Karin Slaughter - Like A Charm

Hannah brought the sharp point of the compass down hard, striking directly on the seam of the locket with all the force of Eastlake 's star middle school volleyball spiker. The gold heart charm cracked open.

From inside, a slip of yellowed paper, folded very slim, popped out on to my Latin book. I grabbed at it greedily, using my fingernail to unroll the note. On the slip, in green fountain pen ink, were the words: ' Mors stupebit, et natura.' Bloody Latin.

I thought about opening my Latin dictionary.

Hannah pulled the note closer and read the faint handwritten scrawl. She pointed to the first word and whispered, '"Death." Cool.'

There wasn't a flash of light or a clap of thunder, but I wasn't such a big idiot that I couldn't tell when God was sending me a message. Death. And something more. I read the note again. Maybe 'Death, stupid, is natural'. Something like that. And, of course, it all made sense! I almost laughed, it seemed so right. Death is natural. Why should anyone go on and on and suffer? And wasn't I suffering?

And with this new thought, my pain seemed to disappear. I think I might have even smiled. I pushed my long hair behind my ears and kept smiling.

Maybe, I thought, I could go home right after school. And maybe, I thought further, while my mother was out shopping and I should be starting on my homework, I could get out the rum and the Diet Coke and see if I could stand the taste. And then maybe I could go find those Xanax tablets of my mom's. And it could be over that fast! I could be free! I could do it before my mom came home from the store.

I smiled up at Hannah, who looked startled to see me so happy.

I could do it. I knew I could. End the misery. End the pretending. And if I timed it just right and didn't lose my nerve, I wouldn't even have to do tonight's homework in Latin.

The pills were in my mother's bathroom cabinet. I shook them all into my hand and counted. Fifteen pills. I guessed that would be enough to do it.

In the kitchen I was a pro at mixing a rum and Diet Coke. I crushed the pills using this cute old marble mortar and pestle my mom's decorator found in England. It made like a teaspoonful of chunky white powder, all crushed. I stirred it into the drink. There was no reason for me to be sad. I wouldn't ever have to go back to Eastlake. I wouldn't have to sit and be judged by girls who could say such cruel things about another girl's mother.

I set the drink on to a yellow fabric napkin, nice and neat, and then ran out to the main hall, up the steps, my feet suddenly not clumsy. I dashed into my bathroom, the pink tiles giving me the rosy glow my mom thought was the best for us girls. I found my hairbrush and brushed my hair until it was shining, and then, pulling my hair back off my forehead, put on a fresh headband. In the mirror, I saw the face that my mother would approve of. A neat face. With neat hair.

I was feeling lighter than ever, almost giddy with lightness. Time stretched out but I really didn't care. No homework was pulling at me. No Latin and math and ethics hiding round each corner, waiting to bite me each night. No hours and hours of trying to get into my head all the stuff I just didn't get. Not anymore.

In my room I pulled off my dark blue Eastlake School sweater and put it neatly in the laundry basket. I stepped out of the navy-and-white-plaid uniform skirt, inspected it to see if it was clean enough for another day, and then caught myself and smiled a nice, free smile. I put it neatly on top of the sweater. I did the same with my white polo shirt. The last time, I thought.

In my closet, a straight row of school uniforms hung in silent judgement, but I just shut the door. I had to make a careful choice. From my drawer I chose my favourite pair of bright yellow shorts and a silky blue tank top that had thin straps. I ran back into the bathroom and checked myself out in the full-length mirror. And I didn't look so bad at all.

I took off the charm bracelet and threw it into the pink trashcan. I'd memorized its message. I didn't need it anymore.

I was so calm. That was the oddest thing. Calm and happy. I was ready. I was. Sometimes you just know what to do.

I walked down the stairs and the house looked different somehow. Down in the hall, I felt blessed. Then I walked back into the kitchen. There, on the counter, was my mother's keyring. She must have come home a little early.

There on the floor lay my dead, dead, dead mother. She looked really beautiful, lying there like that, but her hair was a real mess.

The kitchen clock read 3.55. My mom needed her pick-me-up earlier every day. I had noticed that. I wasn't so dumb. I wasn't.

I picked up my sketchpad and walked over to the mirror in the hall. I didn't look different at all. Not at all. Same lumpy body. Same geeky braces. And I started to draw my self-portrait.

Mary Lou Dixon sat in the front pew of the church, her eyes raised as she watched the cross over the pulpit being slowly lowered to the floor. She fiddled with the bracelet on her wrist as the cross, which had seemed so small hanging a few inches from the ceiling, began to grow larger as it descended in front of her like a broken bird.

'Hold up,' the foreman said, and the three men working the pulleys stopped. The cross shook in the air, its broken right arm dangling by a few slivers of wood as it tapped ominously against the side. The noise reminded Mary Lou of a clock, ticking away time.

'Easy, now,' the foreman instructed, using his hands to illustrate. He was the only English speaking person in the four-man crew and the Mexicans were slow to understand his orders. They finally seemed to comprehend, though, because the cross began its journey to the floor once again, finally coming to a gentle resting point on the carpet.

The Mexicans genuflected, and Mary Lou wondered if that was entirely appropriate in the Christ Holiness Baptist Church of Elawa, Georgia. The cross was a simple wooden affair, lacking a Jesus, but with a fine polish that shone in the morning sun. It was hardly the ornamental icon most Catholics were used to exalting, if that was what Catholics did – Mary Lou had no idea. She had been Christ Holiness for the last twenty years and before that Lord and Saviour, which was two steps below Primitive and one above snake handling.

Although plenty of contractors attended the church, none had volunteered their time to repair the ailing cross. Bob Harper, who had been a deacon for the last ten years, owned his own construction company, but he was still over five hundred dollars more expensive than the black man and his crew. The job was too small to make it worth his time, he had said. Mary Lou had commented she was glad Jesus had not felt the same way about dying for Bob's sins, but the deacon had not been swayed by her remark.

So, here Mary Lou was with a black foreman and his Catholic Mexicans, trying to get the cross repaired before Easter Sunday – at considerable expense – with no help whatsoever from the more capable men of the congregation. This sort of thing was typical of the church lately. Long gone were the times when people happily volunteered to do routine maintenance or send out mailers to collect donations for foreign missionaries. No one visited the sick in the hospital anymore. No one wanted to go on bible retreats unless they were assured there would be a pool and twenty-four-hour room service. The last two anti-abortion rallies down to Atlanta had been cancelled because the weather report had predicted rain, and Lord knew no one wanted to stand out in the rain.

'Mrs Dixon?' the black man asked. His name was Jasper Goode, she knew. He was a dark-skinned older man with a bald head that showed a significant amount of perspiration despite the air-conditioning in the church. Mary Lou did not trust this show of over-perspiration, as if it somehow made him shifty. He had done nothing but stand and direct the crew all morning, yet he was sweating as if he had been running a marathon.