Two or Three Things I Forgot to Tell You (6 page)

12.

“GUESS I'M NOT ELIZABETH BENNET”

“Merissa, are you sure?”

“Yes, Mr. Trocchi. I—I think I'm sure.”

Here was a surprise: Merissa Carmichael, who'd auditioned so vivaciously for the coveted role of Elizabeth Bennet in the stage adaptation of Jane Austen' s
Pride and Prejudice
, and who'd been chosen by the drama instructor over the more experienced Brooke Kramer, was having second thoughts about continuing with the play.

All the cast was astounded. And Mr. Trocchi was astounded.

“We've only just begun rehearsals, Merissa! No one knows their lines yet—it's natural for even professional actors to flounder about a little, to grope and find their way in the rehearsal process. You can't expect to
be
Elizabeth Bennet; you have to learn how to
act
Elizabeth Bennet.” Mr. Trocchi was a short, broad-shouldered man of middle age, rumored to have once been an actor in off-off-Broadway productions; he was one of the more popular Quaker Heights teachers, with an urgent and intense way of speaking. He'd chosen Merissa to perform in several plays since ninth grade, but always in supporting or minor roles; Elizabeth Bennet was to have been her breakthrough role.

“I—I was thinking, Mr. Trocchi. You should have chosen Brooke. Brooke can
act
.”

“Merissa, rehearsals are a learning process. You're a student—a young actor—you must
learn to act
.”

Merissa hadn't thought of this. She had supposed that either you could
act
—or you could not.

And Merissa hadn't been prepared for disliking the play.

Elizabeth Bennet was a young woman of twenty-one who was very clever, and very beautiful and proud—but Merissa was surprised that Elizabeth Bennet was so uncritical in her thinking.
Pride and Prejudice
was a classic of English literature, but it was essentially just a romance—witty, comedic—with sympathetic characters not so very different from those on superior TV comedies. Merissa couldn't
respect
Elizabeth Bennet as she was supposed to.

“Austen's novels are comedies of manners—brilliant social satires. The author uses the convention of romance to reveal truths of her era—the relationships between men and women, and between the generations.” Mr. Trocchi sounded as if he'd memorized a passage from the internet on Jane Austen.

Merissa objected, “But what else is
Pride and Prejudice
about, except romance? Just unmarried women desperate to get married, to men who have money. That is, ‘gentlemen.' Because these ‘gentlemen' don't
work
—that would be beneath them. Only their servants
work
. The play is witty and funny, but it's all kind of silly, who marries who. I think it's depressing.”

“Depressing! No one has ever said that Jane Austen is depressing, I'm sure.”

Mr. Trocchi stroked his mustache gravely. His thinning hair and his mustache were a faint coppery hue, which looked too young for his lined, heavy face. He was staring at Merissa as if he'd never really seen her before and wasn't sure he liked what he saw.

Merissa said, “Well, isn't it depressing if all a woman can hope for is to get married? To someone with money? In those days, a woman couldn't work except as a servant or a governess—a ‘good' woman, that is. Women were all
trapped
.”

Mr. Trocchi laughed dismissively.

“You don't think that Mr. Darcy is a ‘good catch' for Elizabeth Bennet? You don't think that female readers, reading
Pride and Prejudice
, would love to be in her place?”

“I don't know! I don't care what other people think.”

“But you'll be married, Merissa—don't worry. You might not think so now, but you will be.”

Other cast members, standing about with scripts in hand, heard this exchange and laughed.

It was hard for Merissa not to think that they were laughing at
her
.

“Here, Mr. Trocchi. Brooke will be much better than I could ever be.”

Merissa handed the drama teacher her script. Mr. Trocchi was too surprised not to take it from her.

“But Merissa—why don't you think this over? Tonight? And in the morning come and see me, and we'll make a decision then? All right?”

Merissa was thinking,
Oh, stop! Stop pretending! You know you're relieved that I'm quitting. You can't wait to call Brooke and ask her to take over the role.

“I'm not going to change my mind, Mr. Trocchi. I owe it to the cast, and to you, and to Brooke, to quit. I guess I'm not Elizabeth Bennet after all. So good-bye.”

A rush of euphoria came over her, how disappointed Daddy would be.

At least, Merissa thought so. If she troubled to tell him.

 

It was easy, Tink. You'd understand.

Like grasping a razor between your fingers firmly.

And bringing it down on your skin, and in, cutting.

And when the pain starts, not letting go.

13.

“NBD”

Strange. How easy.

Quitting the play, which had meant so much to her.

And by quitting, erasing its significance.

So that what had once meant too much, now meant nothing.

 

And so it happened more frequently; the stresses of her senior year at Quaker Heights no longer had the power to distract her.

Grades, tests, weekend parties, and the spillover talk in the wake of parties—rumors of crude, cruel text messages sent and copied dozens of times—nothing to do with
her
.

Now it was Merissa who ignored Shaun Ryan—coolly smiling at him on the sidewalk behind school but not pausing as she passed him, though Shaun hesitated as if hoping to walk with her.

“M'rissa? Hi . . .”

“Oh, hi, Shaun. Nice to see you.”

How easy this was! And not a backward glance to see Shaun staring after her, perplexed and hurt.

See, I don't need you. Any of you.

For the first time in her life, Merissa didn't hand a paper in on time—what an exquisite sensation!

Better, even, than cutting herself. Because so
public
.

The look on Mrs. Conway's face—poor Mrs. Conway!

“Merissa? I don't see your paper here.”

Merissa mumbled a vague excuse. Wanting to hide her mouth, which yearned to twitch into a smile.

Because it isn't there. Because I didn't finish the silly assignment on time. Who cares!

You'd better change your opinion of me—downward.

And when tests came back—in math, for instance—with disappointing grades, there was Merissa Carmichael doing what others did, crumpling the shameful papers in her fist, shoving them into her backpack unread.

Just so tired. So bored.

Field hockey season had ended. Just an average season, though people tried to pretend the team was
terrific
.

Next, basketball. But Merissa didn't show up for first-day practice—she'd been one of the better players, a guard, the previous year.

Ms. Svala, the girls' gym instructor, contacted Merissa to ask why, why wasn't she planning to play basketball this year, which was her senior year, her last year, and the team really needed her.

Merissa said nobody needed
her
, that was silly.

Of course the team needed her! Ms. Svala seemed surprised, and concerned.

Coolly Merissa said no—that was a misunderstanding.

The team needed the very best players, yes. But nobody needed
her
.

“If I'd never been born, you wouldn't ‘need' me—would you? There're other girls just as good. And they want to be on the team.”

On the team.
How strange this sounded, like a bad joke.

Ms. Svala had more to say to Merissa, but Merissa just walked away.

Without a backward glance.

 

There came Anita Chang, staring at Merissa.

Anita, who was/wasn't a close friend, because you couldn't trust her—(could you?)—not to talk behind your back.

Anita, with her flat, round, flawless face, bright black eyes alert with quicksilver intelligence, fun, and malice—came to touch Merissa's arm in a familiar way that made Merissa stiffen.

This was weird. Anita Chang seemed
sincere
.

“Merissa, what's this about you quitting the play? Are you serious?”

Merissa shrugged and drew back from Anita.

“You
can't
quit—your audition was just wonderful, and we all loved you.”

Anita spoke with such disappointment, Merissa almost regretted her decision.

(Had she been “wonderful” at the audition? But what had happened in the interim, to so discourage her?)

“Well—I've quit.”

“So Brooke Kramer will play Elizabeth Bennet? Shit.”

You had to love Anita sometimes: the way she flared up in defense of her friends and was comically unsubtle in putting down her enemies.

(Of course, you had to know that Brooke was Anita's enemy because of a senior boy named Kevin Drake. If you knew this, Anita's ferocity made complete sense.)

“Brooke is a
bitch
. Know what she's going around saying?”

Merissa didn't know. Nor did she care.

“She's saying, ‘Merissa Carmichael has stage fright. She's quit the play and says that I can act better than she can—
and she's right
.'”

Merissa felt a jab of annoyance, but only laughed.

“You think that's funny? That bitch is lying about my girlfriend?”

Anita's nostrils flared in indignation. Anita had more to say, but Merissa slammed her locker door and turned to depart.

Anita dared to call after her, “Tink wouldn't like it, M'riss—her girlfriend quitting so that that bitch can be a star!”

This hurt. This was true Anita Chang style—a stab in the back when you turned your back.

Merissa wanted to say,
You have no right to speak for Tink. You don't know a damn thing about Tink
, but she continued walking away without a backward glance, leaving Anita to stare after her.

Brooke can think what she thinks. Say what she says. Why should I care?

 

Strange how you can lose interest in your friends.

You still like them—“love” them—but just don't want to see them.

Merissa had to wonder if Tink had felt that way. Just didn't want to see her friends anymore.

Not minding that she was leaving them and would not ever see them again.

She'd said to Merissa hesitantly, “Maybe—I have a favor to ask you, M'riss.”

Merissa had said, sure. What was it?

And a funny look came into Tink's face—wistful, regretful. But stubborn, too.

“Maybe—I'll ask you some other time.”

Merissa had said, why not now?

But of course, being Tink, she didn't explain. It was like Tink to tantalize you with some hinted-at confidence—then draw back, as if she'd thought better of it.

Well, Tink had been acting weird around that time. Or, you might say, weirder than usual for Tink.

With no warning, she'd shaved her head.
Totally bored
with her hair (she'd said) and so one day she cut most of it off with a scissors, after which—(this was Tink's gleeful account)—poor Big Moms had had to take her to an emergency session with a hairstylist for damage control.

Now she seemed embarrassed to have brought up the subject of a
favor
.

“No big deal, M'rissa. Some other time.”

But that was the last time: June 8, 2011.

Merissa never saw Tink again: Three days later, Tink was d**d.

 

It was something to do with—what she did.

Something to do with what caused her to do it.

And now I will never know.

 

To each of her closest friends, Tink had sent a single, final text message at 10:08 p.m. on June 10.

These were: Merissa, Chloe, Hannah, Nadia.

If they hadn't known how special they were to Tink, they would know now. But it was a painful specialness of which they could not speak to outsiders.

HEY GUYS, GUESS I WON'T BE SEEING YOU FOR A WHILE.

LOVE YOU GUYS BUT FEELING KINDA BURNT OUT. NBD.

TINK

 

Not seeing friends you'd been seeing almost every day for almost all your life that matters is like not breathing.

Except you can't live without breathing. But you can live without your friends.

Merissa was letting her cell phone burn out. Forgot to charge it.

On it were numerous text messages she hadn't bothered to open.

Hannah had texted Merissa a half-dozen times, and Merissa failed to reply.

Chloe had texted Merissa a half-dozen times, and Merissa failed to reply.

Easier just to delete. Tink knew: No Big Deal.

(Merissa had never learned what the favor was that Tink had wanted to ask of her.)

(Merissa had never learned if Tink had asked her other friends for a favor, too.)

Hannah and Chloe approached Merissa at school, with hurt, accusing eyes. “Merissa, what's wrong? Why are you avoiding us?”

Merissa smiled her bright, indifferent smile.

“I've been busy.”

“Is something wrong?”

“
Is
something wrong? With who?” Merissa's eyes were evasive.

Merissa wore a long-sleeved jersey, not unlike a Tink jersey. Floppy sleeves over her wrists to hide whatever little scabs and scars circled her wrists like barbed wire.

(Did Hannah see? Was Chloe suspicious?)

But it seemed they wanted to talk to Merissa about their friend Nadia. For it seemed that people were saying things about Nadia that couldn't be true—a rash of texts and posts calling Nadia S. a
slut
.

“A slut?
Nadia?
”

Merissa was shocked. Then Merissa was disgusted.

“Who would call Nadia a
slut
? That's crazy.”

“Some guys.”

“Who?”

Hannah and Chloe named several senior boys. Merissa was grateful that Shaun Ryan hadn't been named, though she was determined not to care.

“Why would they call Nadia a
slut
? They don't even know her.”

Hannah said hesitantly that maybe Nadia had gone out once with one of these boys—Colin Brunner.

“Brunner! Oh, I hate him. He's
crude
.”

Colin Brunner was a big, swaggering boy who played varsity football and basketball—the kind of Stereotype Jock you are always surprised actually exists outside TV sitcoms and movies like
Animal House II
.

“How'd Nadia get mixed up with that jackass? When was this?”

Evidently, the previous weekend. Nadia hadn't said a word to them but . . . people were talking.

“That isn't like Nadia. Nadia wouldn't.”

Merissa spoke vehemently. She felt a wave of indignation, thinking,
Anyone who insults my girlfriend insults
me.

But the feeling didn't last. She was just too tired. The (secret) little cuts and scratches inside her clothes were hurting her.

 

I don't want to hear it. I can't help anyone. Couldn't help Tink and can't help myself.

 

“Merissa?”

Reluctantly Merissa lingered to speak with Mr. Kessler after class.

She could see the concern in the teacher's eyes. She felt a stab of resentment and chagrin.

“Is something wrong, Merissa? You've seemed distracted in class lately.”

Merissa felt blood rush into her face. She felt a wild impulse to run out of the room.

She hated it that other students would notice—were noticing. How Mr. Kessler was asking Merissa Carmichael to speak with him after class as he sometimes asked students who'd performed poorly or in some way required help—or discipline—while others left blithely, without a backward glance.

Mr. Kessler was tactful, and considerate—speaking quietly so that no one else could hear. She knew that Virgil Nagy, who was always glancing at her, smiling at her, and trying to get her attention, was alert to their teacher's interest in Merissa this afternoon, and was slow to leave the classroom.

“The work you've been doing lately—the past two weeks or so—just isn't up to your usual high standards, Merissa. Not to mention last Friday's test. Are you aware of this?”

Merissa shrugged. It was very hard to meet Mr. Kessler's gaze. “I—I guess so.”

What an inane remark! Merissa felt her lips twitch, the impulse to smile was so strong.

Mr. Kessler said he'd been checking with Merissa's other teachers—Mrs. Conway, Mr. Doerr, Mr. Trocchi—and they'd all reported that Merissa had seemed distracted in class lately; and Mr. Trocchi had said how surprised he'd been that Merissa had dropped out of the senior play after the first week of rehearsals.

“Please tell me—or us—if anything is wrong.”

Merissa stood silent. How she resented these strangers, conferring about her! The secret little wounds, scratches thin as pencil lines but rough to the touch like stitches in the flesh, pulsed with heat, inside her clothes.