Showtime, I figure, as I walk up the stairs. Time for Christian to teach Lara a lesson. Time for the final curtain in the Christian and Lara Show.
I log into Facebook as Christian and go to Lara’s wall. I type, look it over once, and add one more thing. My finger hesitates over the mouse button for a moment. I take a deep breath, and click Post.
Then I log out, log back in as myself, and wait for the fun to start.
IF YOU hold the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet toward the bathroom mirror there are hundreds of versions of you, like clones created in a secret lab by white-coated scientists. The first time I did it I thought it was so cool — an infinite tunnel of possible Laras. But now my hand trembles on the mirror as I watch a tear ice its way down all of my cheeks. I guess you could say each one of those faces is either the Lara that I once was, that I am now, or that I would be in the future, if I had one.
I don’t.
Christian just messaged me that the world would be a better place without me in it. He’s right.
I wish I knew what I did to make him change his mind about me so suddenly, without any warning. One minute I think he’s about to ask me to his school dance, the next minute he’s posting on my wall that I’m an awful person and a terrible friend. That he would never consider being seen with a loser like me at his school dance.
He didn’t even know me in middle school, before Mom took me to the nutritionist and the shrink and I lost thirty pounds.
Why? What did I do? I just want to understand. I need to understand. If I only understood, then I could change, I could be a different Lara, a nicer Lara, a better Lara. A Lara that people didn’t like one minute and then hate the next. A Lara that didn’t make friends, then lose them.
But it doesn’t matter now, I guess. This way is better for everyone.
Mom will freak out if I make a mess, so I take all the pill bottles and line them up on the edge of the bathtub, neatly, like soldiers. I’ve got Mom’s sleeping pills, the ones she pretends she doesn’t take and hides in her bedside table under the latest copy of Vanity Fair; the painkillers Dad has for when his back plays up; and the acetaminophen with codeine from when I had my wisdom teeth removed over the summer. I grab the plastic cup that holds my toothbrush and bring it with me as I stand by the bathtub, trying to decide if I should get undressed or be fully clothed. I don’t want to be naked when they find me dead. That would add insult to injury, having policemen taking pictures of me and making comments about how I could lose a few pounds and stuff.
In the end, I strip down to my underwear and T-shirt.
Making the Lake Hills High varsity cheerleading squad is probably the most awesome thing I’ve ever accomplished in my life. It made me feel like I’d finally turned the corner from miserable to happy.
That didn’t last long.
I settle myself in the tub and turn on the water. I thought about doing this in the bedroom, but locking my bedroom door is too out of the norm. This way it’s less obvious.
It feels weird when the water starts to soak into my underwear and T-shirt, and I wonder if I should have just laid on the bathroom floor and pretended to be in the bath, but once I get used to it, the water is warm and comforting. Anyway, wearing clothes in the bathtub isn’t half as weird as thinking that in less than an hour — I think, because I don’t know how long this actually is going to take — that’s not going to matter. Nothing will. I won’t be here anymore.
No more pain.
No more feelings.
No more anything.
No more me.
Fill up the glass from the faucet. Open the first bottle. Don’t even bother to look at what it is. It doesn’t matter anyway. Just pour the pills into my shaking palm, put as many into my mouth as I think I can swallow, and wash them down.
Rinse and repeat.
And repeat.
And repeat.
And repeat.
And keep on repeating.
Turn off the water when I start to feel dizzy.
Because … I don’t … want to … drown … just want to … die …
MY SISTER has had what her shrink calls “a setback” since the police told her there is no Christian DeWitt — and she realized she tried to kill herself over some guy who never even existed. A “setback” is apparently shrinkspeak for saying that after getting a teensy bit better, she’s now as much of a mess as she was before — maybe an even bigger one.
Mom and Dad were discussing if Lara should go back into the psych ward, but she was all, “If you even think about locking me up in that place, I’ll try to kill myself again,” so that plan got nixed. She gets to stay home but is still living under Lara Watch. No closed doors, not even to shower or pee or sleep. No Internet or phone without parental supervision. No privacy, period.
She told me last night that I’m lucky, because I get to close the door when I go to the bathroom.
Seriously, Lara?
“Luck has nothing to do with it,” I said. “Mom and Dad just know I’m not going to do anything in there except the normal things people do in a bathroom.”
She looked like a baby seal who’d just been hit with a club on a frozen beach in the Arctic Circle — wounded, blinking big eyes staring at me, asking how I could be so cruel.
So then I felt bad about hurting her, but at the same time I was mad about feeling bad because I didn’t think I’d done anything wrong. I was just telling the truth, stating the obvious. Someone has to do that around here, and it’s pretty clear that someone isn’t going to be either one of my parents.
I’m doing homework on the computer — another thing Lara can be jealous of because I don’t have to have Mom looking over my shoulder — when the doorbell rings.
“Can you get that?” Mom says. “I’m in the middle of something.”
I don’t bother to point out that I am, too. Mom’s got cabin fever from being stuck here babysitting Lara all day, and she’s worrying about how this is affecting her political career. I know this because her campaign manager was here one day when I came home from school and they were talking about it, and then I heard her stressing about it to Dad. And then I heard him getting all pissed about the fact that she was even thinking about politics when Lara was so sick, and she just got mad back because he’s not the one who is having to take off from work to keep an eye on a fifteen-year-old 24/7 and … well, it went on from there.
It’s just easier to get up and do it than argue with Mom when all that’s going on.
When I open the door, Mrs. Connors is standing there carrying a foil-covered casserole dish. Since it happened, all of our neighbors have been trying to out–Martha Stewart one another. It’s like they’re all competing to bring us the best casseroles as a way of showing their concern. But there’s another reason, too, besides neighborly compassion. It’s also because they want the latest dirt so when they bump into people in line at the supermarket they can say: “Well, I was at the Kelley house today, and I heard …”