Todd Strasser: Wish You Were Dead

Stop it! You’re just imaging things . I tried to reassure myself, but it didn’t stop the nervousness from creeping up my spine. Once again I told myself I was being silly. There was nothing to be afraid of—except maybe Dad’s impatience if I didn’t get back to the car soon.

I started to walk again but almost immediately heard the echoing footsteps. I stopped. Was it only the echo of my own steps bouncing off the broad white hulls around me? Or was it something else? Was there someone walking parallel to me one line of boat hulls over?

My heart was rattling and I could hear my own shallow breaths. This is stupid , I told myself. There’s nothing to be afraid of . I took a tentative step, then stopped to listen. This time there was no echo. I took another. Still no echo. I began to walk.

There it was again … footsteps crunching … and they weren’t mine.

I started to run.

Now the footsteps were louder, accompanied by the scattering of gravel sent flying by my rapidly moving feet. In the clatter it was impossible to distinguish my steps from anyone else’s, and I pictured someone gaining on me from behind. Hands reaching out to grab me. The need to scream gathered in my chest, but just then I reached the parking lot.

Dad was waiting by the car.

“You didn’t have to run,” he said.

I wasn’t so sure. Breathing hard, heart banging in my chest, I looked back at the boatyard and saw nothing but shadows, and the hulls of dry-docked boats. But there’d been someone back there. I was certain of it.

Str-S-d #6

There was supposed to be a big party last night. I know because they were talking about it at school on Friday. They know you’re not invited and then they talk about it loud in the hall when you pass and look to see how you react. I haven’t been invited to a party since sixth grade, so you’d think they’d realize that I’m used to it. At this point, I wouldn’t go to a party even if I was invited. Life sucks. People suck. Don’t tell me I have a bad attitude or that things will get better someday. You’re not me. You don’t know what it’s like.

3 comments

ApRilzDay said …

I’m sorry you feel that way.

IaMnEmEsIs said …

You’re not alone. We know what it’s like.

One4therOd said …

Pathetic self-pitying whiner.

Monday 7:43 A.M.

Did you say something, Lucy? You’re thirsty? Oh, Lucy, really now, we don’t think you’re in a position to complain. Sorry? Of course they’re looking for you. Yes, they surely will find you … sooner or later. We’re sure your parents are doing everything within their power. But let’s be honest, Lucy. Except for your parents, do you really think there’s anyone who’s truly upset that you’re gone?

Oh, Lucy, we really don’t think you should have said that. No, no, it’s much too late to say you’re sorry.

* * *

ON MONDAY MORNING I pulled my Audi into Courtney’s driveway. My parents had given me the choice of any car I wanted as long as it had front and side airbags. I’d thought the Audi was cute.

Courtney was always late, but I was used to that and had stopped at Starbucks for a venti caramel macchiato. I opened the window, smelled the scent of cool salt air, and sipped my coffee. The Rajwars lived in a sprawling split-level house with a pool and tennis court in the backyard that were hardly ever used. Parked in a corner of the driveway near the garage was Courtney’s VW Bug with a light green tarp over it. She’d lost her license after being caught speeding twice within six months of passing her road test. Now she would have to wait until she was twenty-one to drive.

Courtney came out wearing black-and-white horizontal-striped leggings, a pink satin skirt, and a thick, baggy green turtleneck sweater. Her black hair had streaks of blonde and pink and she had a tiny diamond stud in one nostril. She was a gorgeous girl with olive skin and dark, almond-shaped eyes.

“S’up?” she said, getting into the car and taking the caramel macchiato out of my hand for a swig. “Yum.” She looked around. “Got anything to eat?”

“Do you want to get something from your house before we go?” I asked.

“Like, there’s nothing to eat in there?” Courtney said. “I haven’t seen my father in days. I don’t even know if he’s here or away on a business trip?”

Courtney’s mom was back in Chandigarh, the town in India where she’d been born, caring for Courtney’s sick grandmother. Her father worked for a big international corporation and traveled even more than my father. Courtney’s older sister, Abigail, was studying at NYU Law, and was supposed to keep an eye on her younger sister while her parents were away, but Abby spent most of her time at her boyfriend’s apartment in the city. As a result, Courtney was the least supervised person I knew.

“So … heard anything more about Lucy?” I asked as I backed the Audi out of the driveway.

Courtney shook her head and fiddled with her iPod. To my surprise, she offered no opinion. Sometimes she could be Little Miss Motormouth, so I had to wonder why she was being so quiet. She scrolled through her iPod and definitely wasn’t acting like herself. We’d known each other and had been part of the same crowd for a couple of years, but only recently had we started to become friends. Admittedly, we were an odd pairing. I was petite and blonde (well, streaked blonde) with a turned-up nose, athletic, and, I admit, something of a bookish Goody Two-shoes homebody. Courtney was tall and lithe, dark and exotic, utterly disinterested in sports, not the greatest student, and had a rep for being wildly social and socially wild. What few people knew, mostly because Courtney didn’t care to let them know, was that when she felt like it, she could be really smart and perceptive. The first time we had a seriously deep conversation, she told me she’d always thought I was too reserved and “intellectual,” and too much of a prude (does anyone besides Courtney still use that word?). I admitted that I’d thought she was kind of superficial and maybe even a little slutty (although that was based more on rumor than firsthand observation).

“Oh!” In the seat next to me, Courtney suddenly thought of something and turned down the volume on her iPod. “What happened with Tyler?”

“Less than I’d hoped,” I said with a shrug.

My friend pouted sympathetically. “Sparks didn’t fly?”

“Not even close. I don’t know, Courts. I’m just so bad at flirting.” The truth was, I was bad at just about everything when it came to guys. I was comfortable talking to them about serious things—school, social causes, the environment—but the moment any aspect of romance was introduced, I instantly lost my bearings and tended to freeze up with self-conscious uncertainty.

“Did you touch his arm when you talked to him?” she asked.

It felt a little strange to be talking about guys when Lucy was missing, but I shook my head. “I kept thinking I should, but it seemed so obvious and forced. Like he’d know exactly why I was doing it.”

“So?”

“That’s not the way it’s supposed to happen.”

Courtney gave me an exasperated look. “According to whom?”

“I know, I know.” We’d already discussed this at length. “According to my unrealistic notions about romance and guys and Sir Galahad and blah, blah, blah.”