Drowning Instinct(46)
Author: Ilsa J. Bick

I reread one of the first messages he‘d sent when he‘d been alive-alive: The only way I live through each day is to pretend I‘m already gone. If you‘re dead, then the life you had before is dead, too, and all that remains is the horror of what‘s right in front of you. So I‘m dead, Jenna. You have to think about me that way, okay? Because that‘s how I think about you and Mom and Dad. As long as I‘m here, we‘re all dead and it has to be that way for me to do my job and come back.

Was that crazy? I didn‘t think so. Matt had protected himself as best he could. I would never be able to imagine what living there—dying there every day—had been like.

The real irony is that Matt chose to kill himself every single day so he could come back to life, and then he died for good.

I deleted all his messages. I deleted my replies. Every. Single. One.

Then I deleted my ghost account and dumped the shortcut into my recycle bin and then I emptied that, too. I would‘ve ripped out the hard drive and run over it with my car, but then I‘d have to explain to my father why I killed my computer. I might be nuts, but I wasn‘t crazy.

f

Mom was on a roll. For dinner, she whipped up lasagna and salad and garlic bread.

She and Dad popped the cork on a bottle of Chianti and chattered about their college days and how they met and blah, blah, blah. I pushed food around my plate and then asked to be excused and, when no one gave permission, left anyway.

When I went to bed, I screwed in earbuds and listened to ―Learning to Fly‖ and then Death Cab for Cutie and then Black Sabbath. Screw Ellington and screw Mingus and screw Judy, and screw you, too, Wagner.

If my parents went at it again, I sure didn‘t hear.

g

Sunday night, I‘d told Mom that some of the people on the team practiced early and it made more sense for me to drive myself. She said that was fine; she‘d have tons of work anyway now that Thanksgiving was almost here and Black Friday and Christmas and blah, blah, blah.

I didn‘t care about any of that. I wasn‘t sure I would even go to school.

All I wanted was to be left alone.

h

And then it was Monday.

I left a half hour earlier than usual, at 4:30. My parents weren‘t up; the house was quiet; the streets were dark and there was virtually no traffic. If I actually made it to school, I told myself I could work in the hall outside the library if I had to; Harley was used to my getting there early and wouldn‘t give me grief. Hell, I might even beat Harley.

But I knew I was lying to myself. I had to know if Mr. Anderson was there. I had to know if he‘d come in early because if we were on the same wavelength here, I thought he might. There was no other time to really talk except before school. So I‘d cruise past the lot. If there wasn‘t a single car—or if I saw only Harley‘s truck—well, then, I‘d know not to make a fool of myself. I could still TA and be on the team, but the rest of it—yeah, like the rest of what—would be as if it never happened.

But, if he was there, that would . . . it would mean something.

When I stopped for coffee, I thought about picking up one for him, too. But he always made his own, so that would be kind of lame. I did get two scones, though; then worried I was jinxing myself; then told myself to get a grip, they were just pastries.

The sky was cobalt when I pulled into the school parking lot. The stars glittered, diamond-bright in the cold. At first I thought there were no other cars in the lot, not even Harley‘s— and then my stomach clenched.

Mr. Anderson‘s truck was there.

He‘d come early. Earlier than I had. God, how long had he been here? My eyes flicked to the second story above the library—and zeroed in on a dim, barely visible glow.

Had he turned on a light? I didn‘t think so. But he was here. He was waiting for me.

I had all the power now. Go to him . . . or not.

One of the front doors was unlocked. I pushed inside. The halls were very dim, and my footsteps echoed. On the second floor, I saw no spray of light from his classroom, and there was no music. Okay, that was bad. Yet the hall smelled of coffee. So that might be good.

The classroom was completely dark except for a slim bar of uncertain light beneath the office door. When I stepped into his room, I don‘t know why . . . but I pulled the door shut behind me. Quietly. But I did it. Then I crossed to his office door and put my hand on the knob.

He was sitting at his desk, but looked up as the door opened. The only light came from that small desk lamp, enough to see by but no more. He stared at me for a very long moment and then stood. Was he relieved? I couldn‘t tell.

―I wasn‘t sure you . . .‖ He paused, cleared his throat. ―I just put on a fresh pot. Do you want a warm-up?‖

―No, I‘m good.‖ I held up the paper bag of scones. ―I hope you like blueberry.‖

―I love blueberry.‖ But he didn‘t smile. We looked at one another and then he picked up a book from his desk. ―Here. It‘s that book about Alexis Depardieu I told you about. I meant to give this to you the other day, but we got kind of . . . sidetracked.‖

―Thanks.‖ The book was slim, with no jacket. I opened to the title page and then had to angle it toward that feeble light: Swimming with the Sharks. ―Who‘s Peter Lasker?‖

―Alexis‘s lover.‖

I couldn‘t look at him. My pulse throbbed in my neck. ―Before she was married?‖

―Yes, if you believe him. Before, during . . . and after.‖

Now I did look up. ―But she was married,‖ I said, faintly.

―I guess that didn‘t make any difference to them,‖ he said, carefully. ―I think they were in love and didn‘t care. I think they felt that loving each other was more important than following the rules.‖

―Are we going to follow the rules?‖ I whispered. I honestly didn‘t know what answer I wanted.

―We probably should.‖

I closed my eyes, willing my tears not to fall. ―I killed Matt. All his e-mails, my account, everything.‖ I opened my eyes. ―There‘s only you. All I can see is you.‖

Something in his face changed and then he took a step forward and then another. He was close enough to reach out for me, but he didn‘t. Instead, he stretched past, pulled his office door shut—and locked it. He took the book and then the bag of scones from my weak fingers and carefully squared both next to the coffeepot. Reaching around, he eased my knapsack from my shoulders and let it slide to the floor, and then he peeled off my coat, his fingers lightly brushing my neck, trailing over my wrists. He draped my coat over his desk chair and then, without taking his eyes from mine, felt for the lamp.