Empty. Part 16

When I'm satisfied, I grab my mother's car keys and limp out the door. I take a few long and drawn-out breaths before I start my trek down the stairs. I'm good. I can do this. I will never have to look at Brandon Levitt or Taryn Anderson again. They can have their beautiful, popular life, get married, get old. Then he'll get fat and lose his hair and she'll get stretch marks and a fat a.s.s.

"Go to h.e.l.l," I whisper to no one.

I make it to my mother's car, but I'm dripping sweat by the time I get there. As soon as I'm behind the wheel I have to wipe my hands on my jeans and mop off my face. I get the key in the ignition, and the car comes to life. Before any late-night nosy-bodies look out of their windows, I drive.

Not a single car pa.s.ses me on the road. Every stoplight is blinking. I like feeling as if I'm the only person awake. It's fantastically peaceful. I roll down my window and let the cool air whoosh against my flushed face. I let the car idle at the stop sign next to the softball field and stick my arm straight out my window and give it the finger. My cheek rests on my shoulder and I gaze at the dugout. It wasn't that my teammates never meshed with mea"I never meshed with them. I never gave any of those girls a chance.

My foot releases the brake, and I slowly accelerate. I un-stiffen my middle finger and form a fist. I punch the top of my thigh with everything I've got. With gritted teeth I take the pain; the sting will have to count as my apology to my team.

I pull into the parking lot and drive around the back of school. c.r.a.p, I forgot about the lights. They're always on in this parking lot. Doesn't matter, I tell myself, no one's here.

As soon as I park the car, the smell of trash invades my nostrils. I make no move to roll up the window. Instead, I close my eyes and let filth and rot slide into my lungs, where they feel right at home with my decomposing heart.

My buzzing phone makes my eyes snap open. Cara is still at it. I unzip my backpack and am about to turn off my phone when I'm face-to-face with her latest text.

We have to talk. I'll call u in morn.

I stare at her text and realize that I feel nothing. Cara will call me in the morning. I will not answer. I won't see her ever again, and I'm okay with this. I leave my phone on the front seat. I've gotta get in there. It's almost four o'clock.

I use the shoulders of my T-shirt to de-sweat my face again, then roll up the window. I grab my backpack.

Time to die.

I leave my mother's keys on the front seat and the car unlocked. I don't want her to have to pay some locksmith jerk to get them out. I don't slam the car door, but gently click it shut. The loud noise would break the tranquility.

The stairs down to the dark hallway underneath the stage are directly in front of me. I hope the door is unlocked like Cara said. I loop both arms through my backpack, like a five-year-old, and limp down the stairs. The metal doork.n.o.b is cold to the touch, and it turns all the way. Score.

I look over my shoulder with one last glance to make sure that I'm alone. I am. I push the door open, hop inside, and close it behind me.

I am in complete darkness.

"Ohhhh," I exhale. I have no phone. No flashlight. How the h.e.l.l am I going to make it to the stage? It's like construction-paper dark down herea"thick and pulpy and heavy. I lean my head back and gently gong it on the door once, twice, three times. How could I have forgotten how dark it was down here?

I wait until my eyes adjust. After a minute or so I can actually see. Who needs a flashlight? I have good eyesight. I go slowly because I don't want to knock into anything and make any more noise than I already have. I don't know if the custodial staff works on Sat.u.r.days, but I think I'd freak out if one of them stopped me from doing what I came to do. Now that I've made my decision, I can't go back.

I can't go backa"I don't want to go back.

The pills I took earlier dull my pain, so I quicken my pace. I reach the top of the stairs leading to the stage.

I ease the side door open and listen. I am alone. Only the red exit signs are illuminated, and compared to the darkness I just navigated, it seems as bright as day up here.

I make my way onto the stage and squint. Where's my traffic cone? I scan the s.p.a.ce. Someone put it back in its original place. How nice. The curtain is still closed. I was hoping it would still be closed.

I stand in the exact spot where I sang and take off my backpack. What happened on this stage floods my brain, but I remain calm. I let each moment replay as I breathe in and out. I want to remember it all: the fizz of the soda on my lips, the blood trickling down Kim's cheek, the few seconds of stunned silence before the rush of applause. The mooing. The airborne traffic cone. All of it. Each instance proves I was alive, that I lived. I did exist on this planet, even if it was only for seventeen years. I was here.

Will I be remembered?

I roll my eyes. I don't care about that.

I try to sit down on the stage, and I cry out in pain. Toe still broken. Body still obese. I stand there, out of breath. If anyone is in this building there's no way they didn't hear me scream. I strain to listen for footsteps. All is silent.

I am not dying in a chair. I'd be slumped in some ugly position or fall flat on my face. I have to get down on the stage floor somehow. I want to lie down. I lift my one leg out in front of me and go into a squat. Gravity and fat girls are a lethal combination, because it feels as if someone pushes me. I slam onto my a.s.s, and the back of my head smacks the stage. Hard.

"Ow. s.h.i.t. Ow." I reach back and check for blood. My hand is dry. At least I'm lying down now. My chest heaves as I get my bearings. I lift up on my elbows to locate my backpack. I must've kicked it across the stage by accident, because it's five feet away from me. G.o.d, my b.u.t.t hurts. I went down hard. I roll over onto all fours and crawl to my backpack. Each time my hands make contact with the stage, I see white spots. I probably have a concussion. I crawl back to my spot, dragging my backpack.

I want to die where I sang. It's stupid, but it's what I want to do. This is the spot where I was the happiest. I'm hoping the wood floor has leftover energya"blissful energya"that will penetrate my skin and lift my soul from this world. Lift me up to the stars.

Even though I didn't put anything about it in my note, I know it won't take that long for people to find me. School will be filled on Monday, and my mother's car is out back. They'll look around in here.

I unzip my backpack. I wish magic was real. Gazing into David Blaine's or Criss Angel's eyes as they did their magic and made me vanish into thin air wouldn't be bad. I smirk. Thin air.

There aren't s.e.xy magicians here. All I've got are pills.

I hold the pill bottle in one hand and the water in the other. I know I have to take every pill or it won't work. Some senior girl tried to kill herself with aspirin and allergy medication, but she didn't take enough of either and ended up with a pumped stomach and a bunch of finger-pointing and whispering.

I have to do it right.

Five pills down. I look up into the shadows of the stage lights above me. I'm relieved they're not on, because dying while cooking underneath hot lights like a convenience-store breakfast sandwich does not sound appealing to me. I sweat enough as it is. Five more. Deep breaths. Then another five. I inspect my water bottlea"I don't have much left. Why didn't I grab two bottles? Stupid. I swallow more pills with less water, and one gets stuck in my throat. I gag a few times, and then it's down.

I look inside the pill container to count how many groups of five I have to take. I dump what's left onto my palm. I've got twelve more to go. Three more swallows. I lift the water bottle up to my face. I think I can do it. The first group goes down easy. The stage lights are so big up there. Five more. My stomach twists. Is it happening already? It can't be; they're capsules. I swallow the last two and marvel that I still have a sip of water left. I finish it and lie back on the stage.

I don't feel good.

I feel like I'm going to throw up. I can't do that or everything will be ruined. I left a note. I can't throw up. Don't puke! I shout in my head. I don't.

I close my eyes. I am relaxed. I want this. I imagine the stage suddenly shooting light from underneath me, microscopic particles of happiness releasing from the floor and penetrating my skin. Through my layers of fat, I feel it. I swear I can. A warm sensation tingles up my legs. Are the stage lights on now? My eyes droop. It's still dark. But I can feel the happiness. It's real.

I lie perfectly still for a while. The absolute silence is calming.

A sharp p.r.i.c.kle starts in my fingertips and pulses with each heartbeat. I open and close my hands a few times, then rub the smooth, sh.e.l.lacked wooden floor beneath me. I can't feel anything. My hands are numb. I slowly lick my lips. Or do I? I can't tell.

Meggie! I forgot her blanket. I want it around my neck.

s.h.i.t. I don't feel good. I have lost all sense of time. It takes a tremendous amount of effort to pry my eyelids open. They form slits, but refuse to stay that way. I give in and just close them. I fish for my backpack, pulling it to my side. It's still unzipped. I fumble around. Where is it? How could I have forgotten to take out Meggie's blanket? Stupid. I can't find it. My stomach really hurts. I can't puke.

I love my sister.

I try to remember her smell. I can't do it. My eyes won't open. I love my sister. She smells so good. I love you, Meggie-bedeggie.

My sister smells like lo . . .

Author's Note.

DEAR READER,.

I did not write this book to sensationalize or shock. I intended Dell's story to serve as a window into her soula"the soul of a broken human being. I wanted you, precious reader, to feel the pain of the bullied, the neglected, the heartbroken, and the humiliated. I wanted you to experience the absolute power of hateful wordsa"whether said or typed online. Words count.

To anyone out there feeling alone: You're never alone. There is always someone you can talk to.

To anyone being abused: Tell someone. There is help out there that can make it stop.

To anyone who has been raped: Don't make excuses like Dell. Tell someone. Today.

And to anyone feeling suicidal, I say this: Even though we've never met, I want you to stay alive.

Talk to someone. Today. And if you're not satisfied with their reaction or level of help, talk to someone else. There is someone out there who will be your advocate.

If you know or even suspect that someone is feeling isolated or alone or suicidal, reach out to them. Ask if they are okay. Listen. Pay attention to their response. Look them in the eye. See them.

Validate them.

I sincerely hope Dell's story touched your heart.

K. M. Walton.

Acknowledgments.

TO TODD, CHRISTIAN, AND JACK, MY HUSBAND AND sons, a.k.a. the three loves of my lifea"thank you for loving me with absoluteness.

To my mom and my three younger sisters, who are my four best friendsa"I am blessed to call you family.

Much love and thanks to the rest of my family and friends. You make me believe in myself, and that's priceless.

Thank you to my first readers: Nikole Becker, Margie Pea.r.s.e, Christina Lee, Kathleen Scoboria, and Elisa Ludwig. Your insight and feedback helped shape Dell's story, and I will be forever grateful.

To Sarah LaPolla and Annette Pollert, my agent and editora"I still pinch myself because I can't believe you two geniuses are not only in my life, but are my agent and editor. Seriously, it's been such a privilege to have you both in my corner. Thank you for your hard work and dedication to this novel.

Thank you to the entire Simon Pulse team for giving Dell a beating heart. You all helped bring her to life.

Thank you to Radiohead for writing the song, "Codex," and to Coldplay for writing the song "Paradise." I must've listened to those two songs a million times while writing Empty, and with each listen I put myself in Dell's shoes. In my mind, "Codex" is for her and "Paradise" is about her.

Thank you, reader, for choosing Empty from the stuffed shelves and inviting Dell into your life. I hope you never forget her story.

K.M. Walton is also the author of Cracked. She spent twelve years teaching and loved every minute. She has a penchant for reading Entertainment Weekly cover to cover, and lives in Pennsylvania with her husband and two sons. Visit her at kmwalton.com.

Jacket designed by Russell Gordon.

Author photo by Todd Walton.

simon pulse SIMON & SCHUSTER, NEW YORK.

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