You Don't Even Know Me (6 page)

I bought another rope today. Three, in fact. Reynolds says nylon is for Double Dutch. I trashed that one. Two is plenty.

Dec. 14

TJ came in my room and saw me shaking like a leaf, so he took me downtown to get my mind off things. Surprise. He bought me a new diary. He must really be scared for me.

Dec. 15

The girl with the blog stopped me in the hall today. She wanted to know if I had any particular date in mind.

Of course. But I didn't tell her. There is something creepy about her. Next she'll probably ask me to take a picture of myself doing it.

Dec. 16

You can find anything on the Internet, even how to make the perfect knot. For a while today I was on suicide prevention sites—there's a lot of those. If I had read them before, would I still be planning this? Would Justin be alive if Mr. E had picked me instead? There was good information on the sites. But the clock is ticking, and Justin is waiting.

Another text.

Hi.

Mr. E.

I'm wondering if I should tell his wife. I see them together at the mall sometimes.
A good family man
, Dad calls him. I wonder who will be next?

Dec. 17

Christmas will be the day. Any day I do it will be a bad day for my folks, so I might as well pick a day that is good for me. I'll do it after the presents. After Aunt Betty comes by and smells up the place. After they drink their cocktails, maybe around two o'clock. No, I'll do it later. After their food settles.

Dec. 19

Yesterday I was so happy I played with Derrick all day long. It'll be a relief, being a twin again.

Dec. 20

The principal called. Mrs. Miller went to him about me. She told him I wasn't my old self; that I looked sad and was much too quiet lately. That got the other teachers talking. They notice I don't do my homework. They are hearing things from other kids.
Have my grades dropped?
I asked my parents.
Have I missed school or quit any clubs? No! I'm fine! So get out of my room!

Dad said Mr. E wants to know when I'm coming back to astronomy club. I got sick. Mom cleaned up the mess.
I'm getting the flu
, I said, covering my nose from the stink. Then I remembered. Justin threw up the last time he went to astronomy club.
I'm getting the flu
, that's what he said.
It's nothing
. The next day he was gone.

Dec. 21

Reynolds has been avoiding me. He says he's preparing himself. But he did IM me a picture of a license plate. It said: Weird 1. I asked him to make a Weird 2 and 3. He was already working on it.

Dec. 21, 4 p.m.

That girl who wants to blog about me texted. I didn't answer. I have decided to keep my plans to myself. Just Justin and my diary will know what I'm up to. And Reynolds, of course.

Dec. 22

I gave TJ Justin's medals and his jewelry. TJ thought I would always keep them. He asked if I wanted to go jogging. I don't jog. He never asks, either.
What's up with you?
he said. Then he went running. When he came back he showered and then came in my room. I tried to get him to leave, but he wouldn't. He stayed in Justin's bed all night.

Dec. 23, 11 a.m.

I should tell TJ. But he would say what I say to myself sometimes.
Why did you keep quiet for so long? How come you didn't notice? He was your responsibility, the youngest twin. No way would he let that happen to you.

Dec. 23

The last day of school. Yes!

Dec. 24

Dry run. Rope. Chair. Water to drink. (Don't know why.)

I put everything away afterward. Even cleaned the toilet after I got sick. Perfect.

Dec. 25

Reynolds says for me not to do it. I asked if he'd ever tell. My secrets are always safe with him, he says. But he thinks maybe this is a bad idea.

Dec. 25, 10 a.m.

I can't.

Dec. 25, 11 a.m.

I wrote three notes. One to my parents. One to Reynolds. One to TJ and Derrick. I started one to Mr. E. I need more time to write that one.

Dec. 25, 1 p.m.

I texted the girl who needs to know when I'll be done and over with. She wasn't happy or sad about it. But she wanted too many details.
Come watch. It happens at 7:00
, I wrote, lying. But I swear she would have come if I had given her our address.

Dec. 25, 2 p.m.

My parents say for me to quit pacing around and go do something. I
am
doing something. I'm waiting.

Dec. 25, 4 p.m.

Dinner was great! Dessert was too: cheesecake and chocolate raspberry pie just for me. I love surprises!

Dec. 25, 4:30 p.m.

I texted her. She never answered. I'll send her Mr. E's letter and she can post it. Now I know why Justin wanted Jennifer to have the note. You just want somebody, anybody, to know the truth.

Dec. 25, 4:45 p.m.

If I don't do it, will I ever feel better?

Dec 25, 10 p.m.

TJ won't leave my room. He's been in and out of here since lunchtime. I'll have to come up with a new date.

Dec. 25, 11 p.m.

Blog girl is not happy. She wants a rain date.

Dec. 27

I feel really good. Great. TJ and I went jogging in the snow. I made pancakes with Derrick. Then I went to the mall with Dad. I'm so glad I'm not dead!!!!

Dec. 28

Reynolds stayed all day. He is surprised at how happy I am. Killing myself was a stupid idea. No shower since I made the decision. Dirty clothes on the floor. The old me is back!

Dec. 29

All I want to do is go and go and go. Derrick and I made snow angels. Reynolds and I hit the mall, then went for pizza and ended up snowboarding with some kids from school. I haven't even thought much about Justin today. And I asked my parents for paint to redo our room. Even Mr. E doesn't bother me anymore. He texted me twice and I gave him a piece of my mind.

Dec. 30

Hung out with friends today. Couldn't shut up. Couldn't sit down. Had a blast. Tomorrow we go to the science museum. After that, bowling. Fun. I want to have fun, fun, fun, fun.

Dec. 31, 6 a.m.

Bad day.

Dec. 31, 3 p.m.

Still in bed.

Dec. 31, 11:30 p.m.

Justin on my mind. Another year without him.

Black-eyed peas, rice and greens cooking on the stove. No appetite. A twin who's really not a twin. Saw Mr. E yesterday. He winked when he passed me on the street. His wife never noticed. I deleted the letter I was writing to him. What's the use?

Jan. 1

It is the worst—dying by rope. Being squeezed to death. Feeling the burn. Kicking and twisting; trying to come down; knowing you can't get down. Spinning. The rope getting tighter, making you wish you were dead while you are praying to God you won't die.

TJ thinks diaries are stupid. He used to, until he found mine. And he found me. And they found out about Mr. E.

March 12

Twins are twins forever. Justin is dead, but not me. Weird 2 and Weird 3 will always be together. That's what I tell people now. But I am happy not to be dead. Glad that our secret is out. No more pills. No more ropes. No way for Mr. E to hurt boys anymore.

March 13

The therapist says it's okay to talk about Justin and Mr. E. To cry and be mad too. I didn't do anything wrong, he says. And neither did Justin. I'm trying to believe that. It's hard, some days.

TJ says he would never keep a diary. But he bought this one for me anyhow. I am lucky, I told him this morning. I have two brothers, and a best friend—Reynolds— whose big mouth comes in handy sometimes.

I.

What I like about you

Your lips

Your eyes

Your thighs

Wow

II.

You should have known

To the guys on my block who told me not to tell,

Oops.

III.

Too many girls

To the girls who text me,

Then get mad when I don't text back,

Oh well.

IV.

My ride

I love my car

I like you

Don't be hatin' 'cause my car's my boo.

V.

The first time

The first time I kissed you

Was the first time I kissed

I'll do better next time.

I'm not supposed to love you but I do

Who

Makes up these rules anyhow

Cows?

Chickens?

People afraid of the dark?

Old farts?

Maybe one day they will say it's okay

That love doesn't always have to dress up in gray

That you and I can say what they always say

I love you

Today

And always.

IT WAS PASSED DOWN TO ME. Just like my uncles' blue eyes, my grandfather's flat feet, and my dad's big nose. All the men in our family have it. And it didn't skip one generation, either. The men call it the cheating gene. They say it's built into our DNA. The women in our family say we're just nasty, sniffing after every skirt in town. But we were born this way. I swear. Even my three-year-old cousin Richie has it. A woman walks into the room and he goes after her. The next thing we know he's sitting on her lap, rubbing the side of her face, getting all the kisses he wants. Sometimes he even goes for her thighs. “He just likes how stockings feel,” his mom will say. We guys tell her that he's gonna be a leg man—just like the rest of us.

I started off like Richie; that's what Mom says. Only I was younger—two years old and cute enough to model. Now I'm seventeen. In the eleventh grade. And getting all the girls—even the ones that belong to my boys.

“Hey, Tyler. I texted you last night. Why didn't you text me back?”

It takes me a minute to think up an answer. “Aw, man . . . I meant to. Sorry.” If you tell a girl the truth, she says it's a lie anyhow. So I tell them what they want to hear. It just makes life easier. “I'll hit you up later.”

Monique's arms go around my waist, and her belly pushes into me. My phone vibrates, over and over again. It's in my front pocket. She feels it. And just gets closer. “You know too many girls,” she says, digging in my pants, grabbing at my phone.

Girls play around too much. Especially ones like Monique. “Hey. Don't do that.” I push her hands away. But she has nails, long ones with diamonds on the tips. “Don't scratch me, girl.”

“Just let me see it.”

“Huh?”

“Come on.” She's on me again. I don't like her, but I like how it feels with her so close that if she sweats I'll feel it. “Monique . . .”

“It's just a phone, right?” Her fingers dig around in my pocket. “Everyone's got one.” Her other hand goes around my back. “So what do you care if I see who's on the other end? I know everybody at this school anyhow.”

I'm taller than she is, six-one to be exact. She's like five-five, and pretty, I guess you could say. But anybody can have pretty, you know what I mean? There's tons of those here. I walk by 'em every day. They give me their numbers and I pass them on to my boys. Beautiful, that's what I'm after. The top of the line—Bentleys, Range Rovers, that's my type. “Hey, Monique, quit that,” I say, shoving her.

Attitude. I knew it was coming. It's not just a black-girl thing, either. White girls have it now, too. That's why sometimes I just go for the foreigners. You know, the girls that snuck across the border a few years back. Or the ones whose parents wait on you at the hospital, but you need the nurse to tell you what they're saying.

“You're not all that cute.” Monique looks me up and down and gives me the finger. “And you probably have some disease anyhow.” She stares at my phone, then lowers her eyes. “You know what they call girls that do what you do?”

I'm waiting for her to say it. She doesn't, because if she does, we're done.

“Just text me sometimes, okay?”

“I will. Seriously.”

She takes a pen out of her backpack, lifts my hand, and writes her number on my palm in red ink. “Just in case you forgot,” she says. And then she's gone. But men in our family are like airports: as soon as one plane takes off, here comes another.

“Tyler. Hi.”

Beautiful. Celeste Johnson Nichols is beautiful. She would never rub up on a guy, but man, you wish she would. “Hey, Celeste.” I pull out my phone and keep moving. You can't just stop for a girl like her. She expects it, you know. You can't give her the upper hand either— that's what my uncles say.

“Wait up.”

She's following me. But not the way Monique does, all desperate-like. She takes her time. So I step it up. If she wants to talk to me, she's gonna have to hustle.

Celeste and I went together all last year. We both decided to call it quits and just be friends. She did not like the way girls blew up my cell. I did not like the way I acted around her, like I could not live without her. We said we would just be friends. But she plays too many games. Like she has a cell, but she blocks my number. She lives six blocks from my house, but if I come by, her mom always says she's not home. In the hallway, Celeste might speak to me; she might not. Then one day out the blue, she will do what she just did—ask me to hold up. I hate that. Because when she does, I get to thinking . . . maybe.

“Tyler. This is silly. Just stop.”

I don't want to, but I do. “Hey, what's up?” But then I'm staring into her eyes. I can't help it. Her eyes are almost as pretty as mine. Mix her chocolate brown with my blue eyes, and wow. She said that to me once. She said when we get married and have babies they are going to be the prettiest kids ever. Why would a girl talk like that? What guy do you know wants to get married or talk about babies at my age? Besides, she'll say something nice then ignore me in class or tell the lab teacher she wants another partner. Why would she do that? Because she can, my father said once. “So set her straight,” he told me. “Let her know who's in charge.”

When you are as tall as I am, you like looking down at the world. It makes you feel better, stronger, smarter than everyone else. Only Celeste is my kryptonite. Walking with her makes me feel like a Hummer with a grenade underneath. Any second it's like she is going to say something, do something that will make me feel two inches tall. I hate that.

Celeste plays with her gold necklace and stands too close to me. “So what are you doing this summer?”

I try to play it cool. “I don't know. My dad wants to go to the shore, Mom wants Vegas.”

She stares at my feet. “I like your shoes. Are they new?”

She knows what she's doing. I've got this thing for shoes, not sneakers. Everyone's got those. Me, I have like sixty-five pair of shoes. People wait for me to come to school just to see what I have on my feet. So if you say something about them, it's like I get high. “Thanks.” I stare at my blue shoes. “My brother sent them from Cali—Rodeo Drive, I think.”

Guys passing by say hello to me. But I see their eyes stopping on her best parts. One dude just shakes his head. That's all you can do when you see a girl like her, because you know the guy that gets her is lucky. And you're just hoping he screws up, so you can get a chance.

“What you doing this weekend?” I did not mean to ask her that.

“I don't know. Nothing, I guess.”

See? This is how she plays the game. She says she's not doing anything, then all of a sudden she's busy when I ask her out. Well, I'm busy too. “Miya and I are going to do something. I'm not sure what.”

“Oh.”

I like it when I get to her first. She does it to me all the time.

“She's . . . cute,” she says, but I can tell that she doesn't believe that. Celeste waves to a guy who's driving out of the school parking lot in a Benz. “Hold on,” she tells me, and then takes her time walking over to him.

Celeste used to run track, so the muscles in her legs flex when she walks. And she used to dance ballet and tap, so her back is straight and her neck is long. It's more like she is floating than walking, showing off more than just trying to get someplace.

She makes me wait ten minutes before she stops laughing and talking to him. So am I supposed to stand here doing nothing? “Hey, Angelina, wait up,” I say, watching Celeste watch me while she's still talking to him.

“What's up, blue eyes?”

You cannot just let a girl like Angelina pass you by. So I pull her away from her friends and give her the once-over. I let her know how good she looks. How lucky her boyfriend is. She speaks soft. To hear her, you've got to get close to her. So I get close; then a little bit closer. “What you up to, girl? You got the same number?”

Angelina's hair is down to her waist. And it's real. But that's not what I'm looking at. I'm staring at that dress fitting her like the numbers on a cell—any smaller and she'd be in trouble. She plays with her hair while she's talking. “Same number. Only guys with pretty eyes can call me, though.” I take a few strands and start playing too. When I look over at Celeste, she's heading for the gate, leaving the school grounds. I start running. “Talk to you later, Angelina.”

I hate this crap. I can get any girl I want. “Wait up, Celeste.”

She keeps walking. It's one of those I'm-mad-at-you walks, with her feet practically stomping the ground, but with her talking to me like everything is fine. We walk a block or two without saying anything. But I'm thinking: I can do better, way better than her. Then she stops and asks if there's something in her eye. I lean over her, blowing at the hair in the corner of her eye. When I'm done, it's her lips I'm staring at. Celeste has these big pretty lips that always shine from gloss and the sun reflecting off them. She licks them. I clear my throat. She's explaining that if a girl plays her cards right, she can get a dude to do whatever she wants. I'm trying to make her understand that there are just too many girls around who will do what a guy says. “So he'd have to be nuts to stick with a girl who wants to play hard, when he can be with a ton of girls who just like to play.”

“Thanks,” she says.

“You okay?”

Her eyes are watering. “You sure there's nothing in my eye? Man, it hurts.”

I pull down her bottom eyelid, like my mother does for me. I pick at her lashes, to see which ones might still be loose. She's doing this on purpose, I swear. But I like it, even though I hate it. I am wondering when she is going to hit the beach with me; let me oil her skin. It's the color of honey in the winter; apple butter brown in the summer.

“Tyler!”

Some girl's voices are like acid; they eat right through you.

I turn around. “What?”

Celeste pushes my hand away. “Don't talk to her like that.”

“I waited for you last night.”

“I . . . I . . .” Girls love drama. “I wasn't home. Text me.”

The car Sabrina's riding in takes off, with Sabrina's finger still hanging out the car window, pointing toward the clouds.

“So how many girlfriends
do
you have?” Celeste asks.

“I don't do girlfriends.”

“Monique—is she your girl?”

“I told you. No girlfriends. Just friends.”

“What about Asia? Miya?”

“Friends. I'm done having girlfriends.”

When she changes the subject she walks a little closer to me. “So
what
are you doing this weekend? I forget.”

It's a trick question, I know it. Only I'm not sure how to answer, especially since I already did. “Who knows?”

She says it's a pity that I'm busy with Miya this weekend, because if I weren't, she and I could hang out, see a movie or something.

Before I say it, I tell myself not to say it. But I am stupid for her. My dad says it all the time. “The dumbest man in the family,” he and my uncles call me. But I am just like them. I love girls—loads of them. It's just that I've got this thing for Celeste. “What about next Saturday?” I say.

She smiles. “I don't know.”

“What?”

“I was just asking. I'm not a hundred percent sure of my plans.”

You are stupid man, just stupid
, I tell myself.

It's a game. But I know how to play too. We've been playing it since last year, when I figured out that you cannot give too much of yourself to a girl. Some girls are like that, my uncles say. They know they got you, so they mess with your head. “They'll ruin your mojo if you let them, boy.”

“Listen,” I say, kissing the side of her lips. “Unblock my number.”

Her mouth opens just a little, and I get the sweetest kiss. I try to make it last. “Why should I?” she says, breathing hard, putting her arms around me, making me wish we were back together again.

She smells like coconuts. And I like coconuts, so I put my nose to her neck and sniff and kiss. “Because you know you want to,” I say, surprised when she finds my lips and kisses me again.

“Do I?”

“Yeah,” I say, hardly getting the word out.

“Or do you just want me to do it?”

We both are silent. Then she's like, “If you ask me again, I will.” She smiles. “Unblock your number, I mean.”

If I say yes, she will just say no. So I don't ask her to. I can't. Girls will make you soft. They will give you the runaround. Screw with your head. Celeste does this to me all the time. I step back from her. “I need to go,” I say, even though I don't want to.

She looks hurt. Then she walks onto her porch, digs around in her purse for her keys, and says, “I was going to unblock it, if only you had asked.”