Going Under Read online

  Going Under

  a novel

  S. Walden

  Penny Press

  Going Under

  Copyright 2013, S. Walden

  Publisher: Penny Press

  This ebook belongs to vzyl at 64 70 67 72 6f 75 70 forum. The name vzyl refers to an entity and not any registered user with the same name. I hereby acknowledge that I have shared this book without permission from the ebook owner if I earn profit or rewards for providing access to this ebook.

  Cover design by Alfred Porter.

  [email protected]

  Editor: Julie Lindy

  [email protected]

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real persons, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  To strong girls everywhere.

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  One

  “This dress is bullshit,” I said, observing myself in the full-length mirror attached to the closet door.

  I was swathed in a boxy knee-length black sheath I bought at T.J. Maxx. It was two sizes too big and hanging in the “Women’s Active Wear” section. I knew better. I also knew I’d find nothing appropriate to wear in the “Juniors” section. Not for where I was going.

  I walked right by the trendy low-cut tops and designer jeans and headed for a group of 40-something ladies congregated around a circular rack of discounted dresses. Perfect, I thought, and began rifling quickly, afraid one of the women would snatch the dress before I could get my hands on it. I received a couple of odd looks that turned hostile when I zeroed in on my target and squealed a triumphant, “Hell yeah!” It couldn’t be more perfect. A ghastly dress for a ghastly occasion.

  My eyes dropped to the black pumps I borrowed from my mom. They were fashionable for a 35-year-old high power attorney, but I was just an 18-year-old high school senior. They gave the wrong impression, I feared. They screamed, “I’m one amazing person!” and I thought I shouldn’t wear them inside a church. Wasn’t it appropriate to be humble, or at least give the illusion of being humble, in the house of God? But I owned no closed-toe pumps. I don’t know how I made it to eighteen years of age without owning a pair of closed-toe pumps, especially since I considered myself a fashionista. But there it was. I was at the mercy of my mother’s shoes.

  “These shoes are bullshit,” I decided, screwing up my face in frustration.

  I turned to the side and looked at my long, straight blond hair pinned in a messy bun at the nape of my neck. Strands were hanging loose, but not in a purposeful way. Not like I pulled them out of the bun to frame my face. No, they were yanked out after a thirty-second walk outside to get the mail. The wind was terrible today, and I considered French braiding my hair, though I knew it would make me look like a 10-year-old.

  “My hair is bullshit.”

  I stared at myself, imagining Beth laughing at me.

  “Brooke, where did you get that horrendous dress?” she’d say.

  “I know, right? Last minute, and I had no choice,” I’d reply.

  “And those shoes?” she’d ask. “All the times I tried to get you to buy pumps, and you refused. Now look what you’ve gotta wear.”

  “I know, Beth. Like I said, I had no choice.”

  “No, no. You always have a choice. Find something else. I can’t be seen in public with you looking like that,” Beth would answer.

  “Beth, I don’t have time. I ran out of time.”

  “There’s still time, Brooke. There’s always time to make it right.”

  “No, Beth. There’s no time,” I said out loud, choking on the words.

  My eyes glazed over. And then I sank to the floor and cried away all of the stupid make-up I had just put on—the stupid mascara on my stupid eyelashes and the stupid blush on my stupid cheeks. I cried for the stupid pins jabbed into my hair that pulled painfully on my scalp. I cried for the things I should have been doing today. The places I should have been going. I cried for my sad outfit and my sad heart to match. But I especially cried for Beth.

  I cried for Beth.

  ***

  I hung around the doors of the church sanctuary. I couldn’t bring myself to go in. I couldn’t face anyone. My eyes were puffy from constant crying. My body swollen from the heat outside. My hair a whipped-up disaster from the wind. I felt ashamed. I couldn’t even look nice for Beth.

  “Honey, we need to go in now,” I heard my mother say. She wrapped my hand in hers and squeezed lightly. I knew she meant it to be reassuring, but it made me panic instead.

  My pulse sped up, and I was certain my heart would explode. I didn’t want to face Beth. What if her casket was open? I couldn’t stand the thought of her seeing me like this. An absolute mess, like I couldn’t even take the time to get my shit together. I would not do that to her—make her think I didn’t care.

  “I need a minute. I need to go fix my hair.”

  Mom nodded. “I’ll wait.”

  I teetered on my heels all the way to the bathroom. I pushed open the door and fell into the first sink, clutching the porcelain and hanging my head low, feeling the urge to vomit. My mouth filled with saliva instantly, and then I heaved. I knew nothing would come up; I hadn’t eaten in three days. My legs shook violently, and I realized I had no business wearing heels. I was weak and worried I’d fall flat on my face.

  I heaved again, this time producing a bit of bile from deep within my stomach that burned my throat on the way up. I turned on the faucet and cupped a hand underneath the running water, bringing it to my lips. The water was adequate in soothing the sting in my throat but not in erasing the vile taste in my mouth.

  I stood up and plunged a shaky hand into my clutch searching for the tin of mints. I found it and popped a peppermint into my mouth. Then I began the task of fixing my eye make-up. I was wise enough to pack the essentials in my purse. I retraced the upper and lower lids of my eyes with black liner, rubbing a finger over the lines to smudge them, soften them. I reapplied mascara and swiped my lips with tinted lip gloss.

  I exhaled sharply when it came time to fix the damage to my hair. I pulled a wide-tooth comb out of my bag and all the pins out of my head. It was instant relief, and I stood massaging my scalp for a few seconds before running the comb through my tangled locks. It hurt, and it took forever. I gathered my hair in a low ponytail. It was too late to pin it up.

  I could see Beth nodding her approval now that I looked presentable again. I took one last look in the mirror, glimpsing the imitation gold chain reflecting the overhead light on my pale neck. I reached down the front of my dress and pulled out a half heart, split in a jagged line down the middle, my portion reading “Be Fri.” I imagined Beth’s half, the half that read “st ends” and smiled at the memory of my eighth birthday. She gave me my half of the charm, made me swear to always wear it, and I did until the metal started turning green and we grew older. Years later, we discovered one day that we no longer wanted to wear jewelry from each other. We wanted to wear jewelry from boys instead. I felt a pinch in my heart remembering the day I stored away the necklace for good. Until now.

  I left the bathroom in a hurry, turning the corner for the foyer and slamming into him. The force of the hit was so great that I stumbl
ed backwards, nearly falling on my bottom if not for his outstretched hand. I grabbed it before going down and wobbled on my too-high heels, clutching him as I worked to regain my balance.

  “God, I’m sorry!” he exclaimed.

  I looked at his face then, unprepared to see something so beautiful. I think I gasped. And then I averted my eyes out of sheer embarrassment.

  “I really should watch where I’m going,” he said.

  He still held my hand, and I let him. I couldn’t remember who I was or where I was going. I couldn’t remember where I had just been. I only knew that a very cute boy . . . no, he was more than cute. He was gorgeous. This very gorgeous boy was holding my hand, and I had only one thought. I wanted to make our handholding more intimate. I wanted to lace my fingers with his.

  “I think I should,” I mumbled.

  I chanced another look at him. I made a conscientious effort not to gasp as I took in his light blue eyes. I’d never seen eyes that color. Jared Leto had nothing on this guy’s eyes, and Jared’s eyes were the color of the Mediterranean. No, the eyes I looked into now were so light blue they looked translucent. I thought if I stared a little longer I could see right inside his head, to his brain, and I don’t know why that turned me on so much. I wanted to witness the workings of his mind, the firing synapses, information traveling safely inside neurons to different parts of his body. A few made it to his hand, and they must have told him to keep holding mine because he didn’t let go.

  I stared shamelessly, licking my lips at one point. He stared back just as boldly. I wanted him to like what he saw. I wanted him to think I was sexy. I wanted him to feel the same instant attraction I did. I’d never felt it before. Not really. Not even with Finn. It was unsettling, and I wondered how people functioned after being smacked upside the head with it. Instant. Physical. Chemical.

  Primal.

  Just rip my clothes off, I thought. Just rip my clothes off and do me right here in the hallway!

  He smiled and released my hand. I thought he did it reluctantly, like his brain ordered him to and he finally acquiesced. I smiled back, a flirty grin. I pulled my ponytail forward over my shoulder and played with the strands. I bit my lower lip. And then reality came crashing down like a hailstorm, large lumps of ice banging my head and screaming at me in unison.

  “YOU’RE AT A FUNERAL!”

  I looked at the gorgeous guy, and my face went white.

  “Oh my God,” I whispered.

  He stared at me for a moment before saying, “Are you okay?”

  I shook my head and started towards the sanctuary doors. He followed behind.

  “I’m awful, I’m awful, I’m awful,” I whispered over and over. I didn’t care if he could hear.

  What the hell was I doing? Trying to flirt with a guy at my best friend’s funeral? How could I even forget for a second that I was at a funeral? I was supposed to be carrying around heavy, black sorrow to match my black dress and black heart, not batting lashes and fantasizing about sex with a stranger. Was I so ridiculous that a hot guy could make me forget to have any kind of decency? Or shame?

  I rounded the corner and saw my mother waiting for me. And then I ran to her, threw myself into her arms, and burst into a fit of tears.

  “Brooklyn,” she whispered, holding me in a tight hug. “It’s okay,” she cooed as she stroked my hair.

  “I’m a terrible friend!” I wailed. I saw the fuzzy outline of a boy walking past us tentatively through the doors.

  “No, you aren’t,” my mother replied.

  “Yes, I am! I don’t even know why I’m here! Beth hated my guts! She wouldn’t talk to me all summer!”

  “Brooke,” Mom said. “I want you to calm down. Now, we talked about this. You knew it would be hard, but she was your best friend for all those years. Do you think she wouldn’t have wanted you here?”

  “No, I don’t!” I cried.

  “Yes, she would,” Mom said. “Now we have to go in.”

  “I can’t!”

  “Brooke, Beth was your best friend,” Mom said, trying for patience.

  “No she wasn’t! Not after what I did! I ruined everything! I’m a freaking slut!” I sobbed, shaking my head from side to side.

  “Sweetheart, don’t say words like ‘freaking’ and ‘slut’ in a church,” Mom replied.

  I only sobbed louder.

  “You can do this,” Mom encouraged.

  I stood my ground, shaking my head violently, refusing to go in.

  “Brooklyn Wright!” Mom hissed, pushing me away and grabbing my upper arm. She squeezed too tightly, and I squeaked in discomfort. There was no more tenderness in her voice. “Get yourself together. This isn’t about you. So stop making it about you. You’re going into that sanctuary and you’re going to pay your respects to your friend, and you’re going to make it about Beth. Do you understand me?”

  I swallowed hard and wiped my face.

  “Do you understand me?” Mom repeated.

  I nodded grudgingly, and she took my hand, leading me through the doors.

  The sanctuary reeked of sorrow and guilt. I imagined everyone thought they were responsible in some way for the death of an 18-year-old. I felt guilty, but my guilt came from an entirely different place. I didn’t drive my best friend to commit suicide, but I also wasn’t there for her when she needed me. I was too wrapped up in my own selfish desires—desires for her boyfriend, Finn. Sneaking around. Lying to her. Slowly destroying a friendship that was going strong since we were five. I was a deplorable friend, and she discovered it. Then I tried to make it right by telling Finn we were over, explaining that I couldn’t betray my friend, and he wanted to know what I thought I was doing to him. Was it not the same thing? Betrayal?

  I slunk into a pew in the back of the church scanning the crowd for Finn. I knew he would be here, and I thought he had a lot of nerve. He cheated on Beth. Broke her heart. The worst part was that I was his accomplice. He destroyed my friendship, and I let him. And he felt no guilt over it. “The heart wants what the heart wants.” That’s what he told me once. I think he stole it from some bullshit movie.

  I can’t believe I fell for him. I can’t believe I was sitting here now blaming him for everything. What a pathetic loser. Not him. Me. I swiped my fingers under my eyes, no doubt smearing my recently applied mascara. I kept scanning the congregation for Finn, but I couldn’t find him. It was desperate disappointment because I needed to find him. I needed to look at his face. Seeing him would compound the anguish I so rightly deserved to feel. I needed him to help me punish myself more for the pain I caused Beth.

  I drew in a long, slow breath, exhaling just as slowly, and caught sight of the beautiful guy. There. That’s it, and I breathed deeply feeling my heart constrict, feeling it ache for shame at my behavior. I didn’t need Finn to make me feel like shit. This guy could. I stared at him, focusing on my guilt, silently apologizing over and over to the girl up front in the wooden box.

  I’m sorry, Beth. I’m so sorry. Please don’t hate me.

  And then my eyes glazed over with fresh tears as the pastor took his place beside the casket.

  Two

  “What the hell, Brooke?” Gretchen said. “You met him at Beth’s funeral?”

  I grunted into the phone.

  “A funeral?” she emphasized.

  “I know, okay!” I said. “I’m a shitty friend.”

  “You think?”

  “I can’t help he ran into me,” I argued.

  “Oh my God,” Gretchen said. “This is just like that Sex and the City episode.”

  Here we go again, I thought. Gretchen had an irritating way of likening all of my life experiences to Sex and the City episodes. I already knew which one she was going to describe before she started because she made me watch every single episode with her. Multiple times.

  “And Charlotte’s hat blows over to the guy’s wife’s gravestone,” I heard Gretchen say.

  “I know. I remember.”

  �
�And it’s totally pathetic and you can’t date him,” Gretchen said.

  “I’m not dating him. We barely even talked,” I replied. “We kind of just stared at each other for a minute.” I screwed up my face in thought.

  “You stared at each other?”

  “Um, kind of,” I admitted.

  “Okay. Weird.”

  “Well, that’s what happened,” I said defensively. I sat on my bed surrounded by boxes filled with my belongings. In a few hours, they would be packed in the car and driven over to my dad’s house. My new residence.

  “You really are a bitch,” Gretchen said.

  “What the hell?”

  “You ditch me my senior year and then try to pick up a guy at Beth’s funeral.”

  “Now hold up one second. I didn’t have a choice about ditching you. I can’t help it if my mom is moving clear across the country. Would you rather me live in California?”

  Gretchen pouted on the other end of the line. “Why can’t your dad just move into this school district?”

  “He’s lived in that house for thirteen years. And have you no idea what’s going on with the housing market right now? You think he could sell his place?” I cringed at the thought of his yellowed linoleum kitchen floor and floral wallpaper. The house needed a complete interior makeover.

  “Oh, shut up, Brooke. Like you have a clue. You’re always trying to sound smart about the news.”

  “Whatever. I am smart about the news. I actually watch it,” I shot back, and then added in my best Valley girl impression: “I’m, like, totally fucking smart.”

  Gretchen giggled. And then I giggled because it was impossible not to giggle when Gretchen did. I relished the sounds until my heart went tight, signaling inappropriate behavior so soon after Beth’s death.

  “And don’t say I was trying to pick up a guy at Beth’s funeral, okay? That’s just wrong,” I said quietly.

  Gretchen was silent for a moment.

  “I should have gone with you,” she said finally. “I just couldn’t. I’m a chicken. What can I say? Do you hate me?”