We Are the Ants(43)

With great effort, I rose from bed and sat at my desk. Waited for my computer to fire up. I wanted to see Jesse, so I pulled up his SnowFlake page. The Internet is a strange place for the dead. All those digital pieces of you become frozen. You will never again post selfies with friends from the movie theater or while waiting for a concert to begin. Your friends will never tag you in another photo at a drunken party. You’ll never update your page with your thoughts about how shitty South Florida drivers are or about how the lonely * in front of you at Target just bought twenty frozen dinners, an economy-size bag of cat food, and the box set of Bones; is using twenty coupons; and is paying in quarters. The Internet version of you becomes enshrined so that pathetic people like me can visit occasionally and try to pretend you’re not really gone. That some small part of you lingers.

I’ve spent so much time on Jesse’s SnowFlake page that I’ve practically memorized it. There’s Jenny Leech’s wall of text about how Jesse touched her life in ways he didn’t even know, despite the extent of their relationship being the one class they shared in tenth grade. Coach VanBuren’s picture of Jesse running a 440 against Dwyer High—Jesse lost that race, but from the picture you couldn’t be faulted for believing that he was about to sail to victory. A hundred variations on, I’ll miss you, dude, from people who probably stopped missing him before he was in the ground. Audrey’s last post was a picture she’d taken on the sly of me and Jesse kissing by her pool. We’d spent the day turning lobster red, drinking iced tea, and laughing. I don’t even remember what was so funny; I only remember thinking I’d suffocate before I stopped laughing.

That kiss wasn’t our last. It was just another one of many, or so I’d thought. I think if I’d known Jesse was going to kill himself, I would have locked my arms around him and never let that kiss end. I would have pulled us into the pool together and died like that, his lips on mine, certain that I loved him and that he loved me.

The last thing I posted on Jesse’s SnowFlake page was a picture of a book I wanted to buy the next time we went to Barnes & Noble. Jesse and I spent hours roaming the stacks, paging through books. It was our favorite place to go. Sometimes I wish I could post something new so the last thing I said to Jesse wasn’t about buying Naked Lunch, which I only wrote because Audrey despises the Beat writers, but his profile is locked. I’ve said everything to Jesse I’ll ever say.

When Jesse’s SnowFlake page loaded, I knew something was wrong. Jenny’s lame memorial was still there, as were all the semi-heartfelt good-byes from barely there acquaintances. But staring at me from inside of Jesse’s pictures was an alien face. My alien face. Someone had Photoshopped the image of me on the floor of the locker room into every photo on Jesse’s SnowFlake page. They hadn’t simply vandalized his photos; they’d vandalized my memories. Whoever had done this had practically gone to Jesse’s grave, dug him up, and desecrated his rotting body.

I collapsed in the chair. I couldn’t take any more. January 29 wasn’t soon enough; I needed the pain to end immediately.

Mom kept sleeping pills in her bathroom. One handful, and I could reunite with Jesse.

Beautiful resolve flowed through me. I imagined it was how Jesse had felt when he decided to hang himself. I wasn’t scared; I wasn’t conflicted. This was what I was meant to do. If nobody else was going to play by the rules, then neither was I.

I flung open my bedroom door and nearly bowled Zooey over. She was standing in the doorway with her fist raised like she was about to knock. I stumbled into her, and we fell into the wall. I babbled an apology and tried to get away, but she was talking too, and rubbing her swollen belly.

“I didn’t think anyone was home.”

Zooey smoothed out her long violet shirt. Her face looked fuller, and sometimes her belly resembled a beer gut rather than a baby, but she glowed as if her entire body were bragging to the world that she was growing a life inside of her. “Charlie’s working at the house with my dad, and he asked me to get him his tools, but I don’t know where they are and I thought you might help?”

I nodded and slid past Zooey into Charlie’s room. Clothes were flung everywhere, the blinds were shut, and it smelled like sweaty feet. It was a miracle Zooey could stand to sleep there. Charlie’s toolbox was in his closet. I handed it to her.

“Thanks.” She turned to leave but stopped and stared at me for a moment. It felt like she knew what I’d been on my way to do. Like it was tattooed on my skin that I was a weakling, a loser, that I was planning to give up and die. “I can give you a ride somewhere if you want.”

Zooey and I didn’t know each other well. She was my brother’s girlfriend. I’d seen her sneak from his room to the bathroom in her underthings, and she was carrying his kid, but it’s not like we were friends. “Where?”

“Wherever you want. I’m not in a hurry.”

If I stayed home, I was going to end up swallowing those pills, but the certainty I’d felt minutes earlier was retreating. I’d loaded Jesse’s SnowFlake page because I needed to feel close to him, and they’d taken that away from me, but the need hadn’t abated. I needed Jesse more than ever.

“Can you drive me to the bookstore?”

“Sure.”

I carried the toolbox for her. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s go.”