Going Under (2 page)

“Sweetheart, don’t say words like ‘freaking’
and ‘slut’ in a church,” Mom replied.

I only sobbed louder.

“You can do this,” Mom encouraged.

I stood my ground, shaking my head
violently, refusing to go in.

“Brooklyn Wright!” Mom hissed, pushing me
away and grabbing my upper arm. She squeezed too tightly, and I
squeaked in discomfort. There was no more tenderness in her voice.
“Get yourself together. This isn’t about you. So stop making it
about you. You’re going into that sanctuary and you’re going to pay
your respects to your friend, and you’re going to make it about
Beth. Do you understand me?”

I swallowed hard and wiped my face.

“Do you understand me?” Mom repeated.

I nodded grudgingly, and she took my hand,
leading me through the doors.

The sanctuary reeked of sorrow and guilt. I
imagined everyone thought they were responsible in some way for the
death of an 18-year-old. I felt guilty, but my guilt came from an
entirely different place. I didn’t drive my best friend to commit
suicide, but I also wasn’t there for her when she needed me. I was
too wrapped up in my own selfish desires—desires for her boyfriend,
Finn. Sneaking around. Lying to her. Slowly destroying a friendship
that was going strong since we were five. I was a deplorable
friend, and she discovered it. Then I tried to make it right by
telling Finn we were over, explaining that I couldn’t betray my
friend, and he wanted to know what I thought I was doing to him.
Was it not the same thing? Betrayal?

I slunk into a pew in the back of the church
scanning the crowd for Finn. I knew he would be here, and I thought
he had a lot of nerve. He cheated on Beth. Broke her heart. The
worst part was that I was his accomplice. He destroyed my
friendship, and I let him. And he felt no guilt over it.
“The
heart wants what the heart wants.”
That’s what he told me once.
I think he stole it from some bullshit movie.

I can’t believe I fell for him. I can’t
believe I was sitting here now blaming him for everything. What a
pathetic loser. Not him.
Me
. I swiped my fingers under my
eyes, no doubt smearing my recently applied mascara. I kept
scanning the congregation for Finn, but I couldn’t find him. It was
desperate disappointment because I needed to find him. I needed to
look at his face. Seeing him would compound the anguish I so
rightly deserved to feel. I needed him to help me punish myself
more for the pain I caused Beth.

I drew in a long, slow breath, exhaling just
as slowly, and caught sight of the beautiful guy. There. That’s it,
and I breathed deeply feeling my heart constrict, feeling it ache
for shame at my behavior. I didn’t need Finn to make me feel like
shit. This guy could. I stared at him, focusing on my guilt,
silently apologizing over and over to the girl up front in the
wooden box.

I’m sorry, Beth. I’m so sorry. Please don’t
hate me.

And then my eyes glazed over with fresh
tears as the pastor took his place beside the casket.

Two

“What the hell, Brooke?” Gretchen said. “You
met him at Beth’s funeral?”

I grunted into the phone.

“A
funeral
?” she emphasized.

“I know, okay!” I said. “I’m a shitty
friend.”

“You think?”

“I can’t help he ran into me,” I argued.

“Oh my God,” Gretchen said. “This is just
like that
Sex and the City
episode.”

Here we go again
, I thought. Gretchen
had an irritating way of likening all of my life experiences to
Sex and the City
episodes. I already knew which one she was
going to describe before she started because she made me watch
every single episode with her. Multiple times.

“And Charlotte’s hat blows over to the guy’s
wife’s gravestone,” I heard Gretchen say.

“I know. I remember.”

“And it’s totally pathetic and you can’t
date him,” Gretchen said.

“I’m not dating him. We barely even talked,”
I replied. “We kind of just stared at each other for a minute.” I
screwed up my face in thought.

“You stared at each other?”

“Um, kind of,” I admitted.

“Okay. Weird.”

“Well, that’s what happened,” I said
defensively. I sat on my bed surrounded by boxes filled with my
belongings. In a few hours, they would be packed in the car and
driven over to my dad’s house. My new residence.

“You really are a bitch,” Gretchen said.

“What the hell?”

“You ditch me my senior year and then try to
pick up a guy at Beth’s funeral.”

“Now hold up one second. I didn’t have a
choice about ditching you. I can’t help it if my mom is moving
clear across the country. Would you rather me live in
California?”

Gretchen pouted on the other end of the
line. “Why can’t your dad just move into this school district?”

“He’s lived in that house for thirteen
years. And have you no idea what’s going on with the housing market
right now? You think he could sell his place?” I cringed at the
thought of his yellowed linoleum kitchen floor and floral
wallpaper. The house needed a complete interior makeover.

“Oh, shut up, Brooke. Like you have a clue.
You’re always trying to sound smart about the news.”

“Whatever. I am smart about the news. I
actually watch it,” I shot back, and then added in my best Valley
girl impression: “I’m, like, totally fucking smart.”

Gretchen giggled. And then I giggled because
it was impossible not to giggle when Gretchen did. I relished the
sounds until my heart went tight, signaling inappropriate behavior
so soon after Beth’s death.

“And don’t say I was trying to pick up a guy
at Beth’s funeral, okay? That’s just wrong,” I said quietly.

Gretchen was silent for a moment.

“I should have gone with you,” she said
finally. “I just couldn’t. I’m a chicken. What can I say? Do you
hate me?”

I shook my head but said nothing, feeling
the instant lump in my throat. It came out of nowhere, throbbing
painfully, especially when I tried to swallow it.

“You there?” Gretchen said.

I nodded, feeling the first hot tears creep
over my lower lids to hang on my lashes.

“Brookey,” Gretchen said. It came out
sounding desperate and soothing and sweet.

The sob caught fast and hard in my chest,
louder than I expected, a violent shudder I couldn’t suppress. I
moaned, knowing I could sound as crazy and wretched as I wanted,
and Gretchen wouldn’t mind.

“What’s wrong with me?” Another sob. Even
louder.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” my friend
whispered.

“Why did I act that way? Why did I try to
flirt with that guy?” I cried. “I’m so pathetic.” The tears spilled
forth, running down the sides of my face and wetting my cell
phone.

“You’re not pathetic, Brooke,” Gretchen
said, and then she tried for something light: “You can’t cry all
the time or else we’d have to admit you into Dorothea Dix.”

“They’ve closed down,” I replied, sniffling
and wiping my nose with the back of my hand.

“Well, whatever,” Gretchen said, undeterred.
“The point is that you keep punishing yourself, Brooke, and that’s
not healthy.”

“My best friend hanged herself!” I screamed
into the phone.

“And that wasn’t your fault!” Gretchen
replied. “Why do you think it is?”

“I cheated with her boyfriend, Gretchen. Did
you forget?” I spluttered.

“So that makes you a killer?”

The question shocked me. I opened my mouth
to reply but could think of nothing to say. Why
did
I think
my betrayal drove Beth to commit suicide? I knew better. I knew the
real reason. Still, the guilt hung heavy in my heart, and I
couldn’t shake it.

“You’re a normal person, Brooke. You can’t
cry forever. You have to be able to function.”

“So I flirt with a guy at Beth’s funeral?!
That’s not normal or functioning. That’s messed up,” I said.

“Well, I don’t know much about psychology,
but I bet a lot of doctors would say that’s normal.”

I snorted.

“No, seriously. People do crazy things when
they’re under a lot of stress,” Gretchen explained.

I shrugged.

“Stop punishing yourself, Brooke,” Gretchen
said. “Finn had nothing to do with it.”

“Stop right there,” I demanded. “First off,
don’t mention that name again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Second, stop trying to make me feel better
for acting like a complete jerk at my best friend’s funeral.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel better. I’m
just calling it how I see it. You’ve locked yourself up for days
already. You’ve cried more than anyone else I know. You’ve given
Beth every bit of your heartache. You’ve got to move on,” Gretchen
said.

“Move on?” I asked, bewildered.

“I don’t mean that you forget about her,”
Gretchen said gently. “I mean that you stop hurting yourself. Hey,
maybe this funeral guy can help. Does he go to your new
school?”

“Oh my God,” I said. “How should I know? And
weren’t you just saying that I couldn’t get involved with him
because it’d be totally lame? Not to mention inappropriate?”

Gretchen ignored my question. “He was at
Beth’s funeral. How does he know her? Were they friends?”

“I don’t know.” I grabbed a tissue from the
nightstand and blew my nose.

“Gross. Pull the phone away from your face
when you do that,” Gretchen said.

I laughed in spite of my pain.

And then I heard the familiar whine. It was
the same whine Gretchen used on her father whenever she wanted new
clothes. It was annoying but sweet.

“Brookey, get better!”

I laughed again. I couldn’t help it.
Gretchen was the silliest friend I had. And deluded, too. She
thought she could will things to happen by just saying them. She
discounted effort being a factor in achieving goals.

“I
will
get an A on this history exam
today!” she exclaimed last year. But she didn’t study and earned a
D instead. The most frustrating part of it all was her inability to
understand why claiming something out loud didn’t make it so.

“Gretchen, you didn’t study,” I explained to
her.

“But I said it,” she replied. “I claimed
it.”

I wanted to tell her real life wasn’t a
motivational seminar where you’re brainwashed into believing that
writing down daily affirmations and chanting them over and over
made them come true.

“Are you listening to me?” Gretchen asked,
and I was yanked back to the present. “I said get better!”

“And how do you propose I do that?” I
asked.

“Go fuck that guy from the funeral,”
Gretchen suggested. “Even if it
is
totally messed up.”

“Oh my God. You’re sick,” I replied.

“I’m not sick. I’m helping you. You need to
move on. Move on from Finn and Beth and the whole mess,” Gretchen
said.

“First off, don’t—”

“—say his name again. Yeah yeah. I got it,”
Gretchen replied.

“Second, I am not interested in getting
involved with anyone this year. Especially not with a guy I met at
a funeral. Number One—”

“Wait, I’m confused. First, second, number
one?” Gretchen teased. She liked to make fun of the way I listed
things out loud in outline form. Headings and subheadings.
Sometimes it got a little confusing, especially when I threw in the
lowercase letters. It was my thing, though, and it helped me keep
my thoughts organized.

“Shut up and just listen.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Okay, so Number One, I’m a senior in high
school who’s planning on attending a very prestigious university
when I graduate. I don’t have time for boys.”

“
Right
. Are we talking about
UNC-Asheville?”

“What is your beef with artists?” I
asked.

“I’m just saying that it’s no Princeton. And
I don’t really dig scenes with hippies or hipsters or any other
groups of people with ‘hip’ in their names. It’s like, girl, go
shave your armpits already. Know what I’m saying?”

“Whatever. Number Two. I think it’d be
really weird to date a guy that I did, in fact, literally run into
at a funeral. I could never admit to people how we actually
met.”

“True,” came Gretchen’s reply.

“Furthermore—”

“No, Brooke. There’s no ‘furthermore’.
That’s not even a label for an outline anyway, and I don’t care,”
Gretchen said. “This conversation is getting boring.”

“Oh my God, and
I’m
the bitch?” I
asked.

She laughed. “I want you to tell me all
about class registration. Scope out the hotties. I want to know,
damnit!”

“Did you not just hear a word I said?”

“Whatever. You may not want to be in a
relationship, but that’s not going to keep you from looking. I know
you, Brooklyn.”

I giggled into the phone, and it felt
delicious and wrong. I suppose Gretchen was right that I couldn’t
be depressed forever. I just wasn’t expecting to laugh so soon
after Beth’s passing, or flirt, however unsuccessfully, with a guy
at her funeral. The flirting was definitely wrong, but maybe
laughing with my friend wasn’t. What was the psychology behind it?
What would doctors say about my behavior? Gretchen thought it was
normal, and I instantly recalled Scott Peterson shown on camera
laughing during his missing wife’s candlelight vigil. The wife he
was later found guilty of killing. He was a fucking sociopath. Oh
my God. Was I a sociopath, too?

“Are you listening to me?” Gretchen
huffed.

I shook my head to rid the thought. “Never,”
I teased. “I never listen to a word you say.”

“Total. Bitch,” Gretchen said. “Kisses. I
gotta run!” And she hung up before I could throw an insult at
her.

Gretchen Stevens was the only girl on the
planet I allowed to call me a bitch. I knew other girls did, but
she was the only one who had permission. She was the only one I
loved for it. She was honest with me—brutally honest, especially
when I messed up with Beth. She gave me hell over it, but she never
rejected me. She remained a friend through all of it, even when I
sank into a depression and started therapy sessions again. Gretchen
likened the whole cheating incident to the
Sex and the City
episode where Carrie admits her affair with Big to Samantha. Carrie
expected Samantha to judge her, but Samantha didn’t.