You're Not Worthless Page 10

  Lucas follows me through the doorway, then closes the door and locks it.

  “Now I’m pregnant?” I shout, because at this point, there’s nothing else I can do but feel angry.

  “Kalani, anybody with a brain knows that you’re not pregnant,” Lucas says.

  “What about the 245 people who commented on the status?!” I shout. Another tear falls from down cheek.

  “Well then they’re idiots!” Lucas shouts back. “You don’t even know half of those people, so why do you care so much about what they think of you?”

  “Because they’re making my life miserable!” I say, my voice faltering. I let out a sob, and my whole-body rocks forward.

  Lucas is in front of me in two giant steps. He pulls me into an embrace, wrapping his arms around me.

  “I know they have, Kalani,” he says. “I... I can’t say that I understand what you’re going through...” He pulls away from me so that he can look me in the eyes.

  “And I can’t tell you why these kids are doing these awful things to you,” he says. “But I can tell you that we can stop this, together. Kalani, we have to tell someone. I don’t want to hear your reasons for not wanting to tell someone what’s going on. I don’t care if you’re embarrassed, I just want you to get help.”

  I look away from him, and stare at the floor instead. I shake my head slowly, not for any particular reason, but just because for some reason it soothes me.

  “I’m so tired,” I say but it’s barely a whisper.

  “I know you are,” Lucas says. “Which is why we should end this. End this, Kalani, so that you can have some peace. So that you don’t have to be tired anymore.”

  I don’t respond to that. I don’t respond because I don’t know what to say.

  Lucas doesn’t speak after that. He just sits down, right there in the middle of the bathroom floor, and pats the spot next to him. I sit down beside him, and rest my head on his shoulder. And we sit in silence, for the rest of the morning.

  * * *

  I decided that if I ran away for the rest of the day, people would make fun of me even more. Lucas is right, as hard as it is to admit.

  I can’t give up. I have to start defending myself.

  “Please don’t respond to the status,” Lucas says. “It’ll just add more fuel to the fire.”

  I nod. I don’t want to respond to the comments anyways. It’ll just be a waste of my time.

  I stayed in the bathroom throughout the morning, and through all of lunch, with Lucas. I spent the entire time crying on his shoulder and preparing to come back out like the status never even knocked me down.

  “I’ll see you after class, okay?” Lucas says. I nod, then step into class.

  This room has always seemed gloomy to me. The carpet, unlike the other classrooms in the school, is dark blue, and the walls are tan, but there’s nothing on them; no posters, no pictures, no nothing. The desks are lined up in rows facing the white board at the front of the room. I always sit in the back, to avoid drawing attention to myself. But today, the only seat available is the one smack dab in the front row.

  I take my seat, and try to ignore all of the staring.

  “Hey,” I hear a sharp whisper coming from the right of me.

  Ignore it, ​I think.

  “Kalani,” I hear again. I look over to see a boy that I’ve never met before, If I’m being honest, I’ve never seen him in this class before, but I don’t pay attention to who’s in the class. I just keep my head down.

  “Is it true that you’re pregnant?” He asks. His skin is pasty white, and his hair is a fiery red. His eyes are dark, like looking into an abyss. He doesn’t look like the other kids who just want to know because they’re nosey. I’m kind of scared because I can’t seem to read his intentions.

  “No,” I say.

  “So, are you saying that Jazmine lied?” He asks.

  I nod.

  “I don’t believe you,” the boy says. “I think you’re just embarrassed that you’re secret got out.”

  I don’t know how to respond, so I just don’t say anything. I look away, and stare at the teacher instead.

  “Maybe you should get a test done or something,” the kid says. I look back at him, confused.

  “You know, so that you can let the poor soul know that he’s a dad,” the boy says. A bunch of kids sitting behind me burst into laughter.

  “He’s right, Kalani,” a girl behind me says. She has dark brown skin and wild curly hair. “Maybe we should warn all of the boys in the school,” she giggles. “So that they can be prepared.” The group of kids laugh again.

  They continue to make jokes about my ‘pregnancy’ but I stop listening. I turn around and face the front again, fighting back tears. When the teacher turns her back to write on the board, I pull my phone out of my bag. I know Lucas told me to leave it alone, but I just can’t do it.

  To all of the idiots at this school who believe I’m pregnant, screw you. I’m not. And Jazmine Davis, you’re the biggest bitch I’ve ever met in my life for spreading such a stupid rumor about me. What are you, 12?

  I click post, and the status updates.

  “Mrs. Williams?” I hear from behind me. It’s that girl again. Kira, I think her name is.

  Mrs. Williams turns around, her dark brown eyes searching the room.

  “Are we allowed to have phones out in class?” Kira asks. I turn around to face her, surprised.

  “No, Kira,” Mrs. Williams says. Her short white hair bobs up and down as she turns all the way around to face the class.

  “Then why does Kalani get to have hers out?” She asks, sounding half innocent.

  Mrs. William focuses on me, then on the phone in my hand. She crosses the room, and stops right in front of me.

  “Give it to me,” She says, her hand outstretched. I stare at her for a moment. Then I place my phone into the palm of her hand.

  “You can come pick it up after school,” Mrs. Williams says, turning on her heel. She places the phone on her desk, then returns to the board at the front of the room.

  I turn to see Kira who’s wearing a smug smile. I’m not sure what the point of that was. If anything, all it did was irritate me. I turn back to face the front and try to pay attention to the lesson on the board. I’m not sure when people decided to hate me. I’m not sure what their end game is.

  * * *

  Lucas picks me up after fifth hour and walks me to my next class, just like always. He hasn’t mentioned anything about the school chat room, so I’m assuming he hasn’t seen what I wrote.

  The rest of the day seems to drag by uneventfully, until Lucas meets me at my locker at the end of the day.

  “Kalani, I told you not to respond to the status!” Lucas shouts. “You’ve only made it worse!”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, starting to feel worried.

  “Check your phone,” he says.

  “I don’t have my phone, I got it taken away. I have to go get it.”

  Lucas grabs me by the arm and begins pulling me down the hall. He’s walking so fast that I have to jog to keep up with him.

  “Which class?”

  “Fifth hour.”

  Lucas finally let’s go of me, running up the stairs to the fourth floor. I try to keep up with him but his legs are longer than mine. Lucas stops in front of my fifth hour classroom, so that I can go in first. Mrs. Williams looks up from where she’s sitting at her desk. Then she grabs the phone and hands it to me without even looking back up at me.

  “Don’t let me see it again, Kalani,” she says, still focused on the papers in front of her.

  “Okay,” I say. Then I meet Lucas back out in the hallway.

  Lucas doesn’t say anything. He just stares at me while I unlock my phone and log into the school chat room. The first thing I notice is that nobody responded to the status I posted. Apparently, people only feel the need to target me, and not Jazmine.

  Then I notice that my notifications are off the char
ts. Apparently, someone tagged me in a status. I click on the notification. A picture pops up under Jazmine’s name. At first all I can do is stare at the picture; the picture of my face photoshopped onto the bikini model’s body. The only difference is the bikini model’s body has been photoshopped as well; her stomach is bloated excessively.

  Jazmine’s caption explains the picture easily:

  Kalani posing for a photo-shoot in a few months. LOL!

  There are already 127 comments on the picture:

  I can honestly 100% say that this will be her! She’s such an attention seeker.

  Are you sure there’s a baby in there, and it’s not just a bunch of junk food? Seriously, the girl is already fat as it is.

  Again, I don’t feel bad for her, I feel bad for the baby.

  She’s not even pretty enough to pose for a regular photo-shoot.

  “Kalani,” Lucas says, and I finally tear my eyes away from the screen. “You shouldn’t have responded to her post.”

  “So, you’re saying this is my fault?” I ask, shocked. “What, you think I asked for this to happen?!”

  “I’m not saying this is your fault, I’m just saying that you only made Jazmine even angrier than she already is!” Lucas shouts. “Your post only made things worse.”

  “No, what made things worse was Jazmine. She ​made things worse, this is not my fault!”

  “I didn’t say it was!” Lucas shouts again, obviously angry. “I’m just-”

  “No,” I say cutting him off. “I’m so done! I’m done with everyone! And everything!” I stomp away from him and heading towards the main staircase.

  “Kalani!” Lucas calls out.

  “Leave me alone, Lucas!” I shout, still walking away. “You’re not helping anything!”

  I race down the staircase, and quickly make my way towards the main entrance doors. I don’t care if Lucas drove me to school. I don’t care if my car isn’t here. I’d rather walk home than ride home with someone who’s just going to blame me for what’s happening. This was not my fault, and I refuse to listen to him say it was.

  Fourteen

  Today is Saturday. My dad is at work, and so is my mom. Caden is at Soccer practice. Amelia is hanging out with her fiancé. And Mia decided to take Skylar to lunch, since ‘she never gets to see her little sister anymore’. Right, because Skylar is the only ​​one, she hasn’t seen in a while. What about me? I’ve been home alone all day. I would’ve called Lucas to come over, but I’m still mad at him from yesterday. I understand that he wasn’t trying to offend me, but he did.

  To make it seem like what happened yesterday was my fault... I can’t even stand it. I didn’t deserve this, yet everyone is making it seem like I did. I can’t get those stupid ​​comments out of my head. I’ve been reading them over and over, and I don’t know which is worse; the fact that I can’t stop reading them, or the fact that I’m starting to believe them.

  Kalani, you did this to yourself.

  I hope she dies before the baby ever gets a chance to meet her.

  I don’t feel bad for her, I feel bad for the baby.

  Consider this karma, bitch.

  I know that their opinions shouldn’t matter to me. But for some reason, they do. A lot of people seem to be oblivious. They don’t seem to understand that the things they say and do to someone else, does​ affect them. They don’t seem to understand that the things they say and do have an impact on a person’s life.

  I’m beginning to feel like if everybody else wants me to be dead, then maybe I should be dead. I’m so tired. I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired of trying. I’m tired of breathing...

  I am. I am tired of breathing. I am tired of being alive. I am so tired... The school chat room is still open on my phone, which is sitting beside me on my bed. I grab it, and click on the ‘update status’ button.

  I immediately begin typing, as if I’ve known what to say all along; the words just seem to flow out of me.

  To anyone who might care, which I guess at this point, is no one, I’m done. It’s getting harder and harder to fight. It’s getting harder and harder to try. It’s getting harder and harder to want to be alive. I don’t want to do this anymore. It’s just not worth it. My life is not worth it... My life is not worth living anymore.

  I know that nobody cares about what I do with my life; but I do... And if I feel like my life is no longer worth the effort... Then I don’t want to live this life anymore. I don’t blame you-any of you. This was not your fault. It was mine-just like everything else that’s happened to me since senior year started.

  I’m tired of making mistakes. I’m tired of feeling like everything I do leads to a consequence. I’m tired of pretending to be okay... Because I’m not okay; I’m hanging on by a thread that can’t seem to hold me up... And I’m drowning.

  I’m tired. I’m so tired. And I just can’t do it anymore.

  I’m done.

  Goodbye,

  ~Kalani.

  I click ‘post’ and read it over once it’s been updated. I know that nobody will care. They might even comment on it; say that I’m seeking attention, or that they’re glad I chose to die. I don’t care. This is my life; my choice. I leave my phone on my bed, and stand from my place. I cross the room, and head down the hallway. A few tears begin to form in my eyes. I blink, and they fall from their place. I decided a while ago that I no longer care if I cry. It doesn’t matter anymore.

  In my parents’ massive room, a picture of a white rose in full bloom hangs in a picture frame along the wall. The picture takes up a huge chunk of the wall. I cross the room, which is messy. The bed is unmade and there are a few pieces of clothing lying about on the floor. I grab the picture frame from its place on the wall, and set it on the floor. If there’s one thing anybody can learn from being unnecessarily rich, is that it pays to have protection at all times.

  There’s a safe, built into the wall, where the picture was hanging. I know the code. My dad forced me to memorize it at eleven years old, when someone broke into the house and stole a lot of valuable things. We were lucky that nobody was home at the time. If someone was, I’m sure it would’ve ended badly. My dad couldn’t let it go. He was paranoid that if it happened again, we wouldn’t be so lucky.

  He was afraid that someone was going to break in when we were home, and he wanted to be able to keep us safe if it ever happened. I scroll the dial to 27, then scroll it all the way around once. Then I stop it on 12, and scroll straight to 40. The lock clicks open, so I pull the door open. There it is. A small silver handgun, with three packets of bullets sitting next to it.

  My dad didn’t want anything big, and I don’t need anything big. This one will do just fine. I grab the gun from its place, wrapping my fingers around the handle. The metal is cool in my hand- it makes me shiver. It’s heavier than I expected. I grab a pack of bullets. I don’t close the safe door. I don’t put the picture back in its place on the wall because in half an hour, it won’t matter. I cross the room and head back down the hallway. As I’m walking, I can’t seem to get those comments out of my head.

  I hope she dies.

  She deserves nothing but misery.

  You did this to yourself.

  It’s like an echo, sounding in my head over and over. The more I hear it, the more I

  believe it.

  I hope she dies.

  I shake my head to get the thought out, but it doesn’t work. It’s still there, ringing at the back of my head, reminding me of the truth. Once in my bedroom, I close the door. I don’t lock it, because it’s like I said before; in half an hour, it won’t seem to matter. I sit down on my bed, and place the gun beside me. I trace my fingers up and down the handle, over and over.

  I hope she dies.

  Another tear slips down my cheek. My mind flashes back to everything that’s happened this year. From the photo shopped picture, to the video of the fight, to the pregnancy rumors.

  I let out a sob that sounds un-human. I feel my face c
ontort, and my whole-body rocks forward. My sobs are loud and ugly. They don’t sound like me. They sound like they’re coming from someone who has experienced pain; someone who is broken; someone who doesn’t want to be alive anymore. That’s when I realize that these sobs are mine; they do sound like me. I am in pain. I am broken. And I don’t want to be alive anymore.

  I let out a scream, followed by more sobbing. I stand from where I’m sitting on the bed and cross the room. I let out a growl as I ball my hand into a fist and punch the wall as hard as I can. I punch it over and over; the sound of drywall breaking against my skin, and my skin ripping against the paint pierces my ears, but I don’t stop. I don’t stop until my hand is throbbing and my fingers are coated in blood.

  I stop punching and rest my head against the wall. I let a few silent tears fall, my eyes closed, and for a moment, I feel calmer. But then I remember what happened, and I scream again.

  “I just wanna die!” I shout, knowing that nobody can hear me. I think that is the worst part about this whole thing; I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, but nobody seems to hear me, and I’m not just talking about right now. I’ve been alone. Since the very beginning. Screaming for help. But nobody cares to even turn their head.

  I hope she dies.

  I turn away from the wall, and cross the room again. I grab the gun from where it sits on my bed, and grab the pack of bullets.

  My hands begin to shake as I open the pack, and shake one bullet out. It lands in the palm of my hand, cold and hard.

  I open the chamber of the gun, and place the bullet inside. Then I close it. So much power; so much destruction. I stare at the gun in my hand, and think about whether I want to do this. At first, I wasn’t sure. But the more awful things that happen, the more I realize how painful this whole experience has been.

  A few more tears fall from my eyes. I sit down on my bed, and tap the gun against my left temple. My vision is beginning to blur from the tears, and I’m starting to get a headache. It’s okay. It’ll all be over soon. My chest is beginning to feel tight. I push my hand against my chest to try to relieve the pressure. It doesn’t work. If anything, it only makes it worse.