Third—I’d gotten the idea of plummeting to my doom off a roof from a Nick Hornby book, and I liked the literary touch.
Yup. Back to the original plan.
I hopped onto the train, pushed my AirPods knockoffs into my ears, and scrolled through my phone. “Watermelon Sugar” drowned the outside noise.
I wondered if Harry Styles ever thought about committing suicide, decided that he hadn’t, and rolled On the Road into a cone, tucking it into the back pocket of my skirt.
I’d told Leah I was going to a party, but she’d been too wiped out from her double shift at the bodega down the street to notice fourteen-year-old girls weren’t supposed to go to parties on Valentine’s Day at ten at night.
She’d also forgotten my birthday today.
Or maybe she’d pretended not to remember because she was mad.
Not that I blamed her.
I didn’t know how she could look me in the eye.
Don’t worry. She doesn’t.
It wasn’t the only reason I was killing myself tonight. But it was one of them.
That was the thing about despair. It built up like a Jenga tower. Higher and higher, on shaky ground. One bad move, and you were toast.
My sister hated me.
She hated me every time she looked in the mirror. Every time she went to a job she loathed. Every time I breathed.
Coincidentally, she was the only person in this world I had left. My death would come as a relief.
Sure, at first, she’d be shocked.
Disturbed.
Sad, even.
But once those feelings began to fade…
My suicide was a tightly knit constellation of tragedies, sewn together by bad luck, circumstances, and despair.
But not having my birthday acknowledged this year? That took the cake. Which was actually kind of punny when I thought about it.
I climbed the stairs out of Cathedral Parkway. Arctic wind slapped my damp cheeks. The soundtrack of the Manhattan traffic, car horns, and drunk fuckboys filled my ears.
I strode past corporate buildings, fancy apartment blocks, and historical monuments. Dad used to say I was born in the best city in the world.
Only seemed fair that I’d die in it, too.
Breaking off onto a side street, I arrived at my school.
This was my first year at St. Paul, a K-12 college prep in the better part of town. I rode a full scholarship, something Principal Brooks had enjoyed shoving in my face until The Night Of happened and it suddenly became unkosher to be a dick to a kid whose parents just died.
Basically, the scholarship rewarded me for being the best student in the mediocre elementary and middle schools outside this zip code.
Some random-ass, couture-loving lady from the Upper East Side had agreed to pay my way through private school until I graduated, as part of some charity event.
Last year, Mom had forced me to write her a thank-you letter.
She never replied.
I hadn’t been at St. Paul long enough to actively hate it, so that wasn’t why I’d chosen to off myself from its roof.
But it was hard not to notice the railed stairway on the side of the six-floor Edwardian monster, leading to the rooftop.
Such a convenient suicide venue, it’d be a crime to choose anywhere else.
Apparently, the staff of St. Paul knew giving overstressed students access to the roof was not the brightest idea, but the stairway had to stay.
Some health and safety BS.
They’d put a chain around it, but you could climb over easily. Which I did, ascending the stairs in no hurry.
Death could wait a few more minutes.
I’d imagined it so many times, I could almost feel it.
Static silence.
Lights out.
General numbness.
Utter bliss.
When I reached the top, on the last stair, I made a split-second decision and nicked the inside of my wrist over the rusty rails. Blood materialized on cue.
Now I would die with a scar.
My hands were clammy, and I was out of breath as I wiped the deep scarlet over my kilt. I stopped in my tracks when my feet hit the ink-colored shingles.
The roof was slope-ridged. Three chimneys curled skyward, their mouths blackened with ash. New York stretched before me in its morbid glory.
The Hudson. The parks, churches, skyscrapers partly covered by clouds.
City lights danced across the dark horizon.
This city had seen wars and plagues and fires and battles. My death wouldn’t even make it to the news, probably.
I noticed something.
Something I hadn’t expected to see here.
Actually, it was a someone.
Clad in a black hoodie and track pants, he sat on the edge of the roof, dangling his feet, his back to me.
His shoulders hunched dejectedly, he peered down, ready to jump.
He leaned forward, one inch eating the other.
Slow.
Determined.
Steady.
It was a knee-jerk reaction, the decision to stop him. Like flinching when someone threw something in your face.
“Don’t!” I barked out.
The figure froze.
I didn’t dare to blink, too stressed he’d be gone when I opened my eyes.
For the first time since The Night Of, I didn’t feel like a complete piece of shit.
I bet they’ll ask why.
Why did he do that?
Why did he dress like a weirdo?
Why would he fuck his brother over like that?
Well, allow me to en-fucking-lighten you.
I was doing it because Tate Marchetti was a sonuvabitch.
Trust me, I lived with the guy.
He’d torn me from my father and didn’t even stop to ask me what I wanted to do with my life.
If I could die twice just to rub it in my big brother’s smug face, I happily would.
Anyway, about my suicide.
It wasn’t a rash decision.
Suicide had built its case over the years. Then, last week, I’d jotted down pros and cons (cliché, I know—sue me).
I couldn’t help but notice one part of the list fell short.
pros:
Tate is going to have a coronary.
No more school.
No more homework.
No more getting my ass whipped by rando jocks who watch too much Euphoria.
No more Harvard vs. Yale discussions during dinner (can’t get into either with my grades, even if Dad donates three wings, a hospital, and a kidney to these schools).
Bonus points: dying young is rock n’ roll.
cons:
Will miss Dad.
Will miss my books.
Will miss Charlotte Richards—side note: I don’t even know her. So what if she’s pretty? WTF?
I plucked a can of Bud Light from my backpack and chugged it down. It was foamy from the journey here, and my fingertips were freezing, and I should just get it over with.
I was about to do just that when it caught my attention. The tap-tap-tap of feet coming up the stairs.
What in the…?
Tate didn’t know I was here, but if he’d found out by some miraculous chance, he worked a night shift Morgan-Dunn Hospital.
Which left someone else from St. Puke who’d noticed the same hidden metal stairway. Probably a drunk couple sneaking in for a quick lay.
I leaned forward to jump before they could see me when I heard, “Don’t!”
I froze, not turning around.
The voice was familiar, but I didn’t let myself hope, because if it was her, I was definitely hallucinating.