Going Under (12 page)

“Yeah, they looked pretty wasted,” Cal said.
“One of them was all over Parker.”

“I think I remember him being all over her,”
I corrected.

“Oh, that’s right,” Cal said, shaking his
head. “You really pissed him off.” He chuckled. “You interrupted
his game.”

“Excuse me,” Lucy whispered, and vanished
from the room.

Cal watched her leave then turned back to
me. “Hey listen, you probably don’t want to get involved with
her.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” I asked.

“She’s loony, if you know what I mean,” he
explained. “I think her dad committed suicide or something, and
she’s just been a nutcase ever since.”

I hated Cal. I hated his guts. If I had a
shank in my purse, I’d whip it out this instant and plunge it into
his heart. Then I’d cut his tongue out for being such a fucking
liar. Lucy’s dad was alive and well, as I learned last week when
she mentioned something to me about his job. The only person who
might have turned Lucy into a nutcase, if she even was a nutcase,
was Cal himself. He raped her, too. I knew he did.

Suddenly I looked over at Ryan. I remembered
Cal’s warning to me in the gym, to stay away from Ryan because he
was crazy. What happened to Ryan? Obviously it had something to do
with Cal. My mind raced in that moment, remembering Ryan’s sister
at the restaurant. She looked like she could be in high school, but
I’d never seen her. Perhaps I just wasn’t paying attention. What if
something happened to her? What if she was another victim, and Ryan
was powerless to do anything about it? Rapes become much harder to
prosecute if there’s no physical evidence. I doubted any of these
girls went to the hospital after their attacks. I doubted Ryan’s
sister did, being so young and afraid. And ashamed.

My mind was reeling by this point, and it
took me a long time to hear Cal’s voice in the distance working to
get my attention.

“Brooke!” he said. “Damn girl, where’d you
go?”

I shook my head. “I have this massive test
today in physics. I’m sorry. I just spaced.”

I turned my head to see Lucy hanging around
just outside the classroom, reluctant to come back in until Cal was
safely in his seat at the back of the room.

“Well, think about what I said. Just trying
to help you out. Being new and all,” Cal said.

He walked to the back of the room, and only
then did Lucy come inside. She slid into her seat soundlessly and
didn’t acknowledge my presence.

***

“
Say ‘BFFs!’” Mom exclaimed behind the
camera.

“
BFFs!” we screamed, holding up our
necklaces so that the separate pieces were joined, fixing the
crack, making a whole heart that read “Best Friends.” It was my
favorite birthday present from my favorite person.

Beth hung around after all the party guests
left. She was spending the night, and we had big plans that
included pizza, movies, make-up, and gossip. I didn’t think any of
my subsequent birthdays would live up to this one. I decided that
eight years old was the perfect age, and I wanted to freeze frame
this moment, wearing a pretty piece of jewelry my best friend
carefully picked out for me, and never grow older.

“
You promise not to take it off?” Beth
asked, sitting with me at the kitchen table.

“
I won’t ever,” I said, thinking I
couldn’t wait to show it off Monday morning to those particular
girls at school I didn’t like.

Beth grinned from ear to ear watching me
finger the heart piece.

“
I wanted the ‘Be Fri,’ but I knew you’d
want it,” she said.

It’s true. I’m glad I had the “Be Fri” over
“st ends,” but I was willing to exchange. If it made Beth happy, no
matter that it was my birthday, I was willing to trade.

“
Wanna trade?” I asked.

“
No no,” she answered. “I like my half
now. I’m just saying that when I first saw it, I thought I wanted
yours.”

I smiled and grabbed another plate with
cake. “Wanna share?”

“
Mmhmm,” Beth replied, reaching for a
plastic fork.

“
You think we’ll be best friends
forever?” I asked, shoving a too-big piece of cake in my
mouth.

“
Why not?” Beth replied.

I laughed somehow, with my mouth full.
“Exactly. Why not?”

“
As long as you don’t turn mean like
Courtney,” Beth said.

“
I would never act like her!” I
replied.

“
I know, Brooke.”

She plopped her left arm over my shoulder in
a casual way.

“
Happy birthday, Brooke,” she said, and
leaned over to kiss my cheek. The cake crumbs on her lips stuck to
my face.

And I didn’t care.

I awoke sobbing. I clutched my stomach and
rocked back and forth, back and forth, feeling the threat of a
panic attack and powerless to stop it. I heard Beth’s voice
repeating the question over and over:
“You promise not to take
it off?”

I couldn’t breathe when the next wave of
sobs washed over me. I clapped my hand over my mouth, but it
stifled nothing. I was accustomed to feeling constant guilt, but
this was different. This was heavier, scarier. And I feared I would
be trapped forever, never able to move on because of the way I
treated her.

“I promise!” I screamed before I realized I
said it out loud.

Dad flew into the room.

“Brooke, what’s wrong?” he asked, sitting
beside me and taking me into his arms.

I cried harder, burying my face in his
shoulder, liquid pouring out of my eyes and nose all over him.

“I was a bad friend,” I cried.

Dad stroked my hair. “That’s
impossible.”

But Dad didn’t know what I did. He didn’t
know the sins I had to repent for, the sickness in my mind that
made me hear Beth all the time. Talking to me. Pleading with me.
Cursing me. Crying for me.

I pulled away and wiped my nose. “Yes, Dad,
I was.”

“What do you mean, Brooke?”

“You’ll think me so horrible if I tell you,”
I said. My voice shook uncontrollably.

“I would never think such a thing,” Dad
replied.

I drew in my breath. “I sneaked around with
Beth’s boyfriend before she died.”

Dad was quiet.

“She found out about it,” I said. “I don’t
think that’s why she . . . did it, but I feel so guilty. I never
got the chance to make things right.” Fresh tears rolled down my
cheeks, plopping one by one on my arms and chest.

“Are you still with her boyfriend?” Dad
asked.

“No!” I replied. “My God, no!”

“Then you’ve made things right,” Dad said.
He put his arm around me, and I rested my head on his shoulder.

“I don’t think that’s enough,” I
whispered.

“Did you apologize to her before she died?”
Dad asked.

“Yes. I mean, she wouldn’t talk to me face
to face, so I had to leave messages on her cell phone, but yes. I
tried. For months I tried. All summer.”

“Then honey? That’s all you can do,” Dad
said. He kissed the top of my head.

But I knew that wasn’t all I could do. There
was a way I could atone. I had to or else Beth would haunt me
forever. I imagined my brain deteriorating, growing black with
disease because of guilt. I couldn’t stand the thought, and begged
my father to stay up with me. I was too afraid to go back to sleep,
to see Beth’s face, so we went downstairs. He made me tea, and we
sat side-by-side chatting into the early morning hours while the
television hummed in the background.

***

I stood considering the blank canvas—stark
white and full of promise. I had my paints ready and an idea in my
head. I was outside on the back patio. I never painted inside, even
with acceptable lighting. No. I had to have sunshine if I were to
create anything good.

The sun felt warm and delicious on the top
of my head, weaker than the summer sun but not altogether
ineffectual like the winter one. The seasons were changing, and I
observed the first turning of leaves in my back yard. That was my
idea: to do a painting of leaves.

I dipped my paintbrush in a glob of oil
paints I had mixed. I never painted with acrylic. Mom asked me one
time why I couldn’t be a “cheap” painter, noting the extreme price
difference between acrylic and oil-based paints. What could I say?
I couldn’t make her understand the difference, how acrylic paint
dried almost immediately on the canvas. Impossible to manipulate.
Stubborn and unforgiving if you made a mistake. You had no choice
but to paint over your mess-up. And then it stayed hidden within
the painting, and you always knew it was there.

But oil-based paints were different. They
forgave you when you messed up, drying slowly to allow you ample
time to fix mistakes, make things right. On many occasions I could
leave my painting for days, come back to it, and manipulate the
colors as though it were still freshly painted. Oil paints were
wiser to the human condition, understanding our imperfections and
giving us enough time to rework ourselves until we made things
right. I couldn’t make my mother understand the richness of
oil-based paints.

“Oh, I know all about the richness of them!”
Mom said years ago when I took up my hobby. “All I know is that you
better not get bored with this.”

I had never gotten bored with painting. If
anything, I worked each year to become better. Learning new
techniques, discovering my strengths. Above all, painting allowed
me to escape me. I didn’t have to be popular Brooke. Funny Brooke.
Sexy Brooke. Witty Brooke. I could be as vulnerable and weird as I
wanted, and my friends would forgive me for it because it was art.
And they were impressed.

The first contact of brush on canvas is a
heady thing. I think it’s the promise of something wonderful,
beautiful. You can see the finished product in your mind’s eye, but
it never turns out quite as you expect. It’s always better, or at
least that’s been my experience. And that’s where the headiness
comes in. You think you know what to expect. You think you have it
all planned out. But something in you always surprises you, and
it’s a buzzing undercurrent that keeps you silently guessing until
your picture is complete.

I began, feeling the rush as my brush hit
the canvas for its first stroke. I worked all morning creating each
leaf, carefully mixing colors I thought would evoke that one last
brilliant push for life: jewel tones of rich reds, golden browns,
and fiery oranges. But I couldn’t get my colors bright enough. They
looked bright on my palette, but once I transferred them to the
canvas, they turned a muted, uninteresting shade.

I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me.
I looked down at my arm where the palette was cradled. The colors
screamed to me. I looked at my painting. They moaned before going
silent. A flat nothing. But not before they laughed at me a little.
I heard them laugh. I heard
her
laugh.

My heartbeat sped up. I felt the rush of
rage, an anger far from righteous. It was only anger, and it flowed
through me like wicked adrenaline. The kind you shouldn’t act on,
but if you don’t, you know you’ll explode. I didn’t want to draw
attention from neighbors playing next door, so I seethed
silently.

I stared at my lifeless painting and mouthed
the words: “Beth. You fucking bitch.”

Eight

Ryan was notably silent after our
conversation several weeks ago. He didn’t acknowledge me in class,
and I never saw him ride his skateboard down the sidewalk.
Sometimes I would sit in the living room with the curtains pulled
back and watch for him. It was blatant and desperate, and I didn’t
care. I knew he saw me talking to Cal on several occasions at
school, and I wondered if that accounted for his lack of interest.
Either way, my feelings were hurt, and my pride along with them.
Shouldn’t he try to fight for my affections or something? Wasn’t
that the manly thing to do?

I decided to pay him a visit instead of
waiting for him. It was a chilly October Saturday afternoon, so I
grabbed a light jacket and headed down the sidewalk, counting six
houses from mine. I walked up the stone path to the front door
feeling the rapid tapping of my heart. It was that good nervous
feeling, an expectation of something wonderful mixed with the fear
that it wouldn’t turn out as I’d hoped. But the hope made me knock
on the door anyway.

A young girl answered. “Yes?”

I recognized her from the restaurant as
Ryan’s sister. She had the same color hair as Ryan, the same blue
eyes, though hers were a little less transparent.

“I’m Brooke. I live right down the street,”
I said. “I’m a friend of your brother’s.”

“My brother doesn’t have any friends,” the
girl replied. “But I’ll let you in anyway.”

I was startled. What a thing to say, and the
way she said it. Matter-of-fact. Not snippy or cruel. Just
matter-of-fact.

I blurted what I knew I shouldn’t. “How can
he not have any friends? He’s so cute.”

Stupid. Just stupid.

“Gross,” the girl said. She cocked her head
and studied me. She was so pretty, and I wondered why I’d never
noticed her at school. “Do you
like
him?”

I didn’t know how to respond. She curled her
lips into a grin and moved aside, inviting me in.

“Ryan!” she called up the stairs. “Your
girlfriend’s here!”

“Nice,” I replied, and she giggled. “How
come I don’t see you at school?”

“I’m not in high school yet,” she replied.
“I’m in eighth grade.”

“Gotcha.” I looked up the stairs, heart
thumping, when I heard the plodding of heavy feet. Ryan appeared,
dressed in plaid pajama bottoms, hair askew, coming down the stairs
with his T-shirt halfway on. I got a glimpse of his stomach,
rippled with well-defined muscles, before he pulled the shirt down.
He was sexier than I’d ever seen him.