Underwater(13)

“Can we not talk about it?” I hated when Sage did this. I was trying to block October fifteenth from my head. Her graphic details made that impossible.

“But nobody here gets it. I need you because you were there. You understand.”

Her voice was whiny and emphatic, but I couldn’t be the one to be there for Sage. I was two weeks in at a new school I hated and barely keeping myself together. Her suffering was too much a reminder of my own. Plus, there were things about October fifteenth that I couldn’t tell her, so talking to her made me feel terrible. I felt guilty knowing so many people from my school were sad. Angry. Depressed. It made me wish I’d been better at keeping my eyes open.

“If this is all you want to talk about, I can’t call you anymore,” I said.

“Well, that’s pretty selfish,” she huffed.

“I’m sorry.”

And that’s when I decided that it would just be better if I hid from everyone.

I didn’t answer my phone or the door. And eventually, people stopped missing me. That’s the great thing about being seventeen. So much can change in only one month. Add two or three to that and it’s like you never existed. The Facebook pictures of people I used to know prove it.

*

I don’t know why, but I decide to do a search for Evan while I’m sitting here on Facebook. He’s easy to find. My search turns up only one Evan Kokua, and Ewa Beach, Hawaii, is listed as his hometown. I recognize him in his profile picture, his floppy beach hair sticking out all over the place. Golden skin. A wide smile. Big brown almond-shaped eyes. My finger hovers over the mouse, almost ready to click into his “about” section or send a friend request, but I stop myself. I’m not ready to know everything there is to know about Evan. I might find out he’s as amazing as I think he is, and it’ll only make me wish I could be the same way. I log out of Facebook.

I open a blank document and think I will type out a summary report of the chapter I read for art history. But it doesn’t happen. I start typing something else instead. I write to someone I didn’t think I’d ever write to. I’m writing to him.

It starts like this:

Dear Aaron,

Why did you do what you did?

It goes on from there. I type fast. I have a whole page written in a matter of minutes. I’ve had so much to say, but nowhere to say it. I tell him about me and who I am now. I tell him what he took away from me even though he doesn’t care. I also tell him things I didn’t think I would say. I say it all because I have to, even if it will go nowhere.

I print out my letter and sign it. I search through the bottom desk drawer for an envelope. My mom keeps a box of them to send our rent checks to the property management company every month. I fold my letter over twice, shove it into the envelope, and lick it closed. I write his name in the middle. I stare at it. When I see it like that, it feels like a name that doesn’t mean anything. Aaron Tiratore. It could be anybody.

I don’t know his address. I have a school directory. I get it.

I shuffle through the pages, my heart squeezing in my chest whenever I see the name of someone who isn’t here anymore. I get to the T section. I find him. I write his address underneath his name. I look again. It still doesn’t mean as much as I want it to. I delete the letter from the computer and shut it down. I’ll work on my art history paper later.

I take the envelope.

I go to my room.

I open the top drawer of my dresser.

I shove the letter underneath my pajamas.

I shut the drawer.

I walk away.





chapter seven

Two weekends have passed since Evan and I watched his surf video. I assume he’s found better things to do than visit me. Outside things. Sun, water, and earth things.

Today is Tuesday and Brenda is back. We’re supposed to walk to the mailbox. Because of that, I’ve been up since dawn. Lying in bed. Anxious and alert.

The morning sun shoots through the curtains, lighting up the room just enough for me to see Ben curled up under his sheets. I wonder what it would be like to sleep like him. He twitches in his sleep. He has a smile on his lips. I bet he’s dreaming of something good. I’m glad.

He deserves to know good things.

One day I will tell Ben the details of what happened. I will tell him because I love him. He only knows the basics. He knows what happened at my school and that I saw very bad things. He knows I don’t leave the house and that I’m afraid. He knows I’m getting help. He knows about Brenda. I hate that he knows these things. I wish I could protect him from knowing. He’s only a kid.

The scent from my mom’s coffeemaker wafts down the hallway and underneath my door. I get up and jiggle Ben awake.

I go to the bathroom and brush my teeth. I pee. I step on the scale. (I don’t know why. I haven’t done that since October fifteenth.) A number stares back at me that I’ve never weighed before. I’ve gained twelve pounds in six months. It’s not like I didn’t know. It’s not like I didn’t see myself in the mirror. It’s not like I haven’t mentioned it to Brenda. Because that twelve pounds is proof.

Proof that I’m different.

Proof that I eat grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup for lunch every day.

Proof that I sit on a couch.

Proof that I go to high school on a computer.