Just Like Me

Just Like Me

She passed me in the hallway. Her name was Sam, and she walked ahead of me
quickly, faster than usual, clearly irritated. Everyone always stayed out of her way during school. The sweat was pasted on her forehead. She had dirt colored brown hair. It was excessively frizzy and oily. She had green eyes, a pale itchy green, the kind you see on pine trees. The two things together didn’t make a pleasant combination. She was very finicky. It was sort of annoying, actually. Except, she was really shy and timid, too. But she was not shy when she was annoyed. She let everything she thought out of her mouth, no matter how rude or inconsiderate. Everything you said she had something to “declare” about it. That was before the deaths, though.
I imagined the day someone came in to tell her that her parents had died. I would be dreading physics while she would be told her life was over, basically. Someone from the office, probably Ms. Bloom, since she was the social worker, came in and told her to step out side of the classroom for a moment. And to bring her bags, too. She might have bought her to her office and sat her down in the scratchy brown leather chair. Then the squish squashing as she sat down slowly and panicked. “I have some dreadful news for you, Sam. I really…loathe having to be the one to tell you this.” I bet Sam’s face was already tearful, just from anxiety of what she would say. Ms. Bloom stuttered. “Your parents-ˮ she blinked in nervousness. Sam probably felt like she was about to puke up her small breakfast. Her stomach felt like it was cake batter and the wheel wouldn’t stop turning in her stomach, mixing all the anxiety, the troubles, the feeling of extreme worry. A silver tear flowed down her cheek. “I…don’t know how to say this. I—your parents have passed away. I’m so sorry.” At that Sam was just sitting there, in shock. Ms. Bloom came over, hugging her, and crying herself.
That was when she just stopped talking…she stopped living. She was simply a dot on the planet; not wanting to be there, but not wanting to get off. She never raised her hand in class. She never went to school functions or anything like that. Seeing her every day act so differently from how she used to in middle school was painful. I know I didn’t mean much too her at the time of her parents death, but I tried to make her days at school a bit better. I didn’t tease her like I used to. I didn’t prove her wrong in class when she gave an answer. And when we passed in hallways, I said hey, and asked her what was up. She never did answer, but sometimes she gave me a little nod with her shoulder twitching. Sometimes, when I was up late at night roaming around through my house in a tee-shirt and flannel plaid pants, I would think of her, and wonder what she was doing. Was she crying herself to sleep with black puddles of mascara flowing down her cheeks? Or would her lips be all chapped and her hair all tangled? Maybe she would be just lying there, reading, or thinking of the memories with her parents. And she was wondering, “Why me?” No one in school knew what her life was like… or what it must be like to have both of your parents gone…forever. And to know that they’re not coming back.
There are not many rumors about her since this did happen three years ago. When it did first happen though, people could not stop talking. Even the students’ parents talked about her too. Then they told their thoughts to their kids and then their kids told their friends and it was all over town in no time. And the gossip obsessed people did not cease for several months. And it was so easy for this to happen, too, because it was such a small town. Everybody knew everyone. The rumors were tormenting to even hear. After school one day, I was hanging out with my friend, Rachel, and she started talking about her. “Like, I think she killed her own parents!” I got up out of the hard desk chair and slapped her rosy red face. I knew that that wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. Rachel and I weren’t friends anymore. And after that I realized how stupid I was before Sam’s parents died. Now, I know how mean and cruel I was to her. I ruined parts of her life. Her parents’ death really taught me something. I think it taught everyone something, though. The typical, probably, about how, “Death is so unexpected and horrible! But it will never happen to me, I mean, that’s so rare.” And even though that’s not true, I guess it counts for something.
One day I saw her with a book in her hand. It was blue, and there was a red rose painted on it, perfectly. The petals curled like they were supposed to and the thorns came up at the right spots. And the colors were all good. I wish I knew what was in it sometimes. Maybe she’s writing a magical story to distract herself from the troubles of her own reality. Or maybe it was a book someone else had written that helped her in overcoming her parent’s death. It could even be a journal, her just scribbling down thoughts in her head.
I never saw her without it. And if a teacher asked her to put it away, she refused. They just let it go, though, because most teachers knew about…the incident? The accident? The problem? I don’t know what to call it.
I confronted her about it once in the faded green bathroom. “You have that book like…all the time.”
“Leave me alone. Damn. I know some of the things you and your friends say about me. So don’t try to act like you’re so remorseful. I know you’re not. Bitch.”
This, to me, was quite unexpected. She had been such a quiet person in the past few years and then she exploded on me out of no where. How peculiar.
“I was just making an observation. I’m sorry.”
“Save your apologies. You don’t know me. You never have. You never will. So don’t try to,” she defended.
“I’m not trying to…know you. I’m trying to help you.”
“Well you can’t.” and she walked out. Her face was the color of white chalk and as vacant and empty as chalk too after that day.
“What is in that damn book?! God, I have to know.” I thought later that night. I was so curious and I didn’t even know why! Damn, damn, damn, damn! It could be anything! It could be an autobiography filled with inner secrets about her life after her parents died. Or a journal. Or a book about the life no one knows about where she’s a little scandal where she goes out every night and gets drunk and high at the same time to distract her from the reality of her own nightmare of a life. Or a list of all important dates in her life. Or well….it could be ANYTHING. Why can’t I know? I thought this over and over and over again and thought of all the possibilities of what could be in that little hell of a book.
I did this most nights for several weeks, wondering about her and why she was in my life. Wondering why her parents died. How? I even tried to imagine what her parents looked like. Her mother was beautiful in the most feminine of ways. She had very long red hair like the color of fresh strawberries in the summer. She matched this color on her lips with the most red lipstick. And then she wore turquoise eye shadow and charcoal black eye liner. Then, to top it all off, she wore lots of purple. That shade of lavender purple that was identical to the color of her eyes.
I bet she was really close to her parents too. Like, really close. Or maybe she was far off from them, not close at all. I liked to fantasize, however, that she was really close to them and that they were the perfect little family all together and happy. And the dad liked the mom and the mom liked the dad. And there was no drinking, abusing, attitudes and frustrations. They didn’t scream at each other like maniacs. They didn’t curse at each other when they got mad, if they ever got mad, and they sat down to eat dinner together with the blue candles lit and the napkins properly adjusted to their necks. And they had shiny silverware, perfectly sized. And their house was perfect, welcoming, and friendly. And thinking about how perfect their family probably was made me think of how much it wasn’t anymore. Now it was just Sam. All by herself.
She was walking along the side of the hallway, out of everyone’s way. Her eyes were dark and her hair was hanging in front of her face. I waved to her and she rolled her eyes and gave me the finger.
On Tuesday, I was riding my bike around the town and happened to see police cars in front of a house. There was caution tape surrounding it. And I knew, instantly, that it was Sam’s house. Ambulances and fire trucks were going the speed of light around the neighborhood, and then screeched over to her house. “What the hell?” I murmured to myself. I snuck into the backyard, satisfying my curiosity. There was the journal. There it was. I opened the cover. This is for you, you know who you are, I knew you had been wanting it. That’s what I wanted so dearly to find. But the journal was not there. Or anywhere, for that matter. The reason that the ambulances, fire trucks, and police cars was there was because the house was in flames from the inside out. Large purple, blue, red, and orange flames rose over the house as if it was committing suicide itself. And I missed Sam then more than I ever had. Why? Because the colors of the flames reminded me of all the colors of her. Purple, for the passion. Blue, for the sadness. Red, for the anger. And orange, for the energy of her insults and emotions. The cops never did find the aunt and uncle. People claimed that they saw them in small towns when they were on vacation but they would go look for them there and they would be gone. The house burned to ashes that day, a lot like my interest for Sam. She was gone, and finally, I could accept it.
“Beep beep beep beep.” I took my arm out of my fuzzy blankets that were piled on top of me like bricks on a building. I slapped the alarm clock off the side table and realized I was just dreaming. I went downstairs to see my dad sleeping on the sofa for the twentieth day in a row. Parents, parents, parents. Will they ever stop fighting, I thought. I turned on the TV.
“Now, our latest story. Sam McMillan has been found to have killed her parents as of this morning at 3:43 AM. They concluded this after finding…” I turned off the TV. It wasn’t true. It wasn’t. It wasn’t. My dad got up and tried to go upstairs back into his bedroom and I heard my mother scream, “Get out you bastard!” He came back down stairs, sleepily, and he laid back down on the sofa; a few minutes later I heard him snoring. I couldn’t believe that Sam had killed her parents. I didn’t. I wouldn’t. It would be all around school and she would be put in jail…I wished I was dreaming again. I pinched myself pointlessly, knowing that all of this was real.
“God damn,” was all I could say. Why did she have to do that? Now she’s ruined everything. I thought she was this nice delicate, vulnerable, docile person and she’s not. She’s a murderer. No! She freaking can’t be! But she was. And I knew it.
I stayed home from school that day. My parents didn’t notice anyway. I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep. I just lied there. I went to school the next day and she still wasn’t there, of course. I didn’t do my homework. I didn’t listen in class. I yelled profanities at the teacher when they nagged on me for not participating in class.
I was in front of the black-bricked jail station on a Thursday afternoon. Inside it was all humid and musty and gross. I couldn’t breathe. I went where they told me to.
I saw her. There she was with her brown hair hanging in her face again. She looked up, noticed me, and didn’t look surprised. I whispered, “C’mon. I‘m bustin’ you out.” She didn’t say anything except, “back window. The keys are on the table.” I went, grabbed them, and ran back out. I opened the window and she climbed with her baggy brown pants and a lime green shirt on that was too big for her. It smelt like she had not taken a shower in several days…weeks maybe. Her eye liner was so smudged and she, for some reason, did not have any shoes on. Not even socks.
We got in my car and made a run for it. Some people might’ve said I didn’t think about what I was doing, but I knew. I knew that if the police caught us, I’d get arrested too. I knew it would go on my record and that I’d have to have a lot of money to get me back out. But I didn’t care.
She just sat in the small car that smelt of junk food, since I always ate at Burger King and Wendy’s in here.
“Why…How…”
“Don’t ask me anything. Just get me out of here and I’ll thank you later,” she said like she wasn’t thankful at all. In fact, she sounded like she’d rather be in the rainforest-like jail cell then with me.
“Sam, I’m trying to help you here. The least you could do is show a little niceness.”
“I’m not good at apologizing or showing kindness, or gratitude.”
“Maybe you should learn. You’re being a bitch.”
“Fuck you, man. I would’ve been fine in that jail cell without you. I had it all planned out. You just busted me before I did.”
All of a sudden I hated her. Hated, loathed, despised, detested. She was pissing me off more then I could tell anyone.
“Get out. Now.” I didn’t care what happened to her or how she dealt with all this. Or anything.
“Fine.” And I pulled over, let her out, and went back home.
The cops caught her that night after someone reported her. They knew I had something to do with it. “She had nothing to do with it. Don’t blame anything on her. And she made up this huge story in such perfect detail about how she got herself out of jail and I was no where in it. And everyone believed her.
There were rumors about me, after that. I went back to school. And everyone said, “She’s the new Sam. Don’t you think?”