Bethany Caleb (6 page)

Chapter Ten

It was 11:45. The bell had rung for lunch period to begin five minutes ago, yet Bethany was still not in the cafeteria. She had perfected her slow walk so that by the time she actually got to the cafeteria, there were only ten minutes of lunch left. This way she could walk in and see the social layout of the cafeteria and not make a vital seating error.

Today she chose a table dead center in front of the windows, surrounded by empty buffer tables.
Usually she sat off to the side so she could pretend to blend against the wall. She could picture a scene in her head, her silhouette against the windows dramatically capturing the attention of 500 students with a gun in her hand. The cafeteria would be perfect for a speech. Bethany could list all the wrongs done to her and to her friends. She could criticize the pettiness of popularity.

If only she could think of the words.

Lunch was the worst time of the school day, which was why it was perfect for any kind of soap box speech.
Anyone who was not popular could attest to it. Anything could happen in the cafeteria—faculty members were generally scarce during the lunch period. Occasionally one of the assistant principals or janitors would walk by. The rest of the time was up to the mercy of Bethany’s peers. Last year there had been a huge fight where a group of football players had beaten up Chester Fitzpatrick and Chris Smith and a few other people from Bethany’s crowd. Chester and Chris got detention along with the football players, and now most of the people Bethany hung out with didn’t even show up in the cafeteria. Like today. They skipped out, went to the McDonald’s across the street or got stoned in the bathrooms or in their cars, or just left for the rest of the day. During her freshman year Bethany had been a part of those activities, but since breaking up with James, no one included her anymore.

While she started eating the turkey sandwich her mother had packed for her last night, Bethany attempted to write a speech on her brown paper lunch bag.
The increasing number of words she wrote and crossed out proved that she had no writing abilities at all. She wondered how she had even written a three-page story for English class. And that reminded her about the meeting with the school counselor next period. She hoped it wouldn’t be like last time, when her parents were called in.

She wished she could write beautiful song lyrics like James could.
Then she would be able to write a beautiful passage to recite to the cafeteria before she stood on a table and shot herself in front of them all. Something about how they made her feel like shit. Something about how life had no meaning and they were all living lies. Something beautiful and tragic. It would be perfect, if only she had the words.

Of course, with the two long orange tables of popular kids lining the center of the cafeteria, Bethany probably wouldn’t be able to say anything even if she had something to say.
Especially not with Shannon Lavoie and her disciples right there.              

If only it was just Shannon, or Nick, or Shannon’s disciples.

Brittany Bowden and the cheerleaders took up most of the other long table, intermixed with the football players.
Bethany could still remember how, in fifth grade, she yearned to be as perfect as Brittany Bowden. Brittany was blond, pretty, tan, and always had a boyfriend or two. Brittany was head cheerleader. Brittany was rich. Brittany had two Thoroughbred horses and a Mercedes she wasn’t old enough to drive. And for as long as Bethany could remember, Mrs. Caleb had wanted Bethany to be Brittany. Even as recently as eighth grade, a short year and half ago, the popularity of Brittany Bowden had been Bethany’s dream too, even though Shannon was more popular. Brittany was the epitome of the high school male’s wet dream. Shannon had gained her popularity through sheer meanness.

Bethany figured that the reason Brittany couldn’t be as popular as Shannon was because she looked too much like Shannon’s disciples.
Her skin glowed with hours logged in at the tanning salon, and her hair looked slightly fried from massive amounts of bleach. The only difference that Bethany could see was Brittany’s weight. She was of normal weight, whereas Shannon’s disciples were all bone thin like their leader.

On the sophomore class social ladder, Shannon and Nick owned the top rung, with Brittany and her boyfriend of the moment (alternately Tony or Devon) a close second.
The Shannonites and the cheerleaders intermingled with the football players, owning the third rung. These ultra-popular groups were surrounded by the Shiny Happy People, people who were so perfect they couldn’t help but be popular despite not striving for it. The Shiny Happy People were smart and beautiful, and generally not mean, shallow or stupid like the ultra-populars.

Take, for example, Karin Grady, who had long blond hair and a clear complexion and was certain to be the class valedictorian.
Karin not only had a 4.0 GPA, she was the class president, in the National Honor Society, volunteered at a soup kitchen, and had won the Miss Middlebury County pageant last year and placed second in the state competition. She was an active member of her church youth group and tutored in M.H.S.’s academic center. Karin walked around the school radiating beauty, intelligence, and responsibility. One of the sophomore track stars, Josh Moore, had a similar resume and took classes at the community college on the side.

Stripped bare, the Shiny Happy People had enough beauty and talent to overshadow anyone in their way.
They were the stuff normal, happy high school lives were made of. They weren’t head cheerleader or star quarterback, but they got as much press in the local newspaper as Brittany Bowden or Nick Lorden, if not more, for all their good services to the community.

A sea of faces surrounded the Shiny Happy People, faces who longed to be popular, tried to catch some of the glow from the popular kids at the center of the cafeteria.
These faces belonged to unremarkable, boring nobodies.

And finally, on the outskirts of everything, the Freaks.
Everyone too fat, or ugly, or weird, or stupid, or smart. Bethany had always been on the outskirts and she had never known why. She was a little bit too smart, a little bit too weird.

But that was beside the point.
The point was, a year after high school ended, Shannon and Brittany and most of the cheerleaders would be knocked up by their boyfriends and live their entire lives stuck in Middlebury, Home of the Patriots. Maybe they would realize how depressing their lives were one day when their six kids were screaming and their husbands went out drinking after work, coming home late and wondering why dinner was cold. Maybe they would realize how small their lives were when they had wrinkles at thirty-three and went to the football games every Friday night and reminisced about the days when they were beautiful. Maybe they would never realize anything, because they were too stupid and provincial to know any better.

The same would happen to the nobodies.
They would go to college because they were expected to, get a decent job in a field they weren’t passionate about because it paid enough money, get married because everyone else was, and stick with the marriage for the kids, even if they weren’t happy.

The only people Bethany saw any hope for were the Shiny Happy People.
They would excel in college and get great jobs and marry for love. The only risk for them would be if they somehow failed to achieve a 4.0 GPA at Harvard, and then they would commit suicide. Some of the freaks might amount to something, become an artist or a musician, but would probably end up living in poverty and addicted to drugs. One of the computer geeks might make a lot of money, but he’d probably still have trouble talking to girls. Bethany’s chances for future happiness were slim.

The more she thought about it, the more hopeless it all felt.
According to Mr. Caleb, the greatest years were lived in high school. If that was true, Bethany had very little to hope for in life, because her high school years sucked, and she was only a sophomore. All the abuse she took from her classmates–she would never have a chance to prove them wrong, to say, “Look at me now. You thought I was a freak and now I’m successful.” Because, like her parents, her peers wouldn’t think being an artist was a success. They would quote salaries, and unless Bethany’s art sold for a lot of money, which was highly unlikely in her lifetime, they wouldn’t be impressed. Even if they were living in a trailer park with four kids and an alcoholic husband.

The bell rang, and Bethany snapped out of her depressing thoughts to look at the unfinished speech scrawled on her lunch bag.
She crumpled the bag under her hand, dropping it in the trash barrel on her way out of the cafeteria. Bethany forced her mind from the disappointments the real world had to offer. She had other terrifying things to worry about, like being harassed in the hallway, and the guidance office.

Chapter Eleven

Bethany awaited judgment in a plaid armchair. Her book bag rested against one foot; the other foot was drawn up to her chest. She was painfully conscious of the gun in the front pocket, and the consequences if that gun were discovered now.

Mr. Peterson sat in an identical armchair across from Bethany, his legs crossed.
A yellow legal notepad rested on one knee, as did Bethany’s three-page story.

“Now, Bethany, this isn’t the first time you’ve been called down here,” Mr. Peterson started.
“If you’ll recall the previous incident?”

“I recall,” Bethany said, glaring at Mr. Peterson through her hair.
She wished she could smile at the man’s inability to name the incident, his avoidance of the entire topic.

“That was quite a serious situation, Bethany.
And in connection with that incident, a story like this is quite disturbing.”

Bethany waited.

“Um... for instance, here, on the second page, where you–where your character slits her wrist?”

“Yes?”

“The way it’s described is highly... realistic, and taking into consideration your previous... uh, incident, well, this story seems based upon yourself.”

“It’s not.”
Bethany’s foot started tapping.

“Explain to me how this story isn’t based upon yourself.”

“It’s based on Dante’s
Inferno
. That was the assignment.”

“I see.”

“So I chose the Forest of Suicides to write about.”

“Uh-huh.”
Setting the story and notepad aside, Mr. Peterson uncrossed his legs and leaned toward her. “Do you think about suicide a lot, Bethany?”

She shrugged.
One of her hands moved to her mouth and she began tearing at her fingernails with her teeth. She glared at a worn spot on the carpet.

“Do you think that life is pointless?
Perhaps that you’d be better off dead, because then at least your peers wouldn’t harass you?”

Bethany heard a loud steady squeaking noise and realized she was grinding her teeth.
A chunk of fingernail ripped off, and she tasted blood in her mouth.

“Do you feel that your teachers pick on you?”

Bethany couldn’t even look at the balding man in the shirt and tie who seemed to be reading her thoughts. She glared at her book bag, wondering why the gun wasn’t in her hand now.

“Do you feel like cutting your wrists again, Bethany?”

And then she couldn’t take it anymore. In one movement she stood, picked up her bag, and got the hell out of Mr. Peterson’s suffocating little office. The secretary glanced up as Bethany ran by and out the door.

She heard voices calling her name, Mr. Peterson’s voice calling, “Bethany, wait.”
Someone else said, “Wait right there, young lady.” But no one could stop her.

She ran, her footsteps slapping against the tile floors, her book bag banging against her side.
She didn’t know where to go. As she rounded a corner, she saw the door to the bathroom and slammed her way inside.

She locked herself in a stall and sat on the toilet seat.
Her hands were shaking.

For long moments she sat with the heels of her hands pressed against her eyes, creating blossoming shapes in the darkness.
Her breathing, at first harsh and rapid, slowed into a shaky rhythm. Finally she was able to look at her surroundings.

Graffiti covered the walls of the stall.
Strings of messages started big and ended small:

Nick Lorden fucks cheerleaders.

How would you know?

Trust me he’s good

Fuck off slutt

Shannon sux N.L.’s dick

In the corner was a string of graffiti Bethany had started last year. She guessed she hadn’t been in this bathroom since that day, because she had never seen anything else written near the original message of
Bethany + James 4-ever
.

Now, above
4-ever
someone had written
Damned
, and someone else had written
Bethany C will do it for free
and
Mistress Bethany at your service
. Bethany’s phone number was scrawled near the last two lines. Bethany stared at the familiar digits until her eyes dried out and she had to blink. Then she forced her eyes away.

Other graffiti messages jumped out at her.
Mara W fucks trees
.
G.N.=trailer trash drug addict
. Bethany wished she had never been possessed with the idea to carve her love for James into the bathroom wall.

She rubbed her eyes again and exited the stall, checked her face in the mirror.
She looked okay. Trying to look casual, Bethany walked out of the bathroom and headed for the front doors. She walked outside without drawing attention from the secretaries in the office. It surprised her how easy it was. She simply walked down the empty hallways and slipped out the door. There were no shouts of, “Get back here, young lady!” or “Where do you think you’re going, Miss Caleb?” She supposed people must have assumed she had permission, was being dismissed early for a doctor’s appointment or something. The door fell softly shut behind her, and the sudden cold air outside erased the constant noise of the school. No one came out of the door after her. She was alone, walking away. Not that she was walking far.

The stone benches outside the front entrance were empty.
Of course, since everyone else was in class. Bethany sat on one, feeling the cold through the cloth of her skirt.

Her hands brushed against the engraving on the seat.
In Loving Memory of Jessica Lynn Granger, Oct. 5, 1983 - Aug. 23, 2000
. The day Jessica died was the day James had broken up with her.

A seventeen-year-old girl, destroyed by a drunk driver.
It had been all over the papers. So tragic. Half of Middlebury turned out for her funeral. Jessica had been popular, a cheerleader, about to start her senior year. Just that night, her longtime boyfriend Mark Bowden had proposed to her. Now Mark was in a wheelchair.

This was the sort of tragedy that was memorialized with stone benches.
Bethany remembered a student who died last spring. He had put a shotgun to his head and killed himself. No one could remember his name, because he hadn’t had many friends. Everyone had blamed it on the music he listened to or something stupid like that. “At least he just took his life instead of gunning down the school like those Columbine kids,” her father had said at the dinner table a few days after it happened. There had been a huge article about detecting if your child was depressed and the warning signs of suicide. Mr. Caleb had read off the list, then said, “That doesn’t sound like either of our girls,” smiling at her and Darlene like he wasn’t even seeing them there.

That boy’s name wasn’t engraved on stone benches in front of the school.
His photo wasn’t part of some ongoing shrine in the trophy case in the front hall of the school. His name and photo weren’t anywhere. He was just gone. And it seemed like no one cared.