I sit up and think, What the hell happened yesterday?
Then I replay it all in my mind, remembering. When I get to the part about Asher Beal, I feel like maybe I shouldn’t have told Herr Silverman about what happened—like it was a horrible mistake. I trust him, but I also know he has to tell other people to get me help, and what if those other people think I’m a pervert, and do things to me that will fuck my head up even worse? How can I trust people I don’t know? I don’t know what’s going to happen next, and that makes me feel like I’m covered in super-pissed-off scorpions and spiders. I didn’t really think my confession to Herr Silverman through. It just sort of happened.
Maybe I shouldn’t be here. Maybe I really should have killed myself.
I also start to worry that Herr Silverman went through my cell phone photos and found the one of Asher jerking off—which would really make him think I’m a pervert—so I grab my cell off the coffee table, hit the camera button, and see what was recorded.
It’s just the flash reflected in the glass of Asher’s bedroom window, so I delete it and feel a little relieved, but not completely.
I wish I could delete the past twenty-four hours.
I check my history and there are no calls from Linda, and I don’t know how to feel about that.
Part of me is relieved, part of me is disappointed, which is confusing.
I reach into my pocket to make sure I have the massive six-figure check I tried to give Baback and I rip it up into a million tiny pieces, although I’m not quite sure why, and the pieces land all over Herr Silverman’s floor and are hard to clean up because there are so many.
I’m not thinking straight.
I’m not sure I can trust myself.
I look at Herr Silverman’s closed bedroom door and think about him sleeping in the same bed as Julius, how they have this life together in the city that has nothing to do with me or my shitty high school or Herr Silverman’s teaching—and how I invaded their world last night, crossed all sorts of lines. I can understand why Julius was so pissed at me, because I was acting like a psychopath, and it sort of makes me feel horrible, because Herr Silverman was only trying to do the right thing, which is amazing, because no one ever does the right thing, but I should be with Linda and my dad right now. And because they blow as parents, I’m fucked up and Herr Silverman has to deal with my shit, which isn’t fair to him and maybe will lead to bad things for me in the end. It’s weird, because I really love Herr Silverman, and the fact that he cares so much about fucked-up kids—enough to meet me under a bridge in the middle of a school night. But I shouldn’t be here. This was all a mistake. My fault. I know that. And he probably shouldn’t have come to rescue me either. He’s too nice for his own good maybe. And I hope I don’t get him into trouble.
I wonder if he talked to Linda after I passed out and what the hell he said to her.
If he was able to make her feel even the slightest bit of guilt for being so oblivious—if he could get through all that makeup and high fashion.
How much he told her about what happened.
If she even gave a shit.
I’m pretty sure that Herr Silverman is going to get my high school involved now and the school psychologist will evaluate me to figure out whether I’m truly a risk to myself or others and then when they discover how unbalanced I am, they’ll pump me full of drugs and lock me away, and I start to worry about where that will be and what it will be like. What if it’s worse than my current life?
All of a sudden—I have to take off before he wakes up.
Leaving immediately—just getting far away from Herr Silverman and the talk we had last night—is the most important thing in the world.
I’m imposing.
I shouldn’t be here.
Maybe I shouldn’t even be alive.
Maybe I just want to enjoy my last few hours of freedom before they lock me up in some psych ward.
Maybe I just need some space.
Regardless, I stand slowly and tiptoe into the kitchen, past the closed bedroom door, and then find a pad of paper stuck to the refrigerator.
I write:
Herr Silverman,
Don’t worry; I’m okay. Needed to be by myself.
Going home. Danger has passed.
Nothing to worry about. NOTHING.
I’m sorry.
Thank you.
LP
P.S. Sorry also to Julius. I won’t do this again.
Promise.
I tiptoe through the living room and I’m relieved when the front door doesn’t squeak or squeal.
I’m gone.
THIRTY-FIVE
I take the stairs down to the ground floor and then I’m on the predawn streets of Philadelphia.
No one is around, and I imagine this whole city is under ocean water—I imagine I’m scuba diving, and it’s not really all that hard to do because it’s dark and desolate and my skin is kind of wet from sleeping under the down comforter Herr Silverman threw over me and also from freaking out, which maybe I’m still doing, although I’m trying not to think about yesterday—how choosing life might have been a mistake.
Underground, I crawl below the subway turnstile—feeling the disgusting city grime on the palms of my hands—because I have no money on me, and I wait in the trash-ridden piss-smelling underbelly of Philadelphia, imagining myself scuba diving with a huge light, swimming through subway tunnels with Horatio and maybe even showing S the graffiti when she is old enough to scuba dive in such dangerous enclosed waters.
The train comes after what feels like hours of waiting, and I’m the only passenger on the car.
When we burst out from under Philly and up onto the Ben Franklin Bridge the sun is just coming up over the eastern horizon and I blink at it.
When my town is called, I stand and hold on as the train slows to a stop.
It’s too early for the zombie-faced suits, although I know they’ll flock here soon enough.
There’s a rent-a-cop at the turnstiles and so I have to make a decision because I don’t have the ticket I need to get through the machines.
I’m just about to make a run for it when I see an old ticket on the ground.
I pick it up and insert it into the machine.
It doesn’t work, of course.
“Officer,” I say, and hold up the rectangle of paper. “My ticket’s not working.”
“Just go under,” he says, and then takes a slurp from his bucket-sized Styrofoam coffee cup and turns his back.
I crawl under the turnstile and walk out into the early-morning sunshine.
I’m not really sure what my plan is, but somehow I wind up walking past Lauren’s house, which is right next door to her father’s church.
Standing across the street looking at the house, I sort of feel like the house is looking back at me—like the two second-floor windows are eyes and the row of downstairs windows is a mouth. Kind of like what you see in old horror movies—the house coming to life like a face.
I have this stupid fantasy where I ring the doorbell and Lauren answers in a white bathrobe—which gives me a nice V-shot of her chest—and wearing the silver cross I gave her. We talk and I thank her for praying for me and she says it’s great that I’m still alive and we both agree that kissing was a mistake, before we shake hands and wish each other well—like everything is forgiven. But it’s all just bullshit and I know I messed up with Lauren in a way that can’t be fixed easily, which is so unbearably depressing.