Part 4 (2/2)

Obviously, I skip photo this morning.

I sit on the path behind the apartments, pathetically alone, and wait for 8:50 to come. I turn my back to the buildings and look at the hill and the trees. I start to count the trees. Then, without really realizing it, I start to think of one thing I did wrong for each tree I look at. Wide oak-I didn't tell anyone when Ingrid cut herself. Baby oak-the time I told her I was getting sick of hearing about Jayson's arms and his blue s.h.i.+rt. Tall tree with bare branches-the way I would leave when she got depressed and stopped talking. I should have stayed. I should have just sat quietly, so that she knew I was with her. Pine tree-the afternoon I lied and said that I didn't feel like hanging out with her every single day, when really I just didn't want to steal nail polish from Long's because I felt so s.h.i.+tty the one time we did it. I could tell she was about to cry, even though she turned around and left. That was the day she got caught with eyeliner and hair dye stuffed into her backpack. I pick out a smaller pine for not being there to get caught with her. Then I look out to where there's this huge group of trees in the distance, and I count those for all the times I called her some name, or told her she was being stupid-because even though I was always joking, it might have hurt.

The morning fog spreads from tree to tree like a blanket of regret. I take my camera out of my backpack. I want so badly to take a picture. But I don't.

18.

I walk into my precalc cla.s.s and surprise myself by sliding into the seat behind Taylor.

”She slit her wrists,” I say.

Taylor turns around to face me. He looks uncertain, the way he does when he can't find the value of x x. I make sure to lock eyes with him. Anger is tying knots in my stomach.

”What?” he asks.

”Slit her wrists, bled to death. That's how she did it. Usually it doesn't work, I guess, but she meant it.”

He looks uncomfortable, pale. His eyes dart away from mine.

”Now you know,” I say.

I lean back in the chair, away from him. Mr. James reviews the homework on his ancient overhead projector, but I can't concentrate. I just see her. I blink hard, then stare at the desk, hoping the blankness will push the image away. Someone has written YOU SUCK in ugly black marker on the top right corner. I rub the letters so hard that my thumb cramps. The words don't get any lighter. I'm breathing hard and I think Taylor turns to face me again, but I choose not to look.

”I have to change desks,” I mutter to no one, and grab my backpack and walk down the aisle until I find a desk with a clear surface, no marks.

But I still see her as if I were there in her house that morning. Like it was me instead of her mom who pushed Ingrid's bathroom door open and saw her naked in the bathtub, eyes shut, head heavy, arms floating in that red water. I look up at Mr. James's projector, but what I see are the gashes in her arms, along the veins. I can't hear what he is saying. First the sounds go away and then everything loses shape.

Slowly, slowly, I lower my head until my face is flat against the cold desktop. I concentrate on breathing, feel my heart working hard. I can hear the clock faintly ticking. I look to the wall, to the spot where I know it is, and through the buzz of Mr. James's voice, I wait for it to come back in focus.

19.

Ingrid's skin was the smoothest texture, so pale that it was transparent. I could see the blue veins that ran down her arms, and they made her seem fragile somehow. The way Eric Daniels, my first boyfriend, seemed fragile when I laid my head on his chest and heard his heart beating and thought, Oh Oh. People don't always remember about the blood and the heartbeat. The lungs. But whenever I looked at Ingrid, I was reminded of the things that kept her alive.

The first time she carved something into her skin, she used the sharp tip of an X-Acto knife. She lifted her s.h.i.+rt up to show me after the cuts had scabbed over. She had scrawled f.u.c.k YOU on her stomach. I stood quiet for a moment, feeling the breath get knocked out of me. I should have grabbed her arm and taken her straight to the nurse's office, into that small room with two cots covered in paper sheets and the sweet, stale medicine smell.

I should have lifted Ingrid's s.h.i.+rt to show the cuts. Look, Look, I would've said to the nurse at her little desk, eyegla.s.ses perched on her pointed nose. I would've said to the nurse at her little desk, eyegla.s.ses perched on her pointed nose. Help her Help her.

Instead, I reached my hand out and traced the words. The cuts were shallow, so the scabs only stood out a little bit. They were rough and brown. I knew that a lot of girls at our school cut themselves. They wore their long sleeves pulled down past their wrists and made slits for their thumbs so that the scars on their arms wouldn't show. I wanted to ask Ingrid if it hurt to do that to herself, but I felt stupid, like I must have been missing something, so what I said was, f.u.c.k you, too, b.i.t.c.h. f.u.c.k you, too, b.i.t.c.h. Ingrid giggled, and I tried to ignore the feeling that something good between us was changing. Ingrid giggled, and I tried to ignore the feeling that something good between us was changing.

20.

Dad greets me at the bottom of the stairs, dangling my favorite pair of sneakers by their laces.

”Look at these,” he commands. ”These are shocking.”

He shows me the bottoms, where the rubber is almost worn through. Shaking his head, he says, ”People will think we deprive you. They'll call Child Protection on us. We need to find you new shoes ASAP.”

I roll my eyes at him. It's Sat.u.r.day morning, and he's wearing a polo with the most hideous shorts in history. I glance down at his shoes. Unfortunately, they are spotless.

”Fine,” I say.

I trudge upstairs and look in my mirror, rub some cover-up under my eyes so that I don't look too terrible to go out into the world, heave my backpack over my shoulders, and meet him back downstairs.

”You don't really need that, do you?” he asks, pointing to my backpack.

”My wallet's in it,” I say.

”I'll buy you shoes,” he says. ”You don't need your wallet.”

I'm not leaving her journal behind. ”Well, I have, like, all all my stuff in here. I might need something.” my stuff in here. I might need something.”

He shrugs. ”Suit yourself.”

In the car he asks me how the brainstorming is coming.

”Brainstorming?”

”What are you thinking of building?”

”Oh.” I look down at the black leather seats and trace my finger along a seam. ”I'm still deciding.” I try to sound like I have some ideas and I'm just not sure which one to go with yet.

He nods. ”Well,” he says, ”I can't wait to see it, whatever it is.”

I don't say anything back and soon he turns the radio on. We listen to two mechanics with thick Boston accents joke around and give car advice.

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