Page 39 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

He walked her to the bar, and I grabbed Lizzie. “That bitch is wearing Mom’s earrings!” I whisper-screamed.

“Relax. Dad lent them to her.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because they’reMom’searrings.”

“Technically they’re ours.”

“I wasn’t at the reading of the will, but technically I think they’re Dad’s.”

“How can you be so cavalier about this?” I said. “Can’t you see this was exactly what Mom was talking about?”

“Maggie, the earrings are gathering dust. Dad lent them to Connie for one night. Stop obsessing over her and take a look at him. The man’s happy.”

I turned to the bar. Dad, one hand hoisting a beer, the other resting casually on Connie’s arm, was more jubilant than I’d seen him in months. I hated him for it.

He caught me staring at him, put down his beer, held both hands in front of his face, and wiggled all ten fingers at me—a throwback to the days when my idea of a good time was a ride on his shoulders and a game of Chutes and Ladders where he let me win.

I couldn’t stand it. I left the restaurant. Daddy’s little girl needed booze, weed, and a night of uncomplicated, meaningless sex.

TWENTY-THREE

My plan had been for Duff Logan to be the next notch on my sexual conquest belt. When we were sophomores, he tailed me like a puppy dog, so I figured he’d jump all over me when I finally gave him the chance. Turned out I was wrong. Duff was gay. The only reason he followed me around was because he had the hots for Van.

The pickings were slim at Heartstone High, so I went back to the devil I knew: Johnny Rollo.

The sex was good, the weed was free, plus I liked Johnny. Under all his macho street-kid bullshit there was a certain sad sweetness about him. He also had some life skills that I was lacking.

That night after I bolted from the art show, we did the deed, hit the bong, and I told him how much I hated Connie.

“I know you don’t want to hear this, but she’s probably not as bad as you think,” he said. “Your problem is that you have daddy issues. You’d hate any woman who went near your old man.”

“Not true! This one’s devious. Spend some time with her and you’ll see.”

“Good idea. Maybe I’ll run into her at one of those fancy art galleries I hang out at.”

“Or maybe,” I said, “you can come to Thanksgiving dinner with me and see for yourself. She’ll be there.”

“No way.”

“Please. Our Thanksgiving dinners are legendary. We have them at the restaurant after the last turn. It’s not just my family. A lot of the staff are there, and the food is incredible.”

“I don’t know. I was going to meet my mom for a turkey sandwich and a crack pipe, but hell, she won’t even notice if I don’t show up. I’ll do it if you just promise me one thing.”

“Anything,” I said, ready to get down on my knees and pull down his pants.

“Promise me you’ll stop ragging about this Connie chick. I’ll be there, but if you even mention her name once, the deal is off.”

“I promise,” I said.

Thanksgiving was less than two weeks away, and I decided that the best way to keep my mind off Connie was to throw myself into my latest project—the senior class time capsule. Kids kept asking me what could and what couldn’t go in. There were no rules, so I made them up as I went along.

And then one night it hit me. The time capsule was the answer I had been looking for. I sat down at my desk and wrote a letter to my future self.

I poured my heart out about my plans for the future and waxed on about how I had my heart set on going to Penn—the one school I knew could help me realize my dreams. I wrote till two in the morning, put it away for a day, and then rewrote it the next night, and polished it the night after that.

And when I was finally finished, I printed out a copy, and I shared it with Lizzie.

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