The Trouble Is

Chapter 37: The List of Terrible Things I Wish Had Happened Instead

It's been a few days since the carnival. I still have the little string bracelet tied to my wrist. I'm lying here playing that childish game where you imagine that as long as you don't make a move or a sound, then the world will stop where it is so you can take a break. If I can be perfectly still for five minutes or ten or whatever, then that one day will not have happened. It will have been a dream or a nightmare. If I can recite the particles of speech or the whole fourscore and so many years ago thing, then today will reboot and we can do this day the right way.

I hold that thought for a while. I tap fingers to thumb on both hands, one-two-three-four, four-three-two-one. I pick at my hands, raw from continual washing and drying. I get up and realign the books on my closet shelves with the tallest on the left.

East keeps texting. I turn my phone to silent.

I lie flat on my back on the floor to try to just breathe. I see a small little foot peeking out from under my bed. Doug must have come in during the night. I'm surprised that I managed to sleep through that. It must have been the Benadryl that Mom gave me to try to give me a few hours of oblivion. I slept some, but oblivion never came and it's definitely morning now. The sun is piercing through the open blinds. I want to close them and shut out the day, but I can't seem to get over there to do it.

Katie is still dead.

I quietly pull a basket down from the shelf in my closet. I'm looking for the spiral. Not just any spiral: I'm looking for the first spiral, the one that is full of first-grade words and crayon drawings of flowers and hearts and magical ponies. I find the page with Katie's name written in bold purple, like she had branded this thing that would become such a part of who I am. There's room at the end of the spiral for what I need to do, and the words rush from my crumbling heart onto the still-white paper.

The Un-Numbered List: The Seven Terrible Things I Wish Had Happened Instead

1. Everyone in school has a copy of this year's spiral. The real me, all my crazy, is out there for all to see.

2. The gross guy who works the Taco Bell drive-thru window dies instead.

3. East dumps me. Even worse, he ghosts me. He just quits talking to me and turns around so that his back is to me whenever I'm near.

4. I am sent somewhere far away for school, like someone in a terribly boring book with nannies and trust funds and family legacies.

5. I rat Katie out to her mom or my mom or someone. I would say just enough to get her grounded for the weekend. I could have said something about the stupid drinking. I wish I had stopped her from going to that party.

6. I wish. I wish. I wish.

7. I wish I were dead with her.

I crawl back into bed, holding the spiral against my chest.

Skip says grief has its own timeline. Mom says to let myself cry. Aunt Linda says death reminds us all of our own mortality. In my head, I scream at everyone to shut up and go away. I do not cry. I focus on the list. I rewrite it in a brand-new spiral. I edit it, rephrase it, and re-order it over and over again.

I think about everything Mom told me about the accident. I think about the guy driving the boat—the one who bought that ridiculous Banana Boat thing they were pulling. I think about the old man driving the other boat. He's the local pharmacist. We know him; I know him. He's a trustworthy guy, I think. I mean, since he's a pharmacist, he knows everyone's secrets and has to keep them.

It's hard to know what really happened. From what East was able to gather, the pharmacist says the giant yellow banana full of kids came out of nowhere. It popped up into the air as its boat made a sharp turn. Kids flew off in all directions. It was impossible to avoid them, even going at a relatively slow speed. The newspaper says alcohol was involved but makes it clear that it was not the pharmacist who was drinking. The kids they interviewed say Katie fell off the boat, which is the whole point of it. It's like riding a bucking bronco, they say. Everybody falls off. It was a tragic accident, they all say. I want to hate them all. But the truth is, I just don't feel anything.

I finally get the list right and meticulously copy it onto a fresh page and then tear up the original. I'm exhausted, even with the drug-induced sleep I managed last night. I crawl back into bed and pull the comforter up over my head. I imagine that I'm the last person on the planet. The world is dust, and I am alone.

I hear Doug crawling his way out from under my bed.

"Annie," he whispers like it's a question.

"Yeah," I whisper back.

He doesn't say anything else. He just climbs into bed with me, pushes the covers off my head, and lies flat on his back beside me. We both look at the ceiling, and he takes my hand in his. His little hand squeezes mine one-two-three. I feel the tear roll down my cheek and let it fall onto the pillow. We silently fall back asleep just like that, together.