My foot is a Weedwacker. I’m kicking at a patch of grass that’s overtaken a curb at my bus stop. Underclassmen watch with worry and wonder. I know worry and wonder when I see it. They might take me for a grass hater. Not in the slightest. It’s just that my medication isn’t doing anything for me this morning. I can’t calm down. I’m about to face the firing squad, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
I begged my mom to let me stay home from school, but convincing a nurse that you’re sick demands powers of persuasion I just don’t possess. Truth is, I do feel sick. I checked the time every hour last night. 1:11. 2:47. 3:26. When my alarm finally sounded this morning, it felt like I’d just fallen asleep.
Dr. Sherman wasn’t any help. I ended up going to the session yesterday, took the bus all the way out there after school. I typed up a new letter that sounded upbeat and inoffensive, and watched as Dr. Sherman read it on my laptop without comment.
I did attempt honesty. I spoke in a vague way about a certain issue that I’m struggling with. “Someone took something from me,” I told Dr. Sherman, “something private, and I’m worried what might happen if I don’t get it back.”
“Let’s play this out,” Dr. Sherman said. “If this item isn’t returned to you, what’s the worst that could happen?”
True answer: Connor posts my letter online for the whole school to see, including Zoe, and now everyone knows that I write embarrassingly earnest letters to myself, which is just bizarre and disturbing, and all the days that were already an effort to get through become even more of a slog, and I feel even more alone and inconsequential than I already feel, which I didn’t think was possible when I began my senior year yesterday.
The answer I gave Dr. Sherman: “I don’t know.”
So far, though, from what I can tell, the worst has not happened. Yet. There’s no sign of my letter online. I searched my name and nothing new came up. No one’s talking about it.
Jared Kleinman’s last post: Just gave myself a dutch oven.
Alana Beck wrote: In Africa and Asia, children walk an average of 3.7 miles each day to collect water.
Rox liked a photo of a swimsuit model and started following the breakfast cereal Frosted Flakes.
Another food comes to mind: mashed potatoes. Last year, there was a fight during lunch between Rita Martinez and Becky Wilson. No one knows how it started, but everyone remembers what Rita said to Becky before she jumped on top of her: I’m going to stick these mashed potatoes up your… Rita garbled her last word, so it’s unclear whether she was referring to Becky’s front door or back, but it hardly mattered. A movement began. People started sending mashed potatoes to Becky’s house. They’d mime explicit mashed potato acts at lunch. In our school, if you want someone to back off, you can just say “mashed potatoes.” Or you can use the cloud emoji, which is the closest visual match. The letter that Connor stole from me is my mashed potatoes. It’ll never die if it gets out. It will follow me wherever I go.
The bus turns the corner. I give my foot a break and start to wonder if my concept of the worst that could happen is naive and uninspiring. Maybe I’m not thinking like a true sociopath. What if Connor chose to go a more old-school route? For example, he could have printed up physical copies of my letter and stuffed them inside every student’s locker. Or maybe he’s at school right now, personally handing them out as my classmates enter the building. It makes perfect sense. He thinks my letter was setting him up to look crazy, and now, to get back at me, he will make it clear to everyone at school that the person who’s really crazy here is the one writing weird letters to himself. This guy: Evan Hansen.
I step onto the bus, unsure if it’s the engine that’s rumbling or my insides. No fanfare as I slink down the aisle to my seat. The kid in the row across from me is horizontal, snoring. The bus lumbers forward. T minus ten minutes until my execution.
Or maybe sooner. Laughter draws my eyes away from my phone. Two rows ahead, a kid is cracking up. He leans across the aisle and presents his phone to his buddy. The buddy takes the phone. “No way,” he says to his friend. Now they’re both laughing.
This is it: the worst that could happen. Connor must have timed his attack for precisely this moment, when I was already on my way to school. He really is a maniacal genius. Any second now these kids will turn around and gawk at the saddest loser on the planet.
I close my eyes and prepare to open them to a new nightmare, but all I see when I finally look is the buddy handing the kid’s phone back, and the bus returning to its former quiet.
Later, when I exit the bus, there are no photocopies with my name on them being distributed. No flyers flashing my face. Still, I can’t catch my breath as I walk up the concrete path and through the metal doors of the school. What sort of dark surprise awaits me on the other side?
• • •
English: no tragedies. Calculus: no problems. Chemistry: no explosions.
I make it to lunch unscathed. You’d think I’d be relieved, but no, the anticipation is murdering me. I just want it to be over already.
The cafeteria is where my first altercation with Connor occurred. Finishing me off in this same place would provide our saga with a fitting symmetry. Besides, a true showman would want to take advantage of this large and hungry audience.
Which begs the question: Why am I here? To which there is only one answer: I don’t know. The choices always seem to be fight or flight, but I typically end up somewhere in between, doing exactly neither. I stay and I take the beating.
I creep along the back wall, partly searching for a safe table, but mostly scanning the room for Connor. No sign of him. I sit and eat. I try to. My teeth snap into a baby carrot and the sound echoes in my head like a gunshot. I swallow the one piece of carrot, and that’s all I’m hungry for, because as I’m sitting here, something occurs to me. Something unsettling. Not only have I not seen Connor today, but I haven’t seen Zoe, either.
Connor’s absence, by itself, isn’t unusual. But Zoe being out on the very same day? It’s not like the Murphys would’ve scheduled a family vacation in the middle of the first week of school. Zoe doesn’t even seem to get along with Connor, so she probably wouldn’t skip with him. And besides, I can’t remember the last time Zoe missed a day, and yes, this is something I pay attention to. Some people use energy drinks or coffee, but for me, a few glimpses of Zoe is the jolt I need to power through each day. I usually get my fix at least twice, once before homeroom (her locker is down the hall from mine) and then at lunch. I’d love to call her absence a coincidence. On a different day, maybe I could. But not after what happened yesterday. Connor and Zoe both being absent today of all days has to mean something, and not to be a total narcissist, but I have this terrible feeling that that something leads straight back to me.
I hope I’m wrong. Maybe they’re both in school and I just haven’t spotted them yet. Or maybe they both have the flu and that’s why they’re out. A few tables away, Jared is half eating and half computer-staring. I tap him on the shoulder.
“What?” he says without looking up.
“Can I talk to you?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
Understood, but it’s not like I have anyone else to turn to and this is serious. “Have you seen Connor Murphy today? Or Zoe Murphy?”
“Well, well, well. I saw you talking to Zoe yesterday. Finally making the move, eh?”
“No, it’s not that.”
“Do you need help locating the vagina?” Jared says. “I’m sure there’s an app for that.”
He laughs at his own joke. He still hasn’t looked at me (or a vagina, I’m guessing). I scan the cafeteria for my dark nemesis or his much nicer sibling. It’s hard to tell. They could be in here somewhere. I turn back to Jared. “I just want to know if you’ve seen her.”
“No, I haven’t,” Jared says. “But I’ll definitely tell her you’re looking for her.”
“No, please don’t do that.”
He finally looks up. “It’s already done. Don’t mention it.”
As I’m leaving, he asks, “Or what?”
“Excuse me?”
He points to my cast. I purposely wore long sleeves today even though it’s, like, ninety degrees out. Only the last two letters of Connor’s name are visible, the O and R. Connor covered so much real estate with his signature I wasn’t able to hide the whole thing.
“Death,” I answer. “Life or death.” I don’t know why I say it, or what it means, but it feels true, and not just today, but always.
• • •
My cast is fully exposed in gym. Today is our physical fitness assessment. We take the test once at the beginning of every year and once at the end. Probably my two least favorite days of school.
Ms. Bortel has us in a row on the basketball baseline. Maggie Wendell, the captain of the girls’ varsity soccer team, models each exercise as Ms. Bortel delivers instructions.
I look down at my arm. How am I supposed to do a pull-up? I mean, I can barely do a pull-up when I have two functioning limbs. Forget trying to do it with a cast covering half my hand. Actually, same goes for a push-up. I see my way out of this assessment. Finally this cast shows its silver lining.
When Ms. Bortel is finished with her speech, I walk up to her and display my cast. She seems repulsed by the sight of me, as if merely by standing next to my soft, broken body, her muscles might become infected. I have to admit, it’s impressive, the work Ms. Bortel seems to put into her physique, especially for someone that age, probably older than my mom. Still, I find it a little unfair that she’s judging me without knowing exactly how I sustained my injury. What if I slipped off a roof while building a house for the homeless? Or what if I got injured while battling some racist dude?
Ms. Bortel asks, “Do you have a note for that?” For that.
“A note?” I say.
“A doctor’s note.”
“I think my mom emailed it to the office.”
She mutters something that I can’t make out. I do, however, hear her sigh as she sends me off to the bleachers. A few kids of a certain body type watch me with envy.
I manage to dodge one bullet, but the real shooter’s still out there. Okay, I probably shouldn’t joke about shooters, or even think it, but how can I not? We have lockdown drills to prepare just in case there really is an attacker in school. According to the statistics, it’s usually not an outsider, but someone from the community. I sometimes imagine which one of us it would be coming through those doors. It’s a simple process of elimination. In the past, when I’ve cycled through all the possibilities, my wheel of misfortune has, I must admit, on occasion, landed on Connor Murphy.
Honestly, I don’t think Connor has it in him. He’s not actually a violent guy. Sure, he shoved me yesterday at lunch, but that was because of a misunderstanding, just like this business with my letter. Then again, that’s what people always think before something heinous happens. Then, after the fact, they say, Oh, I always had a feeling. Really, though, what do I know about what another person is capable of? I still don’t have a clue what I’m capable of. I keep surprising even myself.
Connor and I were in the same class in first grade. I remember him crying a lot. I never knew why he was crying. I just know that I was never surprised when it happened. That’s what Connor did: he cried. That was a long time ago, and Connor is way different now, but maybe I can find him and talk to him. He’s unpredictable but not unreasonable. I think. If I explain what the letter really is, maybe he’d agree to keep it a secret.
I glance up at the clock behind the basket. The day’s nearly over and the worst has yet to happen. Maybe for once I should really try to heed Dr. Sherman’s advice and choose optimism. Connor could have tossed my letter in the trash right after he took it. Why do I think he cares about me at all? He’s probably off getting high somewhere and has forgotten that I even exist.
All that sounds lovely. Except it still doesn’t explain one thing: Where’s Zoe?
It’s obvious what (probably) happened: Connor showed her the letter and convinced her that I’m some creepy stalker, and the two of them spent the day downtown securing a restraining order against me. They think I’m a threat. Me! Hilarious.
If it wasn’t that exactly, it was something equally disastrous. When the final bell rings, I skip the bus and walk home instead, trying to fend off all the terrible terrors in my head. I reach my house with no recollection of how I got there.
• • •
The next day is almost identical, but worse in a cumulative sense. Again, there’s no sign of Connor Murphy. One moment I’m certain he’s about to appear and humiliate me into oblivion, and the next I’m convinced I’ve blown this letter thing way out of proportion. In a single day filled with so many moments, the world ends and it carries on.
Now I’m home again and none of my usual methods of escape are doing the trick. I tend to watch a lot of movies. Ideally, documentaries about loners, outcasts, pioneers. Give me cult leaders, obscure historical figures, dead musicians. I want people with rare diseases and unusual talents. I want to see a misunderstood person who someone is finally taking the time to understand. One of my favorite documentaries is about this nanny named Vivian Maier, who happened to be one of the world’s greatest photographers, except no one discovered her talent until after she died.
Tonight I tried watching a movie about Edward Snowden, the whistleblower who had to flee the United States and seek asylum in a foreign country. Seeing this guy have to live every day of his life in constant fear only amped up my nerves.
If I could just talk to someone. I’ve been stuck with my own thoughts for two straight days now. Dr. Sherman was no help, and even if my mom were home, I couldn’t confide in her about this. I mentally flip through the (very short) list of people I could possibly turn to in my hour of need. There’s really only one name that fits the bill.
Jared Kleinman may laugh at the Holocaust, but on the plus side, at least you never have to guess how he’s feeling. I could use a dose of his unfiltered honesty. I message him and explain what happened with Connor.
A letter to yourself?
What the crap does that even mean?
It’s like some kind of sex thing?
No, it’s not a sex thing.
It was an assignment.
For what?
An extra credit thing.
Why are you talking to me about this?
I didn’t know who else to talk to.
You’re my only family friend.
Oh my god.
I don’t know what to do.
He stole the letter from me,
and now he hasn’t been at school the last two days.
That does not bode well for you.
Neither has Zoe.
???
What is he going to do with the letter?
Who knows?
Connor is batshit out of his mind.
Do you remember second grade?
He threw a printer at Mrs. G because
he didn’t get to be line leader that day.
I forgot about that.
I just don’t want him showing the letter to anyone.
Do you think he will?
He’s going to ruin your life with it.
For sure. I mean, I would.
On second thought, maybe I prefer my honesty filtered.
I feel like Connor and I were actually having a civil conversation before he read my letter. It seemed like he might’ve even felt bad about pushing me earlier in the day. I mean, he didn’t have to walk over and hand-deliver my letter to me. Or sign my cast. It was sort of classy.
An image appears on my screen, sent from Jared: a gorgeous, razor-thin girl leaning against a brick wall, windswept hair falling over one eye, provocative stare straight into the camera lens.
Who’s that?
The Israeli chick I told you about.
The one I hooked up with.
The only time I’ve ever seen a girl hold out the end of her skirt like that is in a clothing ad. This photo has to be from a catalog or something.
She looks nice. Almost like a model.
Yeah, she’s done a little modeling.
Definitely better than spending the summer hanging out with trees.
Who the hell becomes a park ranger anyway?
Apprentice park ranger.
Even worse.
The guidance counselor at school suggested it. Well, sort of. I met with her last year to go over my college plan, and she handed me a list of summer activities that would look good on my applications. Park ranger apprenticeship was really the only thing I thought I might be suited for.
When I told Dr. Sherman about my choice for a summer job, he didn’t give me the reaction I’d been hoping for. He was concerned I was falling into old habits, retreating from the world instead of engaging with it. I admit, that was one of the things that first attracted me to being a park ranger, the idea of being alone with nature. It ended up being much more than that, but Dr. Sherman was right. Spending the summer away from my normal life made it way more stressful when it came time to go back. By mid-August I started to panic about the summer ending and the school year beginning.
Also, I realized that avoiding people didn’t actually ease any of my anxieties. Out there in the woods, I still had to live with myself.
I shut my laptop and re-notice Connor’s name on my cast. It’s like he’s taunting me from afar. I try to scratch the letters away with my nails. Obviously, it’s no use.
I walk to my window. It’s pitch-dark outside. For the most part, I’ve always preferred night to day. At night, it’s okay to be hunkered down in your house. During the day, people expect you to be out and about. You can start to feel pretty guilty about wasting so much time indoors.
But right now, as I’m gazing out into the darkness, I don’t feel any sense of comfort. I notice something out there: a shape. What is that?
What I originally assume is my neighbor’s bush now resembles a figure. The figure just stands there, seeming to look right at me, through my window. I switch off my lamp to see more clearly, but when I turn back, heart racing, the figure, if that’s what I really saw, isn’t there anymore. Totally vanished from sight.