Thursday the 15th
I’m not feeling well or something, and nothing seems real. I don’t know why. I’m lying in a fetal position on a cold bed with metal side rails. The cold of the metal with the cold of the sheet make the hairs on my arm kind of staticky. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Everything is quiet and it’s getting dark. I’m not cold, but I can’t stop shaking. I’m really tired.
Friday the 16th
Mom was here and took my phone away. I’m not sure why, I haven’t done anything. Me and Marjorie have plans this weekend. I told her this, but she kept telling me Marjorie can’t come to the phone right now—she’s not with us. What the fuck does that even mean? If she were here, I wouldn’t have to call her.
Saturday the 17th
My head really hurts. And I can’t keep anything down. I don’t know what’s going on. Braden came in asking a bunch of dumb questions that made no sense, and then asked me if I wanted my soup. He hugged me and told me it would be okay. Usually he’s such a little shit. Mom probably promised to buy him a game if he’s nice.
Sunday the 18th
I don’t know if I’m having an allergic reaction or what. But, my eyes are pouring and I don’t feel good. Dad and Angie came. Dad asked me if I’m sad and Angie just sat there, not saying anything. Weird. Sad about what? He brought me some tissues and some tea —ginger, from Starbucks and left.
Monday the 19th
Mom came in and told me I’d had a nightmare last night and asked if I remember anything. I don’t. I don’t know why she and everyone are making such a big deal of things. My right ear feels wet and gooky and my head hurts.
Tuesday the 20th
The doctor came in and checked my head. He asked me on a scale of one to ten, how bad was the pain. I told him like a red hot steel javelin was running from one temple, through my brain and out my right ear bad. He had the nurse run something in the iv drip. It felt cold and hurt going through my veins, like liquid iced sludge.
Tuesday the 20th—later
Mom came today with Marjorie’s boyfriend, Aaron, his parents, and Marjorie’s parents. They told me Marjorie died. At first I was upset, and started screaming.
Aaron was crying, and said it was that kid who was expelled last year. He told me they found me in the bathroom with her, holding her and trying to wake her up. He said that he was glad that she wasn’t alone and that knowing us, we were probably laughing about something stupid and never saw it coming.
I don’t understand how I can look out the window and see nothing but the green of the palm trees and sunshine, like every other day, and she’s not here. I don’t know how it’s possible that all this life is still occurring, babies are being born, people are laughing and loving and she doesn’t get to.
I met Marjorie in the 2nd grade when we were assigned to be study buddies together. She’s not my best friend, she’s—was my sister. She wouldn’t be mad at that kid, she’d even said how fucked up he was and that it was sad how he needed help and nobody cared enough, but we were supposed to grow old, to end up being these two wrinkly old ladies in rickety, old creaking rocking chairs on some porch somewhere. And now, I’ll be twenty-seven or fifty or ninety-five or something and she’ll always be sixteen.
She had this really obnoxious raucous laugh, that you could be in a really shitty mood and you couldn’t help but feel okay—even if your world was ending, your parents hated each other, and you didn’t get to see your dad because he moved a thousand miles away, and every time your heart got broken into a thousand million pieces of broken glass—oozing its life blood on the cold tiles of a bathroom floor—she’d make you feel like silken shimmering diamonds—like a soft spring sparkling rain glistening so fine that it would evaporate into an opaque shiny dust of golden light.