It wasn’t like I went there to be meta about it. Like, Look at that sad goth chick all alone on the swings. She’s probably listening to indie rock through those Skullcandy headphones. Even though I was a sad goth chick and, fuck the stereotype, listening to indie rock through those Skullcandy headphones. Basking in my own blatant misery, as cliché as it may have been, hurt and felt good at the same time. I didn’t like much, but I liked that I felt the pull of gravity even when I was floating. I liked that, even in the air, there was weight.
It was cold that Wednesday. The wind blew my hair into my eyes as I pumped my legs, reaching higher and higher, tilting my head back to peer at the pinkish gray of the sky. My mom hadn’t called me yet to ask when I’d be home, and I didn’t have to go in to work at Oinky’s Ice Cream. I could shut off my phone and not worry about anyone calling me, not worry about anyone looking. I could go anywhere, nowhere, or everywhere, and it wouldn’t make a difference.
And that was the good and the hurt. It felt good to be alone, and still hurt that there was an empty swing.
This number is no longer in service.
The recording sank into my eardrums, beating in slow, lulling motions. Sweat trickled down my jaw from where the phone was pressed between my cheek and the pillow. I was probably crying, but barely recognized the sensation anymore. All I recognized was the phrase no longer.
No longer in service.
No longer friends.
No longer here.
Every night I fell asleep to darkness. And the only thing that kept me going was that I didn’t always wake up to it.
Chapter Three
THURSDAY WAS MY LEAST FAVORITE DAY. Not because it followed the hype of hump day or because it was too close to Friday to not be Friday, but because it was a workday. Plus, that particular Thursday was the day my dad mounted the creepy wolf he’d stitched up at work that week. For a beast caught midsnarl, it was a surprisingly tame-looking creature. One that practically begged for a stare-off. Unfortunately, my wandering, curious, and tired eyes were no match for his marble opposition. He won in ten seconds flat. The deer from February was my favorite opponent. He was missing an eye.
“You like that one?” my dad asked. He was reading the newspaper from his corduroy La-Z-Boy recliner, his hanky clawing its way out of the pocket of his bowling shirt. “Got him hoisted up there this morning.”
“He looks bored,” I said. “Definitely in the right place.”
My dad smiled and went on perusing Flashburn’s obituaries. I tell you, that man had a fascination with death, an inability to let things reach their inevitable end without trying to preserve some fraction of their legacy. Apparently, a career in taxidermy just wasn’t enough to satisfy him. Wherever something died, there he was trying to fix it. Electronics. Kitchen appliances. Cars. He hated when he couldn’t do it, when something was gone and he couldn’t bring it back. He’d start to mumble to himself when his patience was thinning, and I used to find it funny and slightly pitiful. But most of the time, I just found it sad.
He grunted and adjusted the lever on his seat, keeping his head down to avoid meeting my eyes longer than either of us was comfortable with. The only person who hated serious talks more than me was my dad. “How are you . . . uh . . . how do you feel today?” he asked, glancing out the window at the overgrown hedge.
It didn’t bother me when my dad asked me how I was doing. He didn’t ask to pry the way Karen did. Dad was a man of few words. He started a conversation only when he really cared about the topic, meaning he spoke only when the topic was dead animals or me.
“Same as always,” I said.
“No crippling headaches or anything?”
“Nope. No crippling anything. Well, unless you count breathing.”
He kept his eyes on the window and tried not to smile. It wasn’t exactly kosher to laugh at the subject of your kid’s depression, but my dad could appreciate a bit of morbidity every now and again.
“Don’t let your mom hear you say that. You know how she feels about dark jokes.”
“As long as my soul is whisked away to heaven at the end, I think she’ll be okay.”
He craned his neck away from me so I wouldn’t see him smile. If my mom knew he was egging me on, he’d be in a lot of trouble. When it came to joking, there were two house rules.
Don’t joke about Jesus.
Don’t laugh at anything Reggie says.
My dad was smart to hide his amusement, because my mother bustled in from the kitchen right as he was turning in his chair. She had a frilly apron tied around her waist, her hair pinned on top of her head like a housewife from a retro ad. But instead of a gourmet apple pie, she handed me a burnt sandwich and a juice box. “I made you a grilled ham and cheese to eat before work.”
“Thanks, but I have to be there in five minutes.” I bit the sandwich and tasted the cheese and char mixture between my teeth. “I’ll eat on the way.”
“You can’t eat while you drive. I heard this story about a sixteen-year-old girl, precious little thing, who tried to eat a cheeseburger while behind the wheel of her mother’s Chrysler and . . .”
She recounted a horror tale she’d read on some How to Make Your Teen Hate Life blog for conservative moms. By the time she finished, I was walking across the front lawn toward my chariot (see: minivan). “Reggie!” she called. “At least tie up your hair a little neater, it’s all over the place. It’s bad enough you insist on dying it that awful black.”
I didn’t need to glance at my ponytail in the rearview mirror to know that I looked like a dark-haired troll doll. It kind of went along with the whole “screw this” attitude I had going on. “Will do, Karen! Crochet me a noose while I’m gone,” I shouted out the window, triggering an immediate gesture on her chest and shoulders for the sign of the cross. She wasn’t even Catholic. Just desperate. Poor woman would have prayed to a rock if she thought it would change me.
I drove to work in two minutes. Karen always got on me for taking the van such a short distance when I could walk. She said it wasted gas, and since she quit her job at the daycare and landed a full-time gig as a homemaker/knitter/life ruiner, the extra twenty cents was really digging into her wallet. I promised her I’d make up the difference with my tip money (plot twist: I rarely got tip money).
Once I parked the gas-sucking van, I tossed my royal blue uniform shirt over my tank top. Oinky’s Ice Cream Parlor was a doublewide trailer stationed in the parking lot of an abandoned Japanese antique shop. A blowup head of a very questionable pig sat atop the roof and blinked its peering eyes every time a gust of wind blew through. The cherry on top (see: pun) was that not only did we get these badass shirts with a picture of the questionably intentioned pig, but written in swirly lettering reminiscent of a love letter one would find in a twelve-year-old girl’s Trapper Keeper were the words We all oink for ice cream! I only endured working there because my therapist said it would be a good distraction for me. Distraction? Sure. Good? Hell to the no.