Going Under (6 page)

“Damnit, Brooke!” Gretchen cried. “You
spilled Coke all over me!”

I tore my eyes away from Funeral Guy to look
at Gretchen’s shirt. There were two tiny dark spots just to the
left of her breast. I rolled my eyes.

“All over you, huh?”

“This is Bebe, bitch,” she replied.

I grinned. “I don’t know what that
means.”

“Yeah. Sure you don’t. You better start
setting aside your tip money if this shit doesn’t wash out.”

“Oh, Gretchy,” I said.

“Do
not
call me that,” she warned,
and then her tone changed in a flash. “Now, check out that hottie
over there.” She pointed to Funeral Guy. My hottie. I already
decided to claim him.

I was itching to see her reaction.
“Gretchen, that’s Funeral Guy.”

“No fucking way!” she squealed, and a couple
with three small children seated near her turned in her direction
and scowled.

“This is a family restaurant,” the mother
barked.

“No fucking way,” Gretchen replied, mock
bewilderment painted all over her face.

“Gretchen,” I said quietly.

The mother huffed and turned back to her
husband. I could hear them mumbling and wondered how long it would
take the manager to hear the complaint and kick Gretchen out. Why
couldn’t she keep her mouth shut?

“That’s the guy you ran into at the
funeral?” she asked.

I nodded. “And he’s in two of my
classes.”

“I totally hate you,” Gretchen said. “Life
is so unfair.”

I shrugged.

“Is he sitting in your section?” she
asked.

“No, thank God! I’d probably say or do
something totally embarrassing,” I said. “I smacked my forehead on
the side of my desk today. He saw it. It happened because he was
looking at me.”

Gretchen screwed up her face. “I don’t get
it. His hotness made you convulse or something?”

I laughed. “No. He made me drop my notebook,
and when I bent down to get it, I smacked my head.”

“How embarrassing,” Gretchen said.

“Yeah, I seem to have a knack for doing
embarrassing things around him. I don’t know why he makes me so
giddy and stupid.”

“Because you want to sleep with him. Hello?”
Gretchen replied. “And now I totally understand why.” She turned
back in his direction. “He’s fu—”

“Bleh!” I screamed. “Don’t say that word in
here!”

“Oh my God,” Gretchen said. “Whatever. He’s
freaking
hot. Happy? Now go over there and talk to him.”

“You really are deluded,” I replied, and
left for the kitchen.

Terry and I had since mended our fragile
relationship. He apologized the same night he yelled at me and
burned my order. And for telling the manager to fire me. After work
that night, he offered to buy me a drink, and when I said I was
only eighteen, he asked, “So what?”

“I don’t know,” I had replied. “Maybe it’s
illegal or something like that.”

“It’s only illegal if you get caught,” he
explained, and I knew he was bad news. I’d stay away from him and
his ten tattoos.

“Wright!” Terry yelled as I walked through
the kitchen door. “Get your skinny ass over here and pick up your
fucking orders! You’re taking up the whole shelf space!”

I saluted him and grabbed a tray, carefully
stacking all of my orders for three tables, Gretchen’s
included.

I made my way through my section, serving
food to people who looked genuinely shocked and delighted. I
wondered if I acted that way at restaurants without knowing:
shocked and delighted to see a plate coming my way, like I didn’t
know to expect it. I was at a freaking restaurant, after all.
People were so stupid.

“His name is Ryan,” Gretchen said when I
approached her with her salad.

“I know. They take attendance in class. But
how do
you
know?”

“I overheard his little sister say his
name,” she replied, grinning.

“Gretchen, leave it alone,” I said.

Gretchen picked up her fork and pushed it
tentatively through her salad. I waited. When she finished her
assessment, I asked what else she needed.

“Ryan’s phone number,” she said.

I gave her an even look.

“Hey, if you’re not gonna take a shot, then
I will.”

“I don’t think so,” I replied and looked
over at Ryan. He spotted me, and I watched him do a once over on me
with his eyes. It didn’t feel sleazy or gross like when Cal did it.
Ryan did it blatantly, like he meant for me to see him, and I
didn’t know what to make of it. I was a progressive woman living in
a progressive world. Shouldn’t I feel offended? I’m no object,
buster!

But I couldn’t pretend to be offended. I was
flattered, and I smiled at him, though I knew it would be a
mistake. He grinned back, and the trouble started. Right there, in
that moment. I should have turned and walked away. But I didn’t. I
smiled, and in that instant, my simple plan to pursue Cal, make him
hurt me, then make him pay for it, became anything but simple.

Four

The rest of the school week went by in a
flash. I made little progress with Cal and even less with Lucy. I
thought I could be friends with her, but she remained distant,
closed up. She was nice enough in class, always greeting me and
asking how work was going, but they were superficial niceties meant
to keep me at a distance. By Friday, I figured she harbored
horrible secrets. I don’t know why I needed or wanted to know them.
I told myself not to get involved with anyone else’s problems. I
had a big enough job for one. I couldn’t be the hero for an entire
group of victims.

Cal was frustrating. As hard as I worked to
come across charming and sweet, he didn’t take the bait. He kept me
at a distance, too, surprising me every now and again in the
hallway in between classes with a “Hello” or “Nice top, Brooklyn.”
I knew he was doing it on purpose, making me think I had a chance
so that I would keep working to get close to him. I was convinced
he wanted me close to him. I caught him in class a few times
staring at me. It was a predator’s stare, and it sought to claim
me.

Whenever you try hard to keep from being
involved in something, it finds you out, forces you into the
situation, and you’ve no choice but to act out of a sense of moral
responsibility because deep down your heart is good, and you want
to do good. My desperate desire to do good came more from an
overwhelming feeling of guilt for my past than from my moral
compass. I knew eventually I would have to say something, do
something, that made me uncomfortable because when you’re trying to
be good, what choice do you have?

It was Friday, and I barely made it to the
bathroom at the sound of the lunch bell. I held my pee all morning,
unable to find breaks in any of my classes to excuse myself.
Actually, that’s not true. There was one break between fourth and
fifth periods, but Cal happened to approach me at my locker during
that time, and I wasn’t forfeiting a chance to talk with him. I’d
get a bladder infection before I walked away from Cal.

He asked if I wanted to shoot pictures with
him of the women’s volleyball game this afternoon. Yes, he had
decided to take Yearbook after all, and I had been waiting for this
opportunity to get to know him better. Discover what made him tick.
His likes and dislikes. All the information I would need to store
away in my arsenal for future use when the battle really heated up.
I agreed to meet him in the gym at four, and he left, giving me
just enough time to get to class before the tardy bell.

I flew into a stall and all but ripped off
my shorts, sinking down onto the toilet seat because I couldn’t
squat. I had to use the bathroom too badly. Normally I always
squatted over toilet seats, and I probably should have done so now
because I’m quite sure I felt tiny droplets on the backs of my
thighs.

“Gross,” I muttered. “I’m sitting in
someone’s pee.”

But the relief was a little piece of heaven,
and I sat in bliss on the toilet, reveling in the feel of an empty
bladder, smiling stupidly as I read the obscenities written on the
stall door.

Jamie H. is a dirty whore.

I wondered who Jamie H. was.

Carolyn fucked the football team.

Wow
, I thought.
That’s a lot of
fucking
.

Lucy blows guys for money.

Huh?

I leaned in and reread the sentence. They
couldn’t possibly be talking about my Lucy. Yes, just like Ryan, I
decided to claim her for my own. It was instant possession because
I thought she was sweet and kind, and I wasn’t going to let any
bitch talk shit about her. Of course, maybe it was another Lucy,
but “Lucy” wasn’t a popular name. The Lucy I met didn’t seem like
the kind of girl described in that sentence. Why would someone
write that about her?

I thought back to the few times I saw her
outside the classroom. She never walked or talked with anyone. She
was always alone, looking morose at worst, empty at best. She
didn’t have any friends. But why? I thought about the first day of
class when I bumped my head. She addressed me then. Why did she do
that? And then I realized it was because I was new. I didn’t know
her. It was safe for her to talk to me. Maybe, just maybe, she was
trying to make friends with me. At that moment I was filled with a
kind of tenderness usually reserved exclusively for my mother and
father. It was familial tenderness, but I felt it for this girl. I
wanted to adopt her as my sister, protect her, make her smile.

I froze when I heard the bathroom door swing
open. A shuffling of feet, a sniffle, and then a racking sob. I
didn’t know what to do. Should I make my presence known by coughing
or clearing my throat? It was obvious the girl thought she was
alone. Who doesn’t check under stall doors to be certain of it?

The sobbing continued for a few moments
before it stopped abruptly. I was sure she was still in the
bathroom. I didn’t hear the door open again. I realized I could be
stuck in here forever and thought it was better to just come out.
She would be mortified or pissed off, but I had to take that
chance.

I flushed the toilet and walked out. The
girl whirled around to face me, a horrified look on her face.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She stared at me for a moment. I didn’t
recognize her. She looked too young to be a senior, and I never saw
her in Hallway D, the senior hall.

She made a move for the door, but I blocked
her.

“Can I help in any way?” I asked.

She looked at me, her large green eyes
swimming with fresh tears. She was so pretty and frightened. What
the hell? This was the second pretty, frightened girl I’d come
across in my first week of school. How many were there?

I knew it would shake her to her core, force
her to relive a painful event all over again, but I had to ask.
“Did something bad happen to you?”

She shoved me out of the way and exited the
bathroom, but not before answering me. She nodded. It was barely
perceptible, but she nodded.

I left the bathroom after washing my hands,
shaken and stunned. Suddenly my eyes were everywhere taking in the
scene, scoping out the timid ones hanging in the shadows, wrapped
in shameful secrets. I knew they were here.

I skipped lunch and left the senior hall for
another. I strolled the junior hall, looking for anything
suspicious or odd. I thought I saw her, hanging around a classroom
door, mustering the courage to go in. And another, standing by her
locker, furtive eyes darting to and fro, looking for a predator.
And another, slinking down the hallway quietly to avoid being seen.
And another, disappearing into the bathroom to cry away her
pain.

Oh my God. I was going crazy! I clutched the
wall, taking deep breaths. I looked down the hallway. It was
distorted, students stretching and twisting in a circular pattern
as they passed by me. Like I had taken a hallucinogen and was
having a bad reaction. I didn’t know if my feet were still planted
on the ground or if I was hanging from the ceiling.

I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the
field. But I couldn’t summon it. I breathed deeply, feeling pins in
my chest that pricked me harder the more I tried to suck down
oxygen. I opened my eyes to patches of darkness.
I’m going
blind!
I screamed, but no one heard. My mouth never moved. I
heard a distant, “Are you okay?” before the blackness swept me up
into a silent oblivion.

***

“Do you suffer from panic attacks?” the
school nurse asked. She was old—probably in her mid-fifties—and she
hovered over me, looking into one eye and then the other.

“I have claustrophobia,” I replied. My voice
shook. My entire body rattled, and the nurse saw. She grabbed a
blanket to wrap around me, but I protested.

“It’s clean,” she said, and I decided to
believe her because I was freezing. And in shock.

I pulled the blanket tightly around my body,
huddling into it protectively.

“Do you know what triggers your
claustrophobia?” the nurse asked.

And that question told me everything I
needed to know about school nurses.

I looked at her with raised eyebrows. Was
she an idiot or purposefully ignoring my sarcastic facial
expression?

“I don’t know,” I said flippantly. “Tight
places. That’s usually what triggers claustrophobia.”

“But you weren’t in a tight place,” she
replied. “You were in an open hallway.”

It came out smug, like she was ready to trap
me. Like she knew I thought she was an idiot for asking me such a
stupid question only to prove she wasn’t. I wanted to punch her in
the face.

“I guess it
felt
closed up,” I
mumbled. I was angry at the way she made me feel like I had no
legitimate excuse for fainting since I was in a large, open
hallway. Like it was my fault.