Page 8 of Black Box

me to the emergency room. And I never drank again. The idea of going to a party with a bunch of people who drink and do drugs regularly is not my idea of the perfect Friday night. But the idea of hanging out with them while my best friend is in another room having sex is terrifying.

‘I told you I was gonna do it,’ Rina says, turning right onto Cary Street. The sound of a car horn blaring behind us makes my heart jump. The guy Rina just cut off swerves around us in his white truck and floors the gas pedal to pass us up. ‘Get your head out of your ass, jerkface!’ Rina shouts at his taillights.

She’s had her driver’s license a total of three and a half weeks and she’s almost gotten into four car accidents already. Five, if you count this near miss. She reaches for the stereo to turn the music up and I can see her hand trembling slightly.

‘Jerkface?’ I repeat her insult and she smiles sheepishly.

I want to tell Rina that she’d better not leave me alone all night with Heath’s friends, but I don’t want to guilt trip her into hanging out with me. I’ve turned down all Rina’s party invitations for over a year, but I’ve always been honest with her about why. Until they put me on CBZ when I turned fifteen, I had yet to find a medication that eased my symptoms without turning me into an emotionless zombie. Until CBZ, social situations caused too much anxiety. I was always in my head, constantly wondering if people were judging me or whispering about me. It was exhausting.

‘Jerkface is a perfectly acceptable insult,’ Rina replies, tossing her red hair over her shoulder as she pulls up in front of a gray one-story house on Ashfield Drive. There are three cars squeezed into the driveway and the sounds of music and laughter drift out of an open window. I try to discreetly take a deep breath, but Rina notices. ‘Do you want me to take you home?’

‘No, you told Heath you’d be here at eight. It’s almost eight thirty.’

‘Who gives a fuck? He can wait.’

I shake my head and smile. ‘Nope. I can’t keep avoiding this forever. This isn’t Franklin. I have nothing to be afraid of.’

‘Your damn fucking right this isn’t Franklin. These assholes don’t want to drag your name through shit. They just want to get fucked up. And I think Lars likes you.’

‘He does not.’ I reach for the door handle, eager to get away from this pre-party pep talk.

‘Well, he told Heath that he accidentally touched your hair the other day in third period and it was so fucking soft.’

‘What the fuck? That’s creepy.’ I reach up and twist my light-brown hair around my finger.

‘Yeah, but Lars is hot, so that makes it less creepy, right?’

‘No, it’s still creepy.’

‘Whatever. You don’t have to hook up with him. All I’m saying is that no one in here is going to make up shitty lies about you. We’re just here to hang out.’

I open the car door before I can change my mind and slam the door shut behind me. Right on cue, the screen door swings open and Lars comes outside with a beer in one hand and his cell phone in the other. He grins when he sees me and I feel my chest tighten with anxiety. I force a weak smile just as Rina loops her arm in mine and drags me forward.

‘Give me a sec,’ Lars says into the phone as we approach. The glow of the porch light gleams in his blond hair, which falls around his face looking purposely messy. ‘Hey, Mikki.’ His deep voice is wrapped in a soothing warmth that actually puts me at ease.

‘Hey,’ I say, this time flashing him a genuine smile.

Rina opens the screen door and pulls me in after her. I glance over my shoulder and Lars smiles, the kind of smile they put on billboards. ‘I’ll see you inside,’ he calls out.

My stomach flutters at the thought of this and suddenly I remember how I felt when Brad came to my house to study last year. The fluttering turns into a burning sensation that’s worse than the nausea I sometimes get from the CBZ. I close my eyes as Rina pulls me inside and I use one of the anti-anxiety techniques I found online. I count to ten and open my eyes. I imagine that everyone in this living room feels as frightened and self-conscious as I do, and it’s my job to put them at ease.

I can do this.

I’m not supposed to drink while taking CBZ. So when Cedric Holmes greets me with a plastic cup of keg beer I refuse the drink a few times. Finally, Lars walks in, tucking his phone into the back pocket of his jeans before he takes a seat on the arm of the sofa where I’m sitting.

‘If she doesn’t want the beer, she doesn’t want the beer. Don’t be a fucking dick.’ Lars takes the beer from Cedric and guzzles some down. ‘She probably has to go home soon anyway.’

‘No, I don’t,’ I blurt. ‘I mean, I have to be home by midnight.’

Lars grins at me as Cedric laughs. ‘It’s okay. I’ll make sure you get home on time.’

‘You can’t drive if you’re drinking.’ God, I must sound like a total killjoy.

‘I’ll be sober by then.’ He places his hand on the back of my neck and gives it a gentle squeeze. ‘You’re safe with me.’

‘Don’t believe that shit!’ Tony shouts from the other side of the living room where he’s sitting with his girlfriend Karla.

Tony and Karla are the only seniors here. They probably drove most of these people here in their two cars. Lars’ silver BMW was one of the three cars parked in the driveway.

I lean forward to get away from Lars’ hand and he cocks an eyebrow at me. ‘I’m fine. Rina’s driving me home later.’

Lars chuckles. ‘Yeah, good luck with that.’

I’m about to ask him what he means by this when I look around and realize Rina has already disappeared, probably snuck away to one of the bedrooms with Heath. Suddenly, this party is starting to seem like a really bad idea.

The sound of the voices on the other side of the door make me nervous. I stare at the black pouch on the bathroom counter and, with every second that ticks past, the pouch seems to move farther away from me. Cassie’s voice can be heard over all the other voices. She’s not loud, but she has that deep kind of voice that penetrates through the thickest walls. Suddenly, the idea of doing this with so many people just steps away, laughing and enjoying themselves, seems stupid and selfish – two qualities I’ve come to despise in myself.

I swipe the pouch off the counter and tuck it into the back of my jeans then pull my shirt down to cover it up. When I open the bathroom door, Cassie is staring at me with that lazy sort of bored expression she gets at these parties. Her dark hair is pulled back in a complicated braid she calls a conch and her blue eyes are accentuated by a layer of violet eyeshadow. She’s gorgeous; though, she’s not any more gorgeous than the other dozen girls I’ve fucked since the accident.

‘God, can these people be any more dull?’ she asks as she squeezes past me. ‘Don’t keep ditching me all night or I swear I’ll take your keys and leave you here.’

‘I’m gonna run to the store and grab a bottle of vodka. This thing is BYOB and we didn’t bring anything.’

‘It’s not like you’re drinking.’ The silence that follows this statement is heavy with all the things we both can’t mention. ‘Sorry,’ she says, realizing her blunder too late.

‘I’ll be right back.’ I plant a quick kiss on her cheek before she disappears into the bathroom.

Cassie and I have only been dating for three weeks. She doesn’t know my real name, but she knows why I don’t drink. Everyone in Cambridge knows why I don’t drink, so it didn’t take long for her to figure it out even though she’s not from Cambridge.

I enter the living room and no one looks at me. They’re all too busy speculating about what classes they’ll be taking and who they’ll be rooming with when they get to Harvard. I don’t need to sit here and pretend I’m excited about dorm assignments. Walking right past them, no one says anything as I walk out the front door and down the brick paved pathway toward my new Jetta.

I deactivate the alarm and slide into the driver’s seat, glancing at the front door to see if anyo

ne has followed me out. It’s stupid, but part of me wishes someone would notice my hasty exit and figure out what it is I’m planning so they can try to talk me out of it. I don’t want to die, but I also know I don’t deserve to live.

If I could dig a hole and bury myself in the ground, I’d do that part, too. Unfortunately, somebody will find my body, but I don’t want anyone, especially Cassie, to find me dead in a stranger’s bathroom. I’ll drive around until I find a parking lot or an alley. Some place where no one will find me until it’s too late. I have to get far away from here, where no one knows me or my car.

I get off the highway in Brockton. As I drive down Cary Street, the idea that people will mourn my death begins to make me sick. I try not to think of what Jordan would think about my plans. He’d probably encourage me to do it; he had way too much faith in reverse psychology. I tried to tell him that reverse psychology only works when the person you’re using it on doesn’t know you’re using it.

Damn. I fucking miss him.

I continue down Centre Street toward the center of Brockton, then I make a right on Cary. The GPS shows the Ashland shopping plaza is further north. It also looks like there’s an industrial lot with some buildings just ahead of the plaza where I can probably park behind. It’s Friday night. Most likely, no one will come into that lot until Monday morning.

I turn left into the lot and drive between two buildings before I find a nice row of box hedges where I can hide my car. Once I’m safely parked behind the bushes, I kill the headlights and leave the engine running as I reach for the stereo to turn up the volume. The local pop station is playing dance music for the Friday-night clubbers. I hit the button to change the station and the next one is playing Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2 in E-flat major.

I learned to play this four years ago after I found an old record in Grandpa’s study. I remembered him playing Chopin while I read Black Box. At thirteen years old, I had been playing piano for more than seven years. It still took me five months to learn this piece and play it confidently. But that was four years ago. I haven’t touched the piano in over a year. I don’t know if I could even play this anymore. All I know is that the melody pulls memories and emotions out of me that I’d prefer to ignore, so I swiftly change the station again until I find some classic rock music.

Opening the glove compartment, I pull out the black pouch I stuffed in there earlier. That’s when I see the handgun I placed in there two months ago.

I bought the handgun after the trial ended and I received a vague and anonymous text message threat. The text read: We both know you’re not innocent.

Yes, I definitely know I’m not innocent, which is why I’m here now. I should have stood up in that courtroom and told everyone the truth. Instead, I listened to the lawyer my father hired and kept my mouth shut. I was the only person who knew what happened the day Jordan died, and I didn’t have the balls to speak up on his or my behalf.

Reaching into the compartment, I pull out the gun. I was acquitted of the second-degree murder charge, and the lesser manslaughter charge, but I was still cited for illegal discharge of a firearm within 500 feet of a dwelling. I can’t get a gun permit until I’m thirty years old. I was surprised at how easy it was to buy an unregistered gun. All I had to do was mention to Tyler, Cassie’s older brother, that I’d been threatened by someone at school and he suggested I get a gun. Tyler’s friend Victor knew a guy in Southie who could get me a clean 92 Beretta. Within eight days of that text message threat, I had this gun.

After what happened with Jordan, most people would think I’d never want to see another gun for the rest of my life. But, just as I grew up with music and books, guns have always been a part of my life. My dad first took me out to the range when I was eight years old. By the time I was twelve, I could hit a three-inch target from fifty yards out. My familiarity with guns only made Jordan’s death seem even more senseless. It’s also the reason I was kept off the stand during the trial. My only defense was to convince the jury that neither Jordan nor I knew how to handle a Ruger .270 – and that I was drunk as fuck.

I shut the glove compartment and lay the gun on my lap, then I reach for the pouch. I’ll use both. I’ll shoot a lethal dose of heroin into my vein, then I’ll pull the trigger.

Unzipping the pouch, my stomach curdles at the sight of the contents. I don’t do drugs. Other than the few times I smoked pot my freshman year, drugs have never appealed to me. And I haven’t drunk any alcohol since the accident. I have no idea what this stuff will do to me. All I know is that it will kill me.

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