Julie Anne Peters - By The Time You Read This, Ill Be Dead

Text copyright 2010 by Julie Anne Peters

All rights reserved. Published by Disney Hyperion Books, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney Hyperion Books, 114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011-5690.

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First Edition

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V567-9638-5-09305

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data on file.

ISBN 978-1-4231-1618-9

Design by Elizabeth H. Clark

Reinforced binding

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Table of Contents

To C. J. Bott

for her tireless campaign against bullying

23 DAYS

The white boy, the skinny, tall boy with shocking white hair, sneaks behind the stone bench and leans against the tree trunk. Since I cant move my head, I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He could be a ghost. For a minute I think hes here to contact me, but that would be stupid. I dont see dead people.

He pulls out a paperback and starts reading.

I hunch over my own book.

Moms black CR-V crunches to the curb and idles. I rip out the page I just read, ball it in my fist, and stand.

The white boy watches me. I dont make eye contact. Not with him. Not with anyone.

I shoulder my book bag, walk to the car, open the door, and get in. My thighs squeeze together.

Who is that? Mom asks. Shes peering over my shoulder at the white boy. In the side-view mirror, I see hes moved to the bench and taken my spot. Like he did yesterday.

Was he talking to you? Do you know him?

Hes into me, Mom. He likes ugly sick girls who have to wear neck braces.

She shifts into drive. I dont want you associating with people outside of school, people I dont know. If anyone talks to you, go back inside the building.

What if I talk to them ?

That was a joke.

She checks the rearview mirror to merge into the street. Her face is filled with worry lines. Your father has a late meeting with a client, so itll just be us for dinner.

She smiles expectantly.

I cant even look at her.

Ill be leaving for Houston in the morning, but I shouldnt have to stay more than two days. Dad will drive you to school and pick you up. He may be a few minutes late if he cant get away by two thirty, but you just wait for him on the bench. We circle the roundabout and she adds, If that... person, if anyone bothers you, tell your dad.

Sure, Mom. Ill use sign language.

Wal-Mart, on my right, is packed. Oh, I really need to stop for deodorant and toothpaste. She slows at the entrance, but doesnt turn in. We pass the Wal-Mart. Never mind. Ill get them on my way to the airport.

Her eyes betray the fear. Shell never lose it. She doesnt stop because shes afraid Ill have a wack attack. Ive only had one in public, but it happened when she left me alone in the car. It was in our red car, the old one. I was ten. She needed to pick up a few groceries at King Soopers on our way home from school. She said a few. I had to go to the bathroom, but I figured a few meant a few minutes. She said, Ill be right back. She said that: Right. Back.

The door shut and instantly all the air in the car compressed. I couldnt breathe. Minutes ticked by. The walls closed in. She left me there, alone, and I knew, I just knew she was never coming back for me. My bladder ballooned like Id been guzzling water for weeks, and even when I crossed my legs and scrunched up tight, I couldnt hold it.

At the first dribble, I squealed. Then I exploded. I dont remember screaming or honking the horn. The fear of being locked inside, I remember every day. If I close my eyes, I can hear the ringing in my ears, still, from the blaring horn. I see the distorted faces of everyone peering through the window. Moms panicked eyes. The door unlocking and her hand wrenching mine away from the horn.

Whats the matter? she cries.

I heave a sob. I peed my pants. The stretchy pink capris she just got me. Ruined.

Mom gives me that look, like, Who are you? What are you?

She has to tell the people, Its nothing. Shes fine. I was only gone a few minutes.

People leave.

Shes humiliated.

Why did you do that? she said between clenched teeth as we drove away fast. She was powerless to control me. She still is. I was trapped, Mom. Why dont you get that?

Peeing my pants isnt the reason she cant leave me alone now. Im under twenty-four-hour suicide watch.

If I could speak, Id tell her, What can happen in a few minutes changes you forever.

22 DAYS

I found Through-the-Light by accident. I dont normally believe in accidents. Divine intervention, maybe. Except I dont believe in God. I want to. I just cant. Theres a higher power guiding me, for sure, because it guided me to Through-the-Light.

I dont remember what I was searching for on the Web. Suicide. Death. Wills. That was it. Wills. I wanted to write a will. It wouldnt be legal or anything, since Im not eighteen. I just thought a will would be less personal than a suicide note. Less... upsetting.

www.Through-the-Light.com popped up on my screen.

My eyes were drawn to the bits and pieces of description: assist completers ... if your time is now ... may not discourage or dissuade ... self-termination is your right .

I had to choose it, maximize the window. Through-the-Light is a site where people will themselves away. Thats the only way to explain it. You dont have to pay and you dont fill out forms to make it legal. Who cares about legalities when youre dead?

The home page is black and white. No frills. No flashing ads. That attracted me. When you enter, your monitor goes completely blank, then this white, burning light almost blinds you. If you look hard, and dont look away, you see the message:

Are you ready to pass Through-the-Light?

Id been ready my whole life.

The default answer is No .

I tabbed to Yes .

A pop-up box appeared and I was asked to sign this privacy policy, which I didnt read all the way through at the time. I should have. The last paragraph ended, By agreeing to the terms of this site, you release Through-the-Light of all responsibility for your actions .

Agree? No Yes

I clicked my mouse pointer on Yes .

Please press dominant index finger to screen.

Why? I thought. Weird, but I did it.

Please wait.

I swore I felt heat through my skin.

Do you agree to the minimum and maximum time limits?

Yes No

Whatever. I wanted in.

I chose Yes .

Thank you, Daelyn Rice.

What? How did it know my name?

Your ID is J_Doe071894.

Which was eerie. July 18, 1994 is my birthday. Dad mustve set up a profile for me on this computer and not secured it. Stupid. Everyone whos registered or accepted by Through-the-Light is J_Doe something. Anonymous, genderless.

There were three selections on the main menu: DOD , FF , WTG .

I didnt know what they meant.

Start at the beginning, I figured. I moved my pointer to DOD and clicked. A message popped up.

Touch screen activated.

My new PC has a touch screen. When my parents gave me back my computer privileges, they surprised me with this new PC. Parentally controlled, of course. Id used touch screens on the kiosks at King Soopers and Wally World. I pressed my right index finger on DOD and a list appeared.

J_Doe092854

J_Doe031392

J_Doe102385...

Eight people. Or members. Or pulses of light.