Back in the hall, I post myself by the trophy case across from the bathroom and stare at it as if I’m actually interested in these lumps of metal earned for jumping high, bouncing a rubber ball, or knocking some poor sucker unconscious. What I’m really interested in is the reflection in the glass case of the bathroom door behind me. In fact, I’m concentrating so hard on that door that I jump when I hear the whisper.
“Usha?” a tiny voice says.
Greenvale Greene stands just next to me. Even though she’s come from art class, she’s still in her gym clothes—an oversized Paul Revere sweatshirt and shorts that pull into a tight V over her crotch. The paddle of Mr. Fisk’s bathroom pass is pressed against her thigh, which is so pale that I can see the marbling of blue veins underneath the skin.
“You weren’t by the mural,” she says, her voice phlegmy, as if she hasn’t spoken yet today.
“I took a walk. For inspiration.”
“All that paint is still there.” She fidgets. “You might want to put it away before someone pours it over the wall or floor or something.”
“I don’t think anyone would do that.”
“You don’t?”
“It’s a memorial mural, so vandalizing it would be pretty harsh.”
“Oh. I guess so.” She pulls at the hem of her shorts, not that the extra quarter inch covers much of her stick legs.
I wait patiently for her to leave. She’s odd and, well, exasperating. No wonder people make fun of her. Why is she standing silent and fidgeting? Why not head on her way?
Finally she says, “I’m sorry about your friend.”
“Thanks,” I say; then, on impulse, “what happened to your regular clothes?”
She looks down at her gym clothes as if she’s only just realized she’s wearing them. “Oh,” she says. “The toilet.”
“The, um, what?”
“Someone put them in the toilet while I was in gym class.”
“That’s awful.”
She sways in place. “I guess. After the last time it happened, I started keeping a spare set of gym clothes in my locker. See?” She plucks at the armpit of her sweatshirt, pulling the fabric up toward my face. “Freshly washed. Doesn’t smell.”
“That’s okay.” I pull back. “I believe you.”
When I step back, Greenvale takes my place and breathes on the streak of grease my fingers have left, lifting her sweatshirted hand to rub the glass clean.
“Why bother?” I ask.
“Oh.” She gestures at the gold and silver cups. “I think they’re pretty. I mean, imagine doing something like that.”
For a moment, I try to imagine it—the globe of the ball between my hands, the ribbon breaking across my chest, the faraway roar from the stands—and maybe she’s right. Maybe it is something to imagine. But then I notice the reflection in the glass.
The bathroom door. I haven’t been watching it.
“Excuse me,” I say, leaving Greenvale by the trophy case.
But when I push open the bathroom door, it’s too late. The bathroom is empty. Lucas Hayes and whoever he was meeting are long gone.
Mr. Fisk has asked me to tape a sheet over the mural at the end of each day so that no one can see my (ahem) progress until I’m completely done. Honestly, I’m happy to cover up my blobby ovals. Besides, everyone will know why the sheet is up there anyway. As they pass, they won’t be able to help thinking of me. I’ll have my pick of them. I sit through physics, planning what I’ll do tomorrow, how I can undo the rumor of my suicide.
After the final bell rings, I make it halfway to the parking lot before I stop abruptly in the center of the hallway, a stone in the middle of a rushing river. Everyone is leaving for the day. It hits me that, today, maybe I can leave, too. I ignore Usha’s station wagon parked in the last row of the lot. I’m not sure what will happen when I cross the property line, so I’d rather not be driving a car. Usha’s coat has pockets, and I ignore them, too, enjoying the sting of the early spring air on my skin. The road just ahead of me looks like a dark river with banks of frost-stiff grass. The Lethe, I think, wondering what coin I will have to pay to cross its waters.
As I’m walking, I’m remembering how when I’d come home, the steam from the kitchen would puff out to greet me only a second before my mother’s voice, calling, Paige? That you, honey? Then at dinner, my parents and I would go around the table in turn, each of us sharing one event from our day. It had to be something tiny, like eating a different type of bread for lunch or seeing a strangely marked cat on a windowsill. Today, I could say, I came home after school. Today I came home. I’m walking faster across the lot, and then I’m running toward the road, running onto it, running, running home, running—
Off the ledge of the roof.
The momentum is still in my body, but before it can carry me forward, I crouch down and grab the lip of the roof, holding myself teetering on the brink of the building. It was too much to hope that I could leave. And yet I’d let myself hope it. I should have known that it’d be just like before, that the school wouldn’t let me go, that it’d pick me up and set me back down on my death spot.
My hands, when I look down at them, are my own—nails clipped straight across, star-shaped scar on one knuckle, opal ring inherited from my grandmother. I am me again. I cling to that little square of cement, feeling the rough of it under my palms, the only thing I can feel. The second I step off this square of cement, I’ll be insubstantial again—no dark green front door, no steam on my cheeks, no voice calling from the kitchen, no cat, no bread. My hands won’t even be cold anymore, because they aren’t really hands. I press my palms against my eyes.
When I lower my hands, I’m looking out across the parking lot, its car roofs laid out like tarot cards on a table. Past the cars, a chubby Indian girl in red rubber boots walks determinedly across the road where I can’t go. She sinks down in her wool coat, letting it shield her from the wind. She wears no gloves, and her hands are pink from the cold. After a moment, she raises her hands to her mouth, blowing hot breath before shoving them into her pockets to keep them warm.
12: SOME GIRL WHO DIED
THE MEMORIAL MURAL WORKS JUST AS I’D HOPED IT WOULD. The next morning, I stand under it as the crowds come in from the parking lot. Almost everyone glances at the white sheet fastened to the wall as they pass it, and my name is whispered in the voices of a dozen different minds. Brooke and Evan stand with me.
“I hear it,” Brooke says, her eyes closed and her chin tipped up as if she has found a sunbeam to bask in. She opens her eyes. “You’re right. I’ve heard it before. I just didn’t know to listen for it. It’s them thinking of me. It’s . . .” She shakes her head.
“That’s great!” Evan says, overly cheery.
“You don’t hear anything?” I ask him.
“None of them knew me. How could they remember me?”
I think about that, being forgotten, being lost to time. That’ll be me someday, just like Evan. It’ll be them, too, all of them bustling by. Someday they’ll die and be forgotten. They just get a little longer to ignore the fact.
“It’s nice, though, right?” Evan continues, his voice scrubbed bright and shiny. “So many people thinking about you?”
“That all depends on what they’re thinking,” Brooke says.
He turns to me. “And Usha is painting the mural after all?”