Going Under (7 page)

“I see. Have you ever had an attack in any
other open spaces?” she asked.

I thought for a moment. And then the memory
flooded my mind. It had nothing to do with open spaces. It had to
do with an old McDonald’s playground, particularly one piece of
play equipment: the Officer Big Mac jail. I was seven, and we were
on vacation, traveling down to Texas. We stopped for lunch, and I
asked to play on the playground because none of the McDonalds back
home had a playground like this one. All of ours were plastic and
safe. This one was shiny metal—glittering and dangerous in the hot
sun—and it beckoned me.

I saw a few children playing in the Officer
Big Mac jail, and I wanted to join them. It was a long metal tube
that housed a ladder. The top of the jail was a huge flattened
sphere in the shape of a hamburger, the top and bottom buns
separated by metal poles to resemble a jail cell.

I had my first panic attack from
claustrophobia that day as I climbed the ladder to the hamburger.
The inside was just large enough to crawl comfortably, but I
couldn’t stand. And I couldn’t lift my head all the way up to see
in front of me. I crawled once around the whole thing, and decided
I didn’t feel right. I wanted out. But the ladder was blocked. More
kids were climbing in, so I had no choice but to shrink back, wait
for them to get in before making my way down. They kept pouring in,
moving to the left and right, trapping me against the metal
bars.

I panicked. I tried to move around a skinny
boy, but he yelled at me. I felt hot tears roll down my face as I
looked out beyond the bars to my parents sitting at a table below.
They were immersed in conversation. They didn’t see me. They didn’t
realize I was trapped. I screamed for help, and they finally looked
up. They waved at me and smiled, thinking I was playing.
No,
no!
I thought, shaking my head so hard I loosened my barrettes.
I’m not playing! Help me!

I couldn’t breathe. I knew I would have to
kill someone to get out. Even at seven years old I thought,
Who
builds a playground like this?

I turned to the children smashed inside the
jail and screamed at the top of my lungs: “Get me out of
here!!”

Their eyes went wide. I must have looked
crazy. My hair was sticking out everywhere. My face streaked with
tears. The children pushed each other to one side, creating a bit
of space for me to crawl around them for the ladder. Once my foot
hit the first rung, I felt the panic subside. I looked down the
tube at a girl who had just entered and was grasping the sides of
the ladder.

“Get out of my way!” I screamed at her.

The girl looked up for a second, bottom lip
quivering, then ran off crying.

I slid down the ladder in my haste to be as
far away from the Officer Big Mac jail as possible. I sprinted for
my parents, flinging myself on my father who pulled me onto his lap
and asked me what was wrong. I cried hard into his chest, so hard
that I couldn’t breathe. A store employee saw me and went for a
paper bag. She came back and told me to breathe into it. I obeyed
because she was an adult, and I automatically trusted her.

I looked at the adult standing over me
now.

“Are you okay?” the nurse asked softly.

I had no idea I was crying. “It’s all
Officer Big Mac’s fault!” I sobbed.

One side of the nurse’s mouth quirked up. “I
hated that damn jail, too.”

***

I hung around outside the gym waiting for
Cal. He was late, and I think he did it on purpose. I’m sure he
enjoyed making me wait for him. I checked my watch. Quarter after
four. I thought about leaving. I wouldn’t stay and let someone make
me feel foolish. I already felt ridiculous enough after my panic
attack earlier.

Thankfully the only witnesses to my attack
were juniors and sophomores. The seniors were at lunch. I’m sure
the students would gossip about it, but I thought the seniors
wouldn’t care. I noticed in my first week that the seniors kept
themselves separated from the rest of the student body. Snobs,
indeed. Every now and then I saw one chatting up a freshman or
sophomore girl. Easy target, I supposed.

Another few minutes passed, and I decided to
leave. Of course, that’s exactly when Cal appeared out of nowhere,
sauntering up to me with an easy kind of casualness that made me
instantly angry.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Something came
up.”

“You’re lucky,” I replied. “I was just about
to leave.”

“You were?” he asked, as though he didn’t
believe a word of it. Like he expected me to hang out in front of
the gym all night for him.

I nodded and turned my face. I didn’t want
him to see how irritated I was. I remembered that I was trying to
woo him, not push him away.

“Those are pretty earrings,” he said,
observing the diamond stud in my left ear.

I grinned. I couldn’t help it. So this was
his game. Act like a jackass and then say something sweet. He could
care less about my earrings, and in that moment, my heart
constricted, my grin faded. They were my mother’s earrings. They
were her wedding earrings. She gave them to me when I turned
eighteen. They were special, and he complimented them in a cheap,
disinterested sort of way. He made
me
feel cheap.

“You ready?” he asked holding up the
yearbook camera.

I nodded and followed him into the gym. He
opened the door for me like a gentleman, leading me to the
bleachers with his hand on the small of my back. I tried to walk
faster to get away from his touch, but he kept up with me, never
taking his hand away. In fact, he kept it there once we were
settled on the first row.

I squirmed.

“Problem?” he asked.

I squirmed again, and he pressed his hand
into my lower back before taking it away. I know he wanted me to
say something about it, but I wouldn’t.

“I’ll take the first game. You take the
second,” he said, readying the camera and taking a few practice
shots.

The girls were already on the court, running
through warm-ups. I never paid attention to volleyball at my old
school, never went to a game. I thought I’d be bored out of my
mind, but once the first game started, I found myself cheering and
whooping as hard as anyone else in the stands. It was an exciting
game, and I felt a deep-seated respect for the girls who spiked the
ball hard over the net. I wish I were that strong.

I was barely conscious of Cal moving about
the sidelines snapping pictures, but at one point, I noticed he was
in the line of fire. Well, that was if the player spiked the ball
out of bounds. I hoped she would. I hoped it smacked him right in
the face.

But she was too talented, and the spike
landed right in the back corner of the court inside the lines. An
“ace,” I was later told. And Cal, of course, snapped the perfect
picture of the ball heading his way, the player in the background
slightly out of focus, still stretched taut in the air with her
hand up. He showed me on the camera screen during a timeout. It was
a beautiful shot, I had to admit.

“Maybe you should just take all the
pictures,” I said. “I’m not good with a camera.”

“Why’d you join yearbook then?” he
asked.

“Well, I’m a decent writer,” I replied. “I
just figured I’d write all the captions and page summaries and
stuff.”

He nodded.

I thought it was time to start with the
questions. I had to make sure I didn’t overwhelm him, though, or
make him suspicious. I wanted him thinking I was genuinely
interested in his seedy life.

“So what things are you involved in at
school?” I asked.

“Well, Yearbook for one,” he replied.

I smiled sweetly.

“And I’m on the swim team,” he said.

“Oh, so that accounts for your arms,” I
said.

He liked that comment. I knew he would. His
body swelled with flattery.

“Yeah, I swim a lot. I swim when I don’t
have to.”

Whatever that means.

“Is it, like, a therapeutic thing?” I
asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I guess I never
really thought about it. Speaking of therapy, what happened to you
in the hallway today? I heard someone say you fainted.”

I flushed a deep crimson and averted my
eyes. “Nothing,” I mumbled.

“Fainting isn’t ‘nothing’,” he pressed. “You
have a medical condition or something?”

I was beyond embarrassed. The question came
out sounding harsh and accusatory. There was zero concern in his
tone, but then I looked at his face. It was full of concern, or
maybe he was just really good at faking.

I didn’t know if I should admit it to him.
It would make me come across weak. And then I thought that could
work to my advantage. In a sick, twisted sort of way, he might like
to hear all about it, feign concern while drawing me into his
confidence. I couldn’t know now how he would use that information
in the future.

“I have panic attacks every now and then,” I
admitted.

He was silent for a moment, and I shifted
uncomfortably in my seat.

“From what?” he asked.

“I have a bad case of claustrophobia,” I
explained. “And yes, I know I was in a hallway. Not exactly a
closet or anything. But I had an attack anyway. I don’t really know
what triggered it.”

That was a lie. I freaked out about all the
pretty, frightened girls I saw. Or imagined. I couldn’t remember. I
just knew that something silent and wicked was happening at this
school, and my body went into shutdown mode because of it.

Cal drew in his breath. “So I guess you
don’t do the whole making-out-in-the-back-seats-of-cars thing.”

I stared at him, shocked.

“Oh God, I was only joking,” he said
quickly. “It was supposed to be a joke.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just
replied, “I’m gonna get a drink.”

He caught my arm as I stood up. “Brooke, I’m
sorry. That was a shitty thing to say.”

I ignored his apology in favor of focusing
on the fact that he called me “Brooke.” For the first time. He’d
addressed me dozens of times in the hallway. Always “Brooklyn.” Now
I was “Brooke.” He knew he messed up and had to fast-track his
plans. For a brief moment, I thought there’d be no more games. No
more making me work to get into his little club. He didn’t want to
miss the opportunity to claim me, especially if he could witness a
panic attack as a result.

“It’s okay,” I said. “But I really
am
thirsty.”

Cal jumped up and shoved the camera in my
hands.

“I’ll go. You stay here,” he said. “What
would you like?’

“Just a water,” I replied, looking down at
the camera. I hoped he didn’t expect me to take pictures while he
was gone. I didn’t even know how to use this monstrosity.

“Okay,” he said, and hurried to the
concession stand.

I stuck my face against the camera
tentatively and looked through the lens. I tried the large button
on the right side and snapped a picture of the gym floor. I pulled
the camera away to study my shot. It was a blur of muted yellow. I
tried again, shoving my face against the camera and moving it up
and down the bleachers. I couldn’t believe the crowd that showed up
to watch a volleyball game. Not nearly as big as a basketball game
would draw, but it was still a healthy number. The girls’ team
should be proud, I thought.

I almost put the camera down when I spotted
Ryan sitting in the top corner of the bleachers. He watched me
looking at him through the lens, his brows furrowed. He didn’t look
happy. I tried to focus the lens, and succeeded in getting a
slightly sharper view of him. His hair was a sexy, tousled mess,
like that 1960s throw-back style so popular with the boys right
now. I’m glad his bangs didn’t obscure his piercing eyes, though.
Nothing should ever cover up those eyes.

His jaw was clenched, and I wondered why he
was angry. I thought absurdly that he was angry with me, and I
couldn’t understand what I’d done wrong. I stood paralyzed, unable
to take the camera off of him. He refused to avert his eyes. I
almost thought he was trying to tell me something, but I was too
stupid to understand.

“What are you doing?” It was Cal addressing
me from behind.

I whirled around to face him, peeking from
behind the camera.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

Cal looked at me, then up at the stands.

“You don’t want to have anything to do with
that guy,” he warned. “He’s one of those crazy loners. I think he’s
on meds or something. A ticking time bomb.”

I lowered the camera. “I don’t know what
you’re talking about,” I said. “I was just taking pictures of the
fans.”

Cal snatched the camera and searched the
recent shots. “Oh yeah?” he asked, finding no shots at all.

My face flared up again. “Well, I was trying
to anyway.”

“I’m serious, Brooke,” Cal said, handing me
a bottled water. “I just want you to be safe.”

I took the drink, thinking that “safe” had
nothing to do with it. What I really heard underlining Cal’s
warning was, “You get involved with that guy, and you can forget
about me.” I was thrust into the middle of another unfair
situation. Karma, maybe, for my past mistakes. I was undeniably
attracted to Ryan. And I felt an attraction on his end. But I
couldn’t do a thing about it. I couldn’t even talk to the guy, at
least not at school. I couldn’t risk Cal seeing.

“Did you hear me?” Cal asked. “I want you to
be safe, Brooke.”

I nodded, looking up at him. He looked at me
with the deepest concern, and I forgot that he was a bad guy. He
didn’t sound like one now. He sounded like he wanted to protect me,
take care of me, and I almost believed him.

Almost.

Five

The stairs at the end of Hallway D curve
down so that it’s impossible to stand on the top landing and see
someone standing on the bottom landing. Even if you hang your body
over the edge and strain your neck. The stairwell is accessible by
a door on the top and bottom floors. Secluded, and I imagined
couples dipping under the stairs for quick make-out sessions
between classes. The stairwell was creepy when you found yourself
in it alone, always a little darker than the rest of the school,
like the janitors reserved the leftover, low-quality bulbs for this
section of the building.