling, Daelyn?

Are you fitting in at school?

How do you like your classes?

Have you made any friends?

Is your medication working?

Are you having thoughts of suicide?

Do you know we love you?

What are you writing now?

You know we trust you, right?

Did you take your medication?

Are you getting enough sleep?

Why don’t you have more laundry?

Where’s your neck brace?

Why does your bedroom seem empty?

Are you still on that computer?

Who will guide you to the light?

How will you be remembered?

Does this look like a lump to you?

Will you come to my birthday party?

Do you understand demand?

What is economics?

Have you increased your happiness quotient?

Where’s your jewelry box?

Will you sing for me?

What are you reading now?

Is Santana dying?

How could a boy be lonely?

Am I throwing you off-key?

What does he see in me?

Will you be my friend?

What’s that in your bag?

Where are you going, Daelyn?

What are you thinking, Daelyn?

Why are you crying, Daelyn?

I don’t have to answer. Until you know the question.

— 5 DAYS —

I decide to come clean, to tell all of it. I log on to Through-the-Light and link to
Bullied
.

“Fat camp was this place in Arizona, in the desert. It might’ve been an old military base. There were supposed to be fun activities like horseback riding and swimming and crafts. That was in the brochure Mom gave me. Dad looked at it with me and said it looked great; Mom said she loved going to Girl Scout camp. That should’ve tipped me off. She said, ‘It’ll be fantastic. You’ll come back slim and healthy.’”

I admit, I was semi-excited.

“The whole time I was there, I never saw a horse. The pool was this dried-up sinkhole, and the counselors were college students or dropouts. They’d majored in sadism.”

I figured that out fast. They’d graduated with honors from bully boot camp.

“As soon as our parents left us, the torture began. We had to line up for our first weigh-in. They had this industrial scale with a huge round dial and a counselor with a bullhorn who broadcast your name to everyone.”

So humiliating.

J_Doe060787 writes:
I f*ing hate the military. They screwed me royal.

Could you listen?

“People stripped off as much as possible. Shoes and socks. Guys took off their shirts. One girl even stripped to her bra. We had to stand in single file. Girls and guys together. There was no talking, no goofing around. Weigh-ins were no joking matter.”

Not then. Not now.

“People weighed like 195, 211, 250. When my turn came, I was sweating so bad I slipped on the steps and bruised my knee. They didn’t care. My name rang out all over the world, so everyone knew I was at fat camp.”

Like anyone cared where I was, or who I was.

J_Doe060787 again:
I f*ing hate my boss. He rags on me for everything. I f*ing hate my job.

Then quit, I think.

“‘Get on the scale,’ this counselor ordered. ‘Turn around.’ You had to watch the dial so you could see for yourself how disgustingly fat you were.

“176. That was my first weight. The counselor measured my height. She wrote down, ‘Grossly obese.’

“It was like she’d shouted it to the world: YOU ARE GROSS.

“As I was heading off the stage, this girl who’d finished ahead of me turned and said between her teeth, ‘At least I’m not as fat as you.’”

That became the camp motto. At least I’m not as fat as you.

The counselors were all fit and trim, of course. The models of perfection we would never be.

Another J_Doe pops up, but I don’t read the entry. It’s long, and it’s about him.

“We had exercises morning, noon, and night. We had to do calisthenics. Jumping jacks and sit-ups. StairMaster. Treadmill. Before we could even have breakfast, we had to run.”

My feet hurt all the time. My ankles swelled. If I sit and stare at them, even now, I can see my ankles ballooning and blisters forming on the soles of my feet. They pop and ooze.

J_Doe053175 writes:
My husband beat me. He called me every name in the book, but I stayed with him. People asked why I took his abuse. Because I loved him, that’s why. Then he left me for another woman.

That’s love? To let someone beat you and be hateful to you? These people are all so . . .

Weak. Powerless to change their lives. I know the feeling. All you can do is take it. No one understands how it beats you down.

I need to stay on track here.

“Breakfast was, like, a bowl of oatmeal, watered-down orange juice, and a dry slice of toast. You ate as slow as possible because right after breakfast you had to do more exercises.”

J_Doe081493 replies:
Did you lose weight?

Someone’s reading this. I want to reply, “Why? Because you’ll put up with abuse as long as you get what you want?”

I don’t want to discuss it at the moment. I just want to write this out.

“There was an obstacle course with climbing walls and rope ladders and sandpits. There were even snakes in the sand.”

Not real ones. Rubber. Still, it wasn’t funny. None of it was funny.

“A counselor would stand and time you and shout, ‘Faster, faster. Get your big butt off the ground, girl. Move it. Look out for snakes.’”

Wasn’t it enough that we had been shamed into being there?

They must’ve been bored, the counselors, so they used us as pawns in their sadistic little games.

I blink at the screen and see that J_Doe081493 has piped up again:
Did you say snakes?

Forget the snakes. They were the least of it.

“We’d have to weigh in three times a day. Three. And we had to wear these black sports bras with stretchy shorts. This one counselor poked my stomach and went, ‘Look at that roll of fat. Aren’t you disgusted with yourself?’”

He
touched
me.

I stop for a minute to catch my breath. Drown out that roar in my head. The truth remains. I was, and am, disgusted with myself.

“On the way to the showers, we passed through the 360-degree-mirror room. A counselor on the other side would say, ‘Drop your towel. Tell me what you see.’

“If you didn’t answer, all the girl counselors would yell, ‘Tell me what you see!’

“‘Fat.’

“‘What?’

“‘Fat,’ you’d say louder.

“‘We can’t hear you.’

“‘FAAAT!’

“Then they’d let you out. The showers didn’t have stalls, so you had to stand with two other fat, naked girls. Nobody talked.”

We were mortified. Degraded.

J_Doe081493 writes:
How long were you there?

I’m getting to that. Just let me finish.

“At night,” I key, “you had to listen to these tapes. Self-help tapes. They helped convince you that you were a disgusting, worthless pig.”

I can recite them in my sleep. “I am fat. I have power over my weight. If I exercise and eat right, I can lose the weight and feel good about myself.”

What I heard, and still hear is, “I am fat. I have power.”

My fingers are cramping. I’m on a roll, though, and I need to keep going.

An IM scrolls across the screen:
Daelyn, you’ve been on there for an hour. It’s time to quit.

When I’m done, Chip! Let me finish this.

“Fat camp was six weeks long.”

Does that answer your question? Six weeks of hell on earth.

I’m cutting you off.

I quickly key, “10 more minutes. OK?”

I key frantically, “You got to call home every other day. I remember this one call when I talked to my mom. A counselor sat in on all the conversations. They’d listen and glare if you said anything negative. Mom said, ‘How are you doing?’ Threatening glare from the counselor. ‘Fine,’ I lied. The counselor would then shove your progress report across the desk. You were supposed to say, ‘So far in total I’ve lost 12 pounds and 5 percent of my body mass.’ Because the camp guaranteed results.”

They didn’t guarantee you’d come out a whole person.

“I told my mom the truth. ‘I put on 2 pounds.’ The counselor lunged like he was going to strangle me. Go ahead, I thought. I wanted Mom to say, ‘Maybe you’d better come home then.’ Instead, she went, ‘That’s OK. It’s probably muscle.’

“I had to fight so hard not to cry. Mom said, ‘How are you feeling about yourself?’

“That’s when I lost it. The counselor grabbed the phone from me. He told Mom some bs about what a rough day I’d had and how a small weight gain was normal and how great I was doing overall.

“When he hung up, he said, ‘Your parents are paying a shitload of money to send you here. Don’t disappoint them.’

“I couldn’t stop crying. I was so homesick, and I hated fat camp so much. If you cried, you had to run. Crying was a sign of weakness, and they were getting paid to beat the weakness out of you.”

Time’s up, Daelyn.

I power down. My neck hurts and I want to close my eyes and not hear the voices.

Not see the 360-degree mirror of my life.