Miss Me Not

"Truth," I sighed, lying back against the metal ramp. "I guess maybe I can make it to grad. Can you?"

He shrugged. I didn't push it. James's demons were different than mine. Being gay in a household with a domineering, ex-jock father wasn't easy. I'd seen the dark bruises James had to prove it. He could have turned his father in. Hell, I could have turned his father in, but we didn't. Abuse came in all kinds of forms. The sad thing is that there was a time I would have envied the attention he got. That's the sick kind of person I was. I mean, what kind of effed up person envied physical abuse as a form of desirable attention?

Me. That's who.

When I was little, I'd hoped my actions would get the reaction I craved from my parents. My attention seeking first started when I was four. I was sick of being stuck in the church daycare every single night, so I showed my displeasure by biting everyone I could sink my teeth into. I think I was hoping my actions would get me booted out and I could stay with my parents, but instead it earned me a one-way ticket to solitary confinement. They fenced me off in the far corner of the room, like a shark that couldn't be trusted with the other fish. My parents had been so unhappy with my sudden need to gnaw on other people that they even carried out the punishment at home by sending me to bed every night the moment we got home from church. Solitary confinement became my normal.

Once I realized gnawing on humans wouldn't get me the attention I yearned for, I tried my hand at destruction. Unfortunately, I underestimated the ramifications of flushing the heads of Barbie dolls down a toilet. At first, I enjoyed watching their heads circling the bowl, but instead of riding the circular wave to oblivion, they simply clogged the pipe and the water in the bowl proceeded to rise. In hindsight, I should have told my mom, but she was by the front door hollering that we were going to be late for, you guessed it, church. I guess in my five-year-old mind, I thought maybe the problem would somehow fix itself while we were away. That would be a resounding "hell no." We arrived home three hours later to a foot and half of water throughout the entire house. I got spanked for that one, and for a moment, I was almost happy, thinking they did actually care about me. My destructive nature was short-lived when everything in the house below the waist had to be replaced—furnishing, carpeting, drywall and all my toys. I didn't miss my dolls with their freaky happy faces or my now decapitated Barbies, but I mourned the loss of my picture books that I would leaf through for hours at a time. Damn those fat Barbie heads. I blamed them for my loss, and to this day I can't walk down the sickeningly pink Barbie aisle of any store.

I moved right from destruction to a daredevil stage, by climbing anything and everything. I became an expert at scaling heights. My mom would find me perched on top of the fridge, the top shelf of my closet, and my all-time favorite, the roof of the house. The first time I climbed on top of the house she called the fire department to get me down. The kind fireman who scaled the roof plucked me up like a sack of potatoes and carried me down. He lectured me on safety and the harm I could have come to. I soaked his words up like a sponge, and the next time I scaled the roof, I waited for one of the tragic events he'd claimed would occur, but after an hour had passed without a sudden fall resulting in multiple broken bones, I was highly disappointed. None of his prophecies came to pass, so I was once again plucked off the roof by another fireman. This one wasn't so kind and told my mom to keep a better eye on me since their services were needed for real emergencies. I guess I should have expected bars on my window after that, but Mom solved the problem by limiting my time at home, which meant more time at church. So, in a way, she found the ultimate punishment. Church always won. It stole every hour I was supposed to have with my parents. I hated the thieving bastard.

"So, what do you think?" James asked, breaking through my thoughts.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" I asked.

"I said, do you want to hang after school? My dad's working double shifts all week, so I'm free. Maybe we can hang at your house. You know, talk about 'it'."

"It" was how we referred to our pact. We always avoided the word suicide, feeling once it was uttered someone would somehow find out and try to intervene. Who would have ever foreseen that the actions of one would be the very thing that would seal my fate? For four years I had done nothing but contemplate snuffing out my existence. No more judgments, no more glares and most of all, no more gossip surrounding things I had done. All of that was swiped away. In the end, they would still win. They always won.

"Can't, I have freaking tutoring," I said, finally answering his question as I grimaced at the idea of staying at school a minute longer than I wanted to.

"Tutoring? I thought all your teachers had given up on you," he said, trying to hide his disappointment. He hated his house even when his father wasn't home.

"Not that bitch Ms. Jones. It's either tutoring with some know-it-all, or she wants to schedule a meeting with my mom.

"Would she even show?" he asked.

"Probably not. You know her rules though—either I keep my nose clean here and my grades passing, or she's sending me to that bullshit trade school for troubled teens in Jackson County."

"I can tutor you," he said as a last-ditch attempt.

"I told Whore Cat that, but she said either I used her approved tutor or it was conference time. I'll try to duck out early and we can meet at my house. I'll give you my key and you can head there to wait for me."

"Nah, that's okay. I can go to my house," he said reluctantly.

"James, it's fine. Hang at my house."

"You sure?"

"Sure. No one will be home. You'll have the house to yourself until I get there."

"Thanks, M," he said, looking almost happy at the rare solitude he'd have.

In our own demented way, we were made for each other. He craved solitude while I felt solitude was a just punishment.

"So, who's your tutor?" he asked, laying back down next to me.

"I'm not sure. Whore Cat was pretty much closemouthed about it. Knowing my luck, it'll be some eager beaver freshman."

er One

Mitch Johnson died last night.

He killed himself. I wasn't sad or heartbroken when I heard. I was pissed. Stark raving pissed. I didn't know Mitch well. He was like me, a shadow that floated down the hallways, unnoticed and seemingly nonexistent among the crowd. I knew my attitude seemed callous, but I didn't care. Mitch stole my thunder.

It should have been me.

Mr. Wilson, our douche bag principal, decided to inform us of Mitch's death between news of an upcoming carwash fundraiser and a threat to crack down on student littering. How he had reached the conclusion that this was the best spot for an announcement like this was beyond me. I was doodling in the margins of my World History book, trying to ignore the annoying squawk of the intercom, and the droning voice of Mr. Wilson, when he suddenly slid Mitch's suicide in so quickly that I was momentarily confused by the words. I wasn't even sure I'd heard him right until the entire female population of the class gasped at once. The rest of the announcements were quickly drowned out by an eruption of chatter throughout the room. It was glaringly obvious the news had just added excitement to a drab Tuesday morning. The reactions ran the gambit from feigned grief to jokes about how Mitch may have "offed himself."