I recently lost someone. Someone so integral to me, it’s like a part of me is gone. And now I don’t know how to be anymore. If there’s even a me without her. It’s like she was my sun, and then my sun went out. Imagine if the real sun went out. Maybe there’d still be life on Earth, but would you still want to live here? Do I still want to live here?
The next day, there are a bunch of responses, though not one from All_BS. Some of them are weird scientific explanations of how unlikely it is for the sun to actually go out. Others are more understanding of my loss. Others yet suggest that if I were to die, I’d be reunited with the person I lost. They are so certain, as if the Final Solution people have visited death, taken notes, and come back to report. I’m reminded that for so many of these people, this is a kind of entertainment.
But I am starting to understand the appeal of the boards. Yesterday when I hit post, I felt this massive sense of relief. This whole thing might be a charade, but for the first time in a long time, I am telling the truth.
x x x
A few days later I’m at work at the Thomases’, trying to figure out how to smoke out All_BS. I’m lost in thought, which is maybe why I don’t hear Mindy Thomas walk in while I’m cleaning her bedroom. If I had, I’d have gone and pretended to clean the garage or something.
“Hey, Cody,” Mindy calls in a singsong voice. “How’s it going?”
“Great!” I say with all the enthusiasm I can manage while holding a feather duster.
Mindy is trailed by her posse, girls all a year younger than me whom I haven’t seen much since I graduated. Sharon Devonne waves to me. Sharon was one of Meg’s acolytes. She adored her, used to follow her around like Meg was a movie star. Meg pretended to be put out by this, but I knew she thought Sharon was sweet, particularly because she was nice to Scottie. She was his counselor at the Y camp, and he had a huge crush on her.
“Hey, Cody,” she says shyly.
“Hi, Sharon. How’s senior year going?”
“Almost done.”
“Any plans for after graduation?”
“Sleep.”
“Yeah, I hear that—”
“You know what?” Mindy interrupts, clapping her hands. “I have the best idea. Cody should come to the party. It’s next weekend. My parents are going out of town, and it’s going to be a rager.”
Before I have a chance to make an excuse, Mindy continues: “It’ll be so perfect. You can come to the party and do the cleaning up afterwards.” Her laughter follows her out of the room.
I stand there, too floored to say anything. Mindy Thomas? We used to take dance class together. She always wore these perfect outfits: leotards, leg warmers, ballet shoes, all matching. Tricia couldn’t even afford the class—the teacher, a friend of hers, let me take it for free—so I just threw together what I could: leggings that were ripped, a tank top, mismatched legwarmers that I found at a thrift store. But then one day Mindy came in wearing the same getup as me. I’d thought she was making fun of me, but when I’d told Tricia, she’d laughed. “The little brat is copying you.” I had my doubts. One thing I knew for sure: A year ago, Mindy Thomas never would have spoken to me like she just did.
Sharon lingers after the other girls leave. “She’s just being a bitch,” she whispers. “You should come to the party.”
“Thanks, Sharon,” I say. I hold up my feather duster to show her it’s time to get back to work. She hesitates as if she wants to tell me something else, but then Mindy calls to her and she trots off.
x x x
Later, at the library, I can’t stop thinking about Sharon, the way she used to idolize Meg. Meg may have stood out in town, but she definitely had her admirers. She had that thing. People, at least smart people, were drawn to her: people from school, musicians she met online, All_BS—they all found their way to Meg.
How am I supposed to attract All_BS? I don’t have what Meg had. People may have called us the Pod, but it wasn’t really an accurate description. There was Meg. And me, lassoing myself to her.
I can’t do that anymore. To find All_BS, I have to be all me. I take a breath. And I start to type.
Repeat
RepeatI’m not one of those people who has spent a lot of time thinking about death, or imagining her own death, or dreaming of it, or wanting it. At least I didn’t think I was. But so much shit has happened in the last year of my life that I am questioning whether I even have a life, or if what I thought was my life is actually an illusion, or maybe a delusion. Because it doesn’t seem like living to me. It seems like persevering, like that’s the most I can hope for. I’m not that old, but I’m already so tired. Even getting out of bed each morning seems like an enormous chore. Life seems to be about endurance, not enjoyment, not fulfillment. I don’t see the point. If someone told me I could go back and undo my birth, I think I might. I really do.
Is that the same as wanting to die? And if so, what does that mean?
23
One night I’m sitting at my computer, staring at all of the messages I’ve posted to the Final Solution boards and all the responses I’ve received. There are way too many pages to print out now without arousing Mrs. Banks’s suspicion, so I’ve started saving everything to a file on the hard drive.
The door swings open. I snap the computer shut. “Ever hear of knocking?” I ask Tricia.
“When I’m living in your house, I’ll consider knocking,” she says.
I’m about to mention that I pay rent and therefore it’s my house too, but then I think of the boxful of cash stashed under my bed and decide it’s probably wiser if I don’t bring money up.
She taps on my computer, which is hot. “I read somewhere that the rise in cancer is linked to how much people stare at their computer screens all day,” she says.
“Everything gives you cancer,” I reply. “The sun gives you cancer.”
“I read that computers are really bad. All that radiation. It’s not healthy.”
“Where’d you read that? In one of the many scientific journals you subscribe to?”
She ignores the dig and sits down on the edge of my bed. “What are you reading these days?”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you. You used to always have your nose in a book, and now I only ever see you on that computer.”
When I returned the latest batch of books Mrs. Banks had borrowed for me, I pretended like I’d read them all when, in fact, I hadn’t finished a single one. I used to read at home at night, but now I can’t seem to stop looking at my growing file on Meg, which I’ve hidden in a dummy folder named college. I’ve still gotten no response from All_BS, and I keep re-reading all the messages, trying to figure out what to do next.
The next day, there are a bunch of responses, though not one from All_BS. Some of them are weird scientific explanations of how unlikely it is for the sun to actually go out. Others are more understanding of my loss. Others yet suggest that if I were to die, I’d be reunited with the person I lost. They are so certain, as if the Final Solution people have visited death, taken notes, and come back to report. I’m reminded that for so many of these people, this is a kind of entertainment.
But I am starting to understand the appeal of the boards. Yesterday when I hit post, I felt this massive sense of relief. This whole thing might be a charade, but for the first time in a long time, I am telling the truth.
x x x
A few days later I’m at work at the Thomases’, trying to figure out how to smoke out All_BS. I’m lost in thought, which is maybe why I don’t hear Mindy Thomas walk in while I’m cleaning her bedroom. If I had, I’d have gone and pretended to clean the garage or something.
“Hey, Cody,” Mindy calls in a singsong voice. “How’s it going?”
“Great!” I say with all the enthusiasm I can manage while holding a feather duster.
Mindy is trailed by her posse, girls all a year younger than me whom I haven’t seen much since I graduated. Sharon Devonne waves to me. Sharon was one of Meg’s acolytes. She adored her, used to follow her around like Meg was a movie star. Meg pretended to be put out by this, but I knew she thought Sharon was sweet, particularly because she was nice to Scottie. She was his counselor at the Y camp, and he had a huge crush on her.
“Hey, Cody,” she says shyly.
“Hi, Sharon. How’s senior year going?”
“Almost done.”
“Any plans for after graduation?”
“Sleep.”
“Yeah, I hear that—”
“You know what?” Mindy interrupts, clapping her hands. “I have the best idea. Cody should come to the party. It’s next weekend. My parents are going out of town, and it’s going to be a rager.”
Before I have a chance to make an excuse, Mindy continues: “It’ll be so perfect. You can come to the party and do the cleaning up afterwards.” Her laughter follows her out of the room.
I stand there, too floored to say anything. Mindy Thomas? We used to take dance class together. She always wore these perfect outfits: leotards, leg warmers, ballet shoes, all matching. Tricia couldn’t even afford the class—the teacher, a friend of hers, let me take it for free—so I just threw together what I could: leggings that were ripped, a tank top, mismatched legwarmers that I found at a thrift store. But then one day Mindy came in wearing the same getup as me. I’d thought she was making fun of me, but when I’d told Tricia, she’d laughed. “The little brat is copying you.” I had my doubts. One thing I knew for sure: A year ago, Mindy Thomas never would have spoken to me like she just did.
Sharon lingers after the other girls leave. “She’s just being a bitch,” she whispers. “You should come to the party.”
“Thanks, Sharon,” I say. I hold up my feather duster to show her it’s time to get back to work. She hesitates as if she wants to tell me something else, but then Mindy calls to her and she trots off.
x x x
Later, at the library, I can’t stop thinking about Sharon, the way she used to idolize Meg. Meg may have stood out in town, but she definitely had her admirers. She had that thing. People, at least smart people, were drawn to her: people from school, musicians she met online, All_BS—they all found their way to Meg.
How am I supposed to attract All_BS? I don’t have what Meg had. People may have called us the Pod, but it wasn’t really an accurate description. There was Meg. And me, lassoing myself to her.
I can’t do that anymore. To find All_BS, I have to be all me. I take a breath. And I start to type.
Repeat
RepeatI’m not one of those people who has spent a lot of time thinking about death, or imagining her own death, or dreaming of it, or wanting it. At least I didn’t think I was. But so much shit has happened in the last year of my life that I am questioning whether I even have a life, or if what I thought was my life is actually an illusion, or maybe a delusion. Because it doesn’t seem like living to me. It seems like persevering, like that’s the most I can hope for. I’m not that old, but I’m already so tired. Even getting out of bed each morning seems like an enormous chore. Life seems to be about endurance, not enjoyment, not fulfillment. I don’t see the point. If someone told me I could go back and undo my birth, I think I might. I really do.
Is that the same as wanting to die? And if so, what does that mean?
23
One night I’m sitting at my computer, staring at all of the messages I’ve posted to the Final Solution boards and all the responses I’ve received. There are way too many pages to print out now without arousing Mrs. Banks’s suspicion, so I’ve started saving everything to a file on the hard drive.
The door swings open. I snap the computer shut. “Ever hear of knocking?” I ask Tricia.
“When I’m living in your house, I’ll consider knocking,” she says.
I’m about to mention that I pay rent and therefore it’s my house too, but then I think of the boxful of cash stashed under my bed and decide it’s probably wiser if I don’t bring money up.
She taps on my computer, which is hot. “I read somewhere that the rise in cancer is linked to how much people stare at their computer screens all day,” she says.
“Everything gives you cancer,” I reply. “The sun gives you cancer.”
“I read that computers are really bad. All that radiation. It’s not healthy.”
“Where’d you read that? In one of the many scientific journals you subscribe to?”
She ignores the dig and sits down on the edge of my bed. “What are you reading these days?”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you. You used to always have your nose in a book, and now I only ever see you on that computer.”
When I returned the latest batch of books Mrs. Banks had borrowed for me, I pretended like I’d read them all when, in fact, I hadn’t finished a single one. I used to read at home at night, but now I can’t seem to stop looking at my growing file on Meg, which I’ve hidden in a dummy folder named college. I’ve still gotten no response from All_BS, and I keep re-reading all the messages, trying to figure out what to do next.
