Graduation was in three days. I was still suspended. I’d spent most of my time locked in my bedroom, thinking of ways to kill myself.
How pathetic was that? I could hear Chris Summers now: Drama Queen, don’t be such a girl. It’s just a joke.
I honestly don’t know how serious I was about it. How close I was to doing it. I felt stupid, like I should have at least had an idea of whether or not I wanted to die, but it wasn’t that easy.
Before the shooting I mostly liked my life. I had good parents. My sister was pretty cool. Even Brandon could be okay when he wanted to be. I liked my friends. I loved an amazing girl; and even if she didn’t love me back, she was still there—patting my knee or tapping my shoulder to get my attention or cracking jokes with me during assemblies.
Chris Summers and Jacob Kinney had made me miserable, and sometimes it was so bad that school felt more like torture, but I’d never wanted to die over it. I knew I wasn’t any of the things they called me—spineless, cowardly, worthless. But sometimes, after the shooting, worthless and cowardly was exactly how I felt. The police were looking for information, and I had it, but I was afraid to give it. Valerie was going through hell and back to clear her name, and I was afraid to bail her out. I was afraid, and I felt so guilty for giving in to my fear. The cops were looking for Jeremy Watson. The whole city was looking for Jeremy Watson. They wanted answers, and he had them, but nobody could find him. But I knew where he was. And I said nothing.
Ultimately, what kept me from killing myself were the headlines. I was afraid they would say something like: Victim of Gay Bullying Hangs Self in Bathroom.
And all anybody would see was the word gay. The headlines wouldn’t say anything about the hate list or Valerie or Jeremy Watson or what happened the day of the shooting or any of the secrets that were tearing me up inside. My mom would cry and tell the media that she never knew, that I could have come out to her. She would beat herself up over it. My dad would wonder why I didn’t just…
Say something.
Nobody would know the truth. Did the truth even matter anymore?
***
Mason came over on prom night, bored.
“You couldn’t make me go to some stupid dance if you paid me,” he said, picking through a bag of stale microwave popcorn that had been lying on my bedroom floor for days. “You should have seen how ridiculous Duce looked in that tux. Stacey’s got him so whipped.”
“Did Valerie go?” I asked, knowing how I must have sounded but no longer caring. Nick was gone; everything had changed; what did it matter now?
“How the hell would I know?” Mason replied. He stuck another piece of popcorn in his mouth. “Duce saw her at the cemetery, though. At Nick’s grave. He was pretty pissed that it took her this long.”
“Why would he even care?” I asked.
“Because she’s guilty. I mean, you know she knew. She had to have known, and she didn’t say anything. Just let Nick take the fall. My opinion, if you know something like that’s about to go down and you don’t say anything, you’re just as guilty. Might as well have pulled the trigger yourself.”
My stomach dropped, and my mouth went dry. I cleared my throat. “Maybe she didn’t know until it was too late.”
“It’s not too late now. She should fess up.” He dropped the bag back to the floor and sat up, making a disgusted face. “Screw this, let’s get some real food.”
But I couldn’t go. My head was spinning and my palms were sweating and I felt sick, like I was going to puke. I told Mason to go on without me, that I was grounded, and spent the rest of the evening sitting in my bedroom, cross-legged on the floor, with an X-ACTO knife in my hand. Trembling, crying, mumbling that I couldn’t fess up, I couldn’t tell, I needed to tell, I needed to help, but I couldn’t, I wasn’t strong enough, I was as weak as they all said I was.
I didn’t want to die. But I didn’t want this life anymore. I didn’t want to be the person who knew and didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to be the person with that… image… in my head anymore, that image of Chris Summers’s dying moment. I didn’t want to be the person who knew that Jeremy Watson—the mysterious monster who everyone was looking for—was hiding out in his cousin’s cabin in Warsaw, Missouri. I didn’t want to face Jacob Kinney anymore, or Duce, or even Valerie.
The sun went down and my room went dark and still I sat there, snot running down my chin and onto my chest, my hand gripped so tight on the knife that my fingers had gone numb. Talking to myself, repeating how sorry I was, repeating how angry I was, just repeating and repeating.
And that was how my dad found me.
“What the… David? What’s going on?” He flipped on the light, and we both blinked. My sobbing renewed at the smell of paint thinner that wafted into the room.
“Dad…” I bawled, just like that baby in the car. Shut the fuck up, Dylan!
“Jesus,” he muttered, lunging forward and taking the knife from my hand, which he had to wrench away because I’d been holding it so tightly for so long, my fingers didn’t want to open. “Are you…? Did you…?” he was saying, turning my face with his hands, looking me over frantically. “What’s going on?” He squatted in front of me, grabbed my shoulders, and gave me a shake. “Say something!”
So I did.
I finally did.