Birthday(42)

It’s easy to hold your breath when the surface is right there, and I realize that’s what I’ve been doing. Except now that I’m paying attention, it turns out the surface isn’t there. I’m miles down, so deep light can’t reach, so deep the pressure’s crushing my rib cage, and if I try to swim up, my body will twist into something unrecognizable.

What do you do when you can’t swim up, you can’t swim down, and staying put will suffocate you? Where is my help? Why hasn’t anybody realized I need help?

Help is never coming, I realize. It never was.

“Yeah,” I say. I nod like a machine and stand to leave. He gives me a hopeful smile and I blink. “Yeah. Sorry. Good talk.”

I grab my backpack and stride through the locker room doors into the cool wetness of the field, and find Eric nearby, pale and biting his nails. When he notices me he jogs over, almost like he wants to hug me, but then stops short.

“Hey,” he says. “We were worried about you.”

“Who’s we?” I demand. I sidestep him and peer out toward the field and the bleachers. The idea that people are talking about me behind my back makes my blood boil. That they think I’m weak.

“Me, William, the other guys…”

I try to shove past Eric again.

“What?” Eric grabs my shoulder and turns me so I’m looking at him. “Morgan. Hey.”

“William,” I say. The game loss was the quarterback’s fault. William. Freshman. Junior varsity. He was only on the field because Nate got hurt. He shouldn’t have been on the field at all, because he clearly hasn’t paid attention to a word Dad said to him. It’s his fault I feel this way. It’s his fucking fault.

I’m going to start a fight with William. It feels like every cell in my body is trying to pull itself apart, like my being wants nothing more than to melt into a sewer drain, and hurting and being hurt is the only way to hold myself together.

“I think we should go somewhere quiet,” Eric says. “You clearly need to talk. I can cancel my plans with Susan—”

“Oh, no,” I say. “I’m fine.” I wipe blood on my jersey and sniff. “Just do me a favor and tell me where William went, then feel free to go fuck your cheerleader.”

“What the fuck, dude?” Eric says. He takes a step back and looks at me like I’m a car accident. “Why are you acting like this?”

“Acting like what? I just want to know where William is.”

“And I’m trying to help y—”

“You can’t!” I hiss. I grab his jersey and pull him in so his face is inches from mine, and as much as my heart aches remembering the last time we were this close, my gut screams to push him away again. “I can’t be helped. Okay? Drop it and then leave me the fuck alone.”

“Morgan,” he says, a pathetic, whiny edge in his voice. What the fuck does he have to whine about? He has everything: his family has money, people like him, he’s dating one of the prettiest girls in school, his parents are alive, his future’s bright. I’m probably the only dark spot in his whole life. “Dude, please, you’re my best—”

I push him away again and scowl. “Does Susan know she wasn’t your first kiss?”

“Wh-what?”

“Did. You. Tell. Your. Girlfriend. You. Kissed. Me?”

“No,” he says, his voice suddenly small. He rubs his arm and looks down at the grass. “I didn’t. I didn’t want to—”

“I’ll tell her,” I say. His eyes go wide and his gaze snaps back to mine. His mouth pulls into a thin, panicked line. “I’ll tell everyone, unless you tell me where William went.”

He stares at me for a long time, flexing and unflexing his fingers while we listen to the murmur of the receding crowd and the distant crunch of tires on gravel. His nostrils flare and his panic shifts into a deep frown.

“The parking lot,” Eric says. His voice is as flat and gray as cement. “They’re all hanging out by Nate’s car, waiting for you.”

“See?” I say. “That was easy!”

“What’re you gonna do?”

“He cost us the game,” I say. Who actually cares about the game? Not me. Not now, not anymore, not really. The truth is I just need to feel anything but what I’m feeling right now. I’m a cornered animal and it’s time to bite. “I’m gonna fucking kill him.”

“Morgan,” Eric says. “What … come on, dude, this isn’t you. Let’s just go talk.”

“Get out of my face, Eric.”

“Fine,” Eric says. “Have it your way.”

I turn and march toward the parking lot. Part of me, a little voice like something out of one of those stupid dreams, begs me to stop, to turn, to at least look over my shoulder and see if Eric’s still there. I stuff the voice down into the void.

The parking lot’s half empty at this point, and the guys are easy enough to find near the back, huddled around Nate’s car, talking and laughing even though we lost. How nice for them. Nate notices me first, shooting one arm into the air and whistling.

“Took you long enough!” he calls. “You done with the locker room, drama queen? The rest of us need to change.”