Underwater(45)

I scrub at my eyes, trying to stop the flood of memories that won’t stop. But they’re here now. They want me to see them.

And so I do.

It becomes that day.

I run to my secret spot. It’s a tiny alcove tucked into the end of the hallway by the auditorium. It’s where I went last spring when I found out Taylor Schneider was named sophomore swim team captain instead of me. It’s where I went when I needed to study for a math test and the cafeteria was too loud. Now, it’s where I go to try to stay alive.

I cower in a ball. I hope I won’t hear anyone coming after me. In that alcove, I put my hands on top of my head. I rock. I feel exposed even though I’ve gone to the best place I know to hide. Static bits of my life weave a staccato rhythm through my brain. I picture Ben being born. I see fluorescent lights and the smile of the nurse before she laid him on my mom’s chest. I hear my mom’s laugh. I see her happy tears. I feel my tears, too. I watch Ben’s red face pucker up and scream. I remember my grandpa Ben. I hug him tight. I smell dinner cooking. I smell wet grass. I smell chlorine. I feel the water of the swimming pool through my fingers. I dive under a wave. I grab a handful of sand. I roll a snowball with fingers stuffed into bright red mittens. I feel the wind in my hair. I kiss someone who matters. I hold on.

I wish for a happy ending.

I hope whoever is doing this will pass me by. That they’ll turn down another hallway that leads right out of the school and into the back of a police car.

But that’s not what happens.

Instead, everything stops.

It’s hard to breathe.

I hear the whisper-thin scratch of him.

He’s standing to the left of me.

Blocking me in.

I hear myself crying.

“Look at me!” he shouts.

His eyes are wild. He’s nothing like the person who sat in my car an hour ago. He’s not withdrawn. He’s in a moment that is only his. His puffy blue jacket is spattered with blood. He has a cut on his face. He’s wearing combat boots like the ones my dad wore in Afghanistan. Like the ones lined up in our closet when he returned home.

But Aaron’s not a hero.

He whips his gun around. He holds it to my head.

I look at him.

And then he freezes like he sees me and who I am. It’s as if a flash of a memory zipped through his brain and jolted him from his stupor. And all I can do is hope that it means something.

“Please don’t,” I whimper. “Please.”

He puts his hand to his ear and motions for me to listen. “Do you hear that? Sirens. They’re coming.” His voice is faraway and dreamy, like he’s remembering a family vacation or building a fort as a kid. Like he’s thinking of waterslides and chocolate-dipped ice-cream cones. “It won’t be long now.”

He looks at me like he wants me to say something back, so I nod. The tip of his gun presses hard against my forehead when I do it.

I wish my life had been better.

I wish I were leaving something significant behind.

I close my eyes tight because I don’t want Aaron’s eyes to be the last things I see.

“There’s a part of me that wanted you to figure it out,” he says, tapping his fingertips to my chin, forcing me to open my eyes and see him.

His gun is on my forehead. I’m waiting.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

I wait still. Crying. Begging.

And then Aaron abruptly pulls the gun away from my head, shoves the tip of it into his mouth, and shoots.

*

I have to remind myself that it isn’t happening right now. It did happen. On October fifteenth. But today is May twenty-third, seven months later. I’m in my apartment, far away from school. And the alcove. And Aaron. And his gun.

I consider waking up my mom.

I won’t.

I think of my emergency pills and whether or not I need one.

I don’t.

I sink back into my pillow and stare at the ceiling.

I listen to Ben breathe through the dark.

I wonder what he dreams.

*

After October fifteenth, after that day, everyone wanted answers. Before Aaron’s Facebook page was disabled, news outlets released photographs from his profile. They found the worst ones. The ones that painted the picture of a kid who was angry and alone. They interviewed neighbors who said Aaron spent weekends tinkering in the garage. His mom revealed Aaron had been in therapy since middle school. His dad revealed he kept guns in the house. For protection. From the world. Not from his son. Those were the guns Aaron brought to school on October fifteenth.

“Aaron was a loner. He kept to himself,” a classmate said in front of the makeshift memorial at PPHS. It was night and dark and she held a candle that dripped wax into the tiny paper plate surrounding it, the edges flipped up like a summer skirt.

The school choir sang sad songs.

Students wept.

Parents hugged.

And the only person who could give us answers, who could tell us why, was gone.

I never told anybody until Brenda that I’d given Aaron a ride to school on October fifteenth. But I did tell the police Aaron had killed himself in front of me. I told them when I was in the separate language arts building line on the football field. I said I was the last person to see him. That’s why I had to go to the police station. They hoped I’d have answers I didn’t have.