Underwater(39)

“That sucks,” I say.

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t matter now.”

I don’t know what that means, but I’m turning into the parking lot so I don’t bother to ask. I pull into a spot in the corner by the pool.

“Sorry. The walk to campus is farther from here, but I like having my car close when swim practice is over,” I explain.

“No problem.”

I pull a tube of lip gloss out from my jacket pocket and apply it. Aaron lifts up his heavy backpack and opens the door. He sets one foot down on the slick asphalt and scoots out. He stands up. Before he closes the door, he leans his head back into the car.

“Thanks again. That was a huge help,” he says.

“No biggie. I’ll pick you up whenever I see you from now on.”

“Really? You would do that?”

“Yeah, why not? It’s not like we aren’t headed to the same place.”

“Okay.”

The rain pounds against the roof of the car. It hits the hood of Aaron’s puffy blue jacket. Rivulets of water drip down from his backpack and splat on the ground.

“Go, you’re getting soaked again.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I better get inside.” But he doesn’t pull his head out from the car right away. He wants to tell me something first. “You should wait out the rain here. I bet it’ll stop by the end of first period.”

He slams the door shut before I can tell him that I can’t skip my English quiz. I watch him run across the parking lot and into the school. He’s a flash of bright blue, the most obvious thing on campus, but not one person pays attention to him zipping past them.





chapter twenty-eight

After I finish my homework, watch two videotaped lectures for school, and mop and vacuum the floors, I sprawl out like a starfish on top of my bed to think. Yesterday, I told Brenda I gave Aaron a ride to school, and now I can’t stop thinking about the letter I wrote to him. It’s been sitting in the top drawer of my dresser for a month. I remember what I wrote, but I don’t know how I said it. Or if I still mean my words in the same way. I take out the letter and stare at the address I got from the school directory and scrawled across the middle of the envelope. I rip the letter open. I read it through and cross stuff out. I add something else. I seal it back up in a fresh envelope. Before I can stop myself, I shove my feet into flip-flops, grab my keys, and head out the door.

I stomp down the stairs. I trample through the courtyard. I stumble past the pool. I reach for the front gate. But I stop. I sway. The rusted wrought iron taunts me; its rods hang heavy, like the bars of a prison cell. My palms sweat. The bile in my stomach churns.

I count to three.

I take deep breaths and watch the real world pass by.

A guy jogs by in running shorts. I can hear the bass-heavy beat of his music throbbing through his headphones. A lady bends over in work clothes and high heels to scoop up dog poop with a plastic baggie. Her Yorkie barks maniacally at a FedEx delivery guy balancing a package as big as his torso. Cars zoom past. Zip, zip, zip. A girl who looks my age rides by on her bike. The wind whips through her hair, and her loose shirt flutters out behind her like a cape.

It’s life. All of it. Right here. Waiting for me. But it’s moving so fast that it scares me. Things don’t move this fast in my apartment, or even the courtyard of my apartment building.

Do I turn back around or keep moving?

Screw it. I’m going.

I visualized this sort of thing with Brenda. I can do it.

I yank the gate open. It’s heavy and creaks with age. I pass through and let go of the handle. The heavy metal bangs shut behind me. I don’t look back. I march down the sidewalk, moving with purpose past the people and the places and the things. Everything is normal. Everything is everyday. But I’m not. My brain is on overload. My head hurts from all the stimulation. And worry. I study the way a guy at the bus stop has his hands shoved into his pockets. Is he hiding something? I watch a girl with a weighed-down backpack. What’s in there? A car runs a red light and another car honks. I jump. A guy on a skateboard whips past me, making me swirl around in a circle and into the safety of a nearby doorway. But I force myself to move again. I make my way down the block. I pass an apartment building almost identical to mine. I hear salsa music through an upstairs window. The beat of it thrums through my fingertips. It feels good. It’s a hot day. And there, in the distance, I see it. A big blue mailbox. It’s on the corner in front of the market where I used to buy Popsicles for Ben that would melt and drip down his arm in the sizzling summer sun. A few more feet. A few more squares of sidewalk. I’m almost there. My legs move underneath me like I’m not controlling them.

Until I get there.

I halt.

I pull open the drop box.

I shove my letter inside.

My fingers hold on to the edge of the envelope.

Until I let go.

I hear it plop against the other letters.

I pull my hand out.

The drop box bangs shut.

I walk away.

Realistically, what good is it? I can’t get answers from a dead guy.

Dear Aaron,

Why did you do what you did? You changed me forever. Not because of what I saw or who you hurt, but because when you got into my car that day, you made me an accomplice. You made me a person who plays fifteen minutes of her life over and over again in her head. Why did I stop? Why did your bag make that noise? Why didn’t you talk? Why did you tell me to wait? What did I miss? It’s a horrible place to be. And for that, I hate you. I. Hate. You.