Chapter 1
Senior Year.
September 28, 2017

The tears always come. I wait for them while I sit in my little cubby. When I was younger, I spent a lot of time in this little hole. It is nothing more than that - a hole. It is rectangular, more tall than wide. When mom was in a mood and dad was on duty, I would make my way here with a box of chocolate teddy grahams. In my naivety, I didn’t think mom knew about the cubby. I figured it was a secret known only to me and dad. However, at the age of nine, I discovered mom knew about my cubby. One day, when I was in trouble up to my elbows, I crawled into my sanctuary only to be dragged out moments later by my forearm. That was a bad day in our house. That was the day my art project was ripped and someone let my cat out. These memories used to make me nauseous and depressed, but now, in my continuous state of numbness, they seem like a horror story someone else once told me.
I am still sitting here. The tears have not come, and the Pain has not subsided. They say the Pain would go away with a little help from medication, but I do not trust myself with such lethal drugs. I feel like dad and Jake can hear my spiraling thoughts, and I don’t want them to hear the cries of mercy. When I take my meds, I suddenly have the energy I need to carry out an action plan - my plan to meet daddy and Jake. I want to go home. I want to meet the God that created me and ask him why this. We are supposed to reap what we sow, correct? When will daddy reap the benefits of his service to our country? When will Jake get to father his own children, after he raised Piper? What did I sow that was so terrible that I had to remain? What did I do to deserve the Pain?
Suddenly, my cubby feels like the wood-paneled walls are starting to contort and I need to move. I open the three slats that make my cubby’s door and crawl out. I decide to lay here on this shag carpet and run my hands back and forth. It is a creamy color. I remember the day the carpet man came to our house with swatches, and this was the one I picked. Mom had left specific instructions to get some shade of brown, but seeing as she never visited the basement, dad agreed to the color of my choice. We sat here and played Call of Duty all of that afternoon. We had strawberry ice cream with marshmallows on the side for dinner that night. I remember his face in vivid detail in that memory. I recall it often because it is one of the few things that can produce an image of him in my head without having to look at a picture. He is starting to fade ever so slowly. His chin strap is not so textured and his eyes are not so bright in my mind. Pictures have never done him justice. The only picture that ever really captured the real personality of my father was freshman year’s homecoming photos. At the time, I was around one hundred and three pounds and I decided to wear this tiny, pink, corset-backed dress. My grandma was sitting in the backyard on one of our adirondack chairs, poised with her camera, and she was starting to get impatient. My dad, in his good humor, told her “oh Sandra D., anxiousness only makes you look older”, which got him a glare from mother. I walked down the stairs of the balcony, and my grandma snapped the perfect picture… of my dad. He had this look that matched his charisma so well that you couldn’t imagine the expression on anyone else. His mouth was slightly parted and one corner turned up. He gave a huff, almost similar to a laugh. His eyes, since they were moist with tears, were shining. His arms were crossed, as they always were. He never gave the impression that he was closed off though, even if you didn’t know him. He always had a welcoming smile. That was my daddy. I have three physical copies of this picture; one in my cubby, one taped to the inside of my planner, and the other in my locker at the pool. The thoughts of those days have brought a smile to my face without my knowing. Maybe today will be one of the happy ones I am granted - the tears have not come.
My mother is yelling from the top of the laundry shoot. She wants to know if I am ready for school. Surprisingly, on this particular day, I am. Typically, my school’s only dress code policy is no sweatpants, but today they are granting the seniors a free pass. So,I have elected to wear black sweatpants, Jake’s old Steelers Tee and my favorite grey and purple Nike’s (the same outfit I slept in). I make my way to the staircase and look up to the sunlight that is pouring through the cracked door. I have to go out in the world again today. Ally will take me to school - not dad. And Ally will bring me home - not Jake. I will eat a cinnamon muffin in the car on the way to lovely Garrison High, and I will wish I was having cheerios with dad instead.
We have arrived. We pull into the same parking spot we have for the past two years. Ally grabs her latte, flashes me a bright white smile and says “Coming?”. I grab the Starbucks tea with my name on it from the cup holder, hop out of the car and swing my backpack over my shoulder. Arm in arm, we walk through the side door in our rumpled sweats looking like hobos. Mrs. Eyler is unlocking the door to her office. I give her a shy smile and she returns the gesture. She is truly a remarkable woman. As senior English teacher and guidance counselor, she has a lot on her plate, but she manages to do a great job with both positions. Four days after Jake’s funeral, a new kid was assigned his locker. In a fury, I rushed to the office and demanded it be off limits. The principal thought this was a bad idea, but my dear Mrs. Eyler recommended it be placed in my possession. Since his locker was on the first floor and mine on the second, she said it would make getting my books for various classes more convenient. I am opening his now. Every time I open it, I purposely take an extra moment to hold on to the dial. This was Jake’s. If he were still here, this locker would be someone else’s already. He was a year older than I am, but hardly more mature. People who didn’t know him would never have believed how smart he was. He had dreamed of attending Stanford or Johns Hopkins. He was going to apply. Until he was gone.
I collect my physics textbook and head to the lab. Jake always hated physics; I was in chemistry while he was in physics, and we would trade off homework every night. Now I am just using the copies of his old homework since I have already completed it once.
Seeing his handwriting scribbled all over the notes brings back a lot of memories. He was a lefty, which made doing homework on his left side difficult. Honestly though, bumping elbows never really bothered me. It reminded me of his close proximity. I could be so deep into a paper I was writing that the outside world would be totally gone. Until his pointy elbow rammed into mine. Only then was a brought back into reality. Jake used to joke that he could set my hair on fire while I was writing and I wouldn’t notice it until falling shards of hair set my paper on fire. I will always remember the paper I wrote for him his sophomore year. It was the last assignment I had ever helped him cheat on. He got a 96%, and he complained for a week. He said that it was only because his name was at the top of the page. Had it been mine, I easily would’ve gotten 102%. I was standing in this daze, which is not unusual since last March, when my physics teacher came rolling out the door ordering me to come inside. Let the day begin.

Chapter 2
Freshman Year.
October 8, 2013

So I think I am falling in love. I hate weekends. Like what the? I spend weekends partying with friends, going to swim meets and recovering from sleep debt. What’s not to love about weekends? They are fundamental for my social life and my sanity. Well here is why I don't love weekends: Jake Reynolds. With weekends, there is no school. With no school, there is no French class. With no French class, there is no Jake. Ah. That boy is a HUNK. I mean, he’s a year older than me and I am just come skinny freshman, and there is probably no chance we will ever end up together, but still. I swear he’s flirting with me. Maybe I am making up stories, but maybe this is real. What if it is? What if it isn't and I am getting myself all worked up for nothing? What if some other girl is going to sweep in and steal him from my grasp? I must take action. The Boo Bash is this month, and I still need a date. I have not decided if I am a high enough quality for that boy. He is back-up quarterback, soon to be starting once Damontae graduates. He has a 4.0, a job, and an amazing personality. Scouts tried to recruit him for baseball his freshman year, but he got so sick of the attention he quit baseball. Now he is a state track runner. This boy is the whole package. People say he has family problems, but he seems to handle them well. Yeah, he's kind of shy, but who doesn't love a shy, humble beast?
Our interactions everyday in French are surprising. We were in French last year too, because 8th graders can take a foreign language now, and we never spoke. Not once. Not that he ever really talked to anyone. Even so, this year things have changed. He sits a row in front of me next to Tristan and Patrick. Even though his friends can be tools, he always reprimands them. He makes a point to ask a me a question about the homework every single day. He smiles when I talk. He eavesdrops on my conversations with others and then gives his own opinion. He picks up the stuff I drop on the floor, he noticed my hair cut, and he grabbed me the last piece of cheesecake at the French party. Is shy, quiet, timid Jake just trying to be polite? One will never know I suppose.
French is not our only interaction. In fact, in study hall is where most of our conversations take place. Until this week, I sat at the other side of the room. Now, we sit side by side. I am not sure if Jake pulled some strings with the study hall teacher, who is also one of Jake’s football coaches, or if it was just a coincidence. Either way, I am very pleased. Now we can “study” our French flashcards together. Because Jake is so close with the teacher, we never get in trouble for talking. Once we got the hairy eye so we just went to the library so we wouldn't cause any further distractions for our classmates while they did their “homework”. 
Of course, I cannot keep our secret little kindof almost romance a secret from my best friend. Each and every day I report new information about our “romance” to Ally. She thinks I am obsessed but she also thinks I am on to something; that boy doesn't just perform nice gestures and randomly make friends with pretty girls. Not that I consider myself as pretty as everyone says I am. I guess I just don’t want to be hopeful and then watch my heart be demolished by a boy that may not have even cared about me.

October 24, 2013

“Do you know how to throw a football?” asks Jake. To my embarrassment, I admitted that I wasn’t sure if I had ever even held one. Our conversations have become longer, more in depth and more inquisitive. In fact, throughout all of study hall today, I was pelted with questions very similar to this one. “Do you like Nike or Under Armour?” “Who is your favorite Star Wars Character?” “What’s your favorite scary movie?” Not that I minded the attention and the interest he was showing today, but after three hundred and seventy two questions it starts to get a little annoying. Besides, he was asking the wrong questions. The Boo Bash is tonight, and Jake hasn’t asked me to go with him yet. He managed to ask me if I was planning on going or not. When I reversed the question back on him, he never gave a direct answer. GRRRRRRRRR.
Whether or not he shows up or not, I am super stoked for my costume. I am going for a kind of slutty 80’s chick. Big hair, super skimpy black romper and huge black boots. Ally is coming over around 5:00 to get ready. She is going as a hick, which I think is hilarious because she is the biggest city girl I know. She has a date, but of course she does. She is beautiful; and she’s trying to get back on her ex. She claims she has a plan to hook me and Jake up tonight, and honestly I am a little nervous about her schemes.
“So I talked to Patrick today, and he said that Jake is definitely coming. They are planning on having some weird matching costume that he wouldn’t tell me about. Anyway, Patrick and John are kind of friends, and Jake and patrick are best friends. So tonight while I am grinding on John, I am going to booty bump you into Jake.” Ally gives a pompous smile like this is the most intelligent plan she has ever devised. Now I am definitely scared. So many things about this plan could go wrong. What if Jake thinks I am weird and isn't into me?  Then our friendship is ruined and I will never get the chance to convince him that he is the guy for me. What if he thinks I am being too straight forward and he did like me but my straightforwardness turned him off and he never wants to see or talk to me again and all of his friends turn and laugh at me and I can never so my face at school again? I will pray. Hard. That this will all work out. But before I get on my knees, I need to eat some stuffed crust cheese pizza.

7:00

We have arrived at the school, and we are two of the first twenty people in the building. Not one of them is Jake or Patrick or John. So, like creepers, we stand patiently awaiting the arrivals of our “others”. We call them others because they are not significant. In Ally’s case, John is a boy posing in the role of a date for her to make someone else jealous. Poor guy. At least he has a hot date and a guaranteed fun and dirty time. In my case, because Jake is not really mine. Nor anyone’s. He is a very complex symbol in our school. He has the dark, ominous feel to him. He is hugely popular, but friends with nearly no one. He is striking. He is smart. He doesn’t belong here because he doesn’t fit the typical average small town boy stereotype. But somehow he holds his position as a member of the top of the food chain.
John is here, and him and Ally are already getting down and dirty to “Gas Pedal”. John says that Patrick and Jake will be here soon. Apparently, contrary to my pleading, Ally let John in on the secret. Luckily for me, John is respectable and caring. Which is why it is such a shame that he was pinpointed for Ally’s dating service. Just as I am about to turn away from the scene that the pair are making in front of me, a hooded and masked character walks through the fringe door curtains. I assumed it was a male because of his height, demeanor and body mass. When a second, larger, matching figure walks in behind him, I have discovered who the terrors are. It is Jake and Patrick.
I run over in front of Ally and add on to her grind train. I look back over my shoulder and explain what I have just seen. boy, do I wish I would’ve kept my mouth shut.
“JAKE! IS THAT YOU? GET OVER HERE!” yells John from behind Ally. I immediately remove my butt from Ally and try to strike a somewhat relaxed pose. John grabs Ally’s hips to force her to stop dancing. He shakes Jake and Patrick’s hand with his right and grabs A’s tush with his left. As I awkwardly stare into the background pretending to observe newcomers and their clever, disturbing or stupid costumes, someone touches my chin. As a reflex, I flinch and whip my head around. It is the smaller black mass. It is Jake.
He lifts his masks and says “Hey” with a slowly widening grin. His hand remains on my face and I am starting to grow nervous.
I reply with a giggle and what I think is a complement. “Your getup is pretty terrifying.” From behind me, another voice comes into play.
“Kiss her!” Jakes entourage and my single friend are staring in anticipation. I believe the shout was from a male, either John or Patrick. However, when Jake grabs the small of my back, pulls me up against his groin and presses my face firmly against his, I make a note to thank whoever opened his mouth.

Chapter 3
Senior Year
September 28, 2017
After School

Today was a good day.
I rarely have good days, so this is quite a remarkable statement. Lunch was chicken quesadillas, Mr. S let me sleep through world history, and the Pain was almost bearable. I am not sure anyone understands what the Pain feels like. It is not the aches and pains of working out too hard or sleeping on a hard surface. Sometimes I ask, “Have you ever missed someone so much that being without them gives you this dreary, dull aching?” More often than not, their reply is no. However, for the random few doctors, psychologists or family members that have answered with a nod, I tell them to multiply that achy feeling by 25. And imagine it has grown from an ache to Pain. Intense Pain.
Sometimes the Pain makes swim practice too difficult. Sometimes the Pain comes while I am in the water and it feels like my entire body is a muscle cramp. I think because daddy and I spent so much time here, and Jake spent so much time watching, it has a stronger trigger than most other places. On Sundays, when I didn’t have a swim meet, daddy would drag me down to the YMCA and we would spend an hour or so working on starts and turns. “Over” he would say. “Over”. He never said again, but over. Like the saying over and over and over again? He never wanted me to hit again. He said at the end of my career, before my last race, he would say again. We used to talk about that day and how sad he would be when it came. If he could only see me now and know how exponentially more depressing that day will be for me. Swimming is a love of my life, and I am running low on those. When I lose swimming, I am not sure I will be able to bear the Pain. The water is the only thing that washes it away anymore. I wish that the water would work it’s magic today. But it turns out today is not a good day.
It is almost the end of practice now. I know that because I hear the kickboards clammering up on deck, the sounds of flippers being thrown into the bin, and the splash of athletes diving back in for the warm down. I have been sitting in the locker room showers for the past 24 minutes, hoping that unchlorinated water can do what chlorinated can’t. The last set was a times two, and coach said “Over.” “Over.” It is such a simple word that haunts my every practice. A word that once was encouragement and inspiration now brings different emotions. Every time I hear that word at practice, my blood starts to freeze. Great. Here comes Ally.
“Hey Old Sport.” Since we read the Great Gatsby sophomore year, Ally has been spitting out references at least three times a day. It is something to adapt to, but after so long I forget they are Gatsby references and not Ally references. “Are you going to put some shampoo in that dying nest of chlorine or do you expect the water to get it all out? Did you bring the shower stuff in or did you leave it in the locker?”
I can always count on her. She never makes the situation awkward or looks at me in pity. She has never said “I’m sorry for your loss.” In fact, if she ever did, I would probably deck her in the face. Ever since I was little, I have always wondered how that gives any comfort to grieving loved ones. Sorry for MY loss? What about yours? What about society’s? It is like they only feel bad for the person standing next to the casket, not the person in it. Ally knows this. She knows I hate pity and attention. We rarely talk about Jake or dad. She is the only person in the world I would ever care to discuss them with, but the conversation of my dead loved ones isn't too appealing. She is better than any therapist though; She listens with heart instead of a clipboard. On the nights that followed Jake’s death, I spent about 6 of my 8 traditional sleeping hours with streams pouring down my face. We sat in silence for hours with my head on her shoulder and Kleenex boxes in her lap. Thats right, plural. She went out and bought 30 boxes on sale at Rite Aid. I couldn't get a much truer friend than this one. She returns with our Christmas loofahs and large bottles of shower supplies. I pull my body up off the ground and begin to run swimmer’s shampoo through my hair. Without this little bottle of wonder, I probably wouldn’t be able to run a comb through my rats nest. In fact, I have to get 2 Malibu treatments every month just so it retains some shiny appeal.
Today was an okay day.