I Swear

7. BETH

When Jenkins started the assembly, it was silent, and that’s saying something. Over one thousand living, breathing anythings are generally noisy. Over one thousand high schoolers can be deafening. I’ve heard it. Last fall when I scored a perfect 10 on the beam in competition, I thought the roof was falling into the gym, the cheering was so loud. Coach Stevens was the only one who was quiet. He stood there looking at me as I walked toward him, his hands on his hips, shaking his head. It wasn’t until I got right up to him that I saw he was crying.

He waited until I got next to him, then he grabbed me and wrapped me up in the biggest bear hug I’ve ever had and whispered into my neck so softly:

“Atta girl. You’re going all the way.”

That made me choke up, and of course, I had to stare up into the lights to keep my eyeliner from running all over the place, and I just hate watching wimpy girls cry—especially at the Olympics. I mean, I am all for being happy that you win and jumping up and down and everything, but, c’mon. Crying and whispering “Thank you, God” to the ceiling? Because God wanted you to get a perfect 10 on the beam that day? Like he didn’t have anything to look after in Haiti? Quake victims have no clean water, and half the kids on the island are dying of dysentery, but, sure—God stopped by the gym at Westport High in Seattle to make sure that you nailed the dismount.

Urrrgh. I just hate that.

And I hate peppermint tea, which is what Katherine brought back when she slipped into the assembly and slid into our bleacher.

“Sorry,” she whispered. “They were all out of the chamomile. Hope peppermint is okay.”

Peppermint is not okay. It makes me think of Christmas at Grandma Cratchin’s, which is always awful and long and boring, and Grandpa always makes us take turns reading Luke 2 in the living room before we can open presents, while Grandma is pouring everybody enough peppermint tea to make us float to Bethlehem without boats.

But I just took the cup and smiled back at her. There’s nothing to do but smile back at Katherine’s smile. It’s a billion watts of perfect teeth that’s been practiced in front of a mirror for enough hours to win tiaras and sashes in seven different pageant systems so far. It’s sort of a weapon of mass destruction, really. Not a lot of black girls winning pageants in Seattle—or seats on the student council at Westport High until last year.

It’s wild. Macie replaced Jillian on the ticket without even telling her. Just showed up, and blam—Katherine was the VP. It was nuts that first week of school last fall. Jillian was crazed, trying to keep up with what was going on, but not stepping on Macie’s toes. Trying not to let the news that she was high pissed show on her face.

But make no mistake. She was pissed. Pissed, but silent. The Jillian way.

Everybody was silent now, as Principal Jenkins ticked off the facts:

1. FACT: Leslie Gatlin was found dead this morning of carbon monoxide poisoning in her mother’s Audi, which had been idling for some seven hours with the garage door closed.

2. FACT: Leslie Gatlin’s mother had called the paramedics, who had rushed to the scene.

3. FACT: After trying to resuscitate Leslie Gatlin, she was pronounced dead on arrival at University of Washington Medical Center.

4. FACT: Students were asked to seek the help of the guidance counselor, Marilynne Hennesy, if they needed to talk with someone about any feelings that Leslie’s death was bringing up for them, or any suicidal thoughts they might be having as a result.

5. FACT: Student council president Macie Merrick had a few words to say before we were dismissed.

6. FACT: Students were asked to report to regularly scheduled classes beginning with second period at the end of this assembly.

When Jenkins mentioned Macie’s name, she slid from her seat on our bleacher near the front, took the cup of tea out of Katherine’s hand, swallowed a quick sip, handed it back without looking at any of us, and strode toward the waiting mic in Jenkins’s outstretched hand.

“I don’t know what to think about this . . . loss.” Her voice was low but strong. “I don’t know what to think about anything, but I do know how I feel about this. I feel angry. I feel robbed. I feel cheated of knowing our friend. I may not know what to think about this loss, but I sure know what I want to do about this loss.”

The gym was silent. There were people sniffing. Looking down. I saw the volleyball girls from the bathroom clasp hands; the redhead had tears running down her cheeks.

“I’ve spoken with Principal Jenkins this morning, and we are going to hold a suicide-awareness seminar during lunch hours on Thursday. This afternoon at the student council meeting I will be bringing a proposal to set up a memorial scholarship fund in Leslie Gatlin’s name for a senior who enters college specifically to pursue the mental health fields, so that her parents can always remember with heads held high the impact that Leslie had here at our school; that because she lost her life, other lives will be saved.

“And finally, we will begin talks to institute class credit for shifts at the TeenReach Hotline—Seattle’s teen suicide prevention line—to make sure that there is an ear for every student in need at this school, freshman or senior, black or white, boy or girl, gay or straight.”

Macie grew silent again and slowly surveyed the assembly before looking down at the mic in her hands for a moment. “Maybe you’re like me, and you don’t know what to think of all this. Well, today I want you to feel with me,” she said, banging a clasped fist against her chest, her voice rising. “And then tomorrow I want you to come back to this school and I want you to do with me. I want you to help me do things to make sure that this will not happen again. Not on our watch. Not at our school. Not at Westport. Never again!”

Over a thousand teenagers roared in the way that only a thousand teenagers can. It sounded again like the roof might fall into the gymnasium.

I realized that Katherine wasn’t sitting beside me anymore. She had slipped away somewhere. But off at the far end of the gym, by the doors that led to the athletic offices, I caught a glimpse of Coach Stevens. He was silent, standing there as I walked toward him.

I stood in front of him for what seemed like forever.

“Beth?” he said. Only it was a question. And in that question, everything I was afraid of came blazing to the surface. Coach Stevens reached out his arms to hug me. “I know you loved my niece,” he said, so softly I thought for a moment that I’d imagined it.

Slowly, I looked back over my shoulder. Macie, Brad, and Jillian were standing in the circle painted in the center of the gym, watching me.

I turned back to Coach Stevens, frozen, my mind racing. He just stood there with his arms out—an invitation, really. I wanted to run into them, to hug him, to tell him the whole story, to let him know that it would be okay. To cry onto his warm-up jacket until the tears ran out.

Instead, I turned toward the exit in the corner by his office, and for the second time that day, I ran.