Do Not Resuscitate

Starvation sucks.

Especially at “where the fuck is the sun” o’clock in the morning, when the air conditioning in the car is up way too high and school is approaching and I think I’m going to fall asleep any minute or die and Dad is trying to play the role of doting father by rambling about school and teachers and homework and inviting friends to the house and things he knows nothing about and I haven’t had breakfast.

Val made pancakes.

With chocolate chips in them.

They smelled so good. I can’t stop daydreaming about them. Brooklyn had three. I could have eaten the entire batch. And drank the syrup straight from the container. And inhaled the cookies from yesterday. There were probably leftovers from dinner in the fridge, too.

Instead, I made myself a piece of toast, stood at the counter to pick at it, and when no one was looking, knocked it to the floor. Bella ate in seconds. She’s a good dog.

I could eat my own arm, I’m so hungry.

But that might freak Dad out.

“You look exhausted.”

Thanks.

How am I supposed to survive the school day? I can barely move. I’m going to be late for every class. At least I don’t have PE today. I can’t concentrate, but I haven’t paid attention in class for months. I’ll probably fall asleep in class. The teachers have given up on me, though. They won’t care. My head hurts. Like, really fucking hurts.

I hate everything.

“I’m sorry. I’d let you stay home, but Mom was pretty insistent about getting you to school.”

How reassuring. I look so terrible, Dad was considering letting me stay home. The kids at school are going to have plenty to talk about today. Glad I could be of some use.

“I packed you lunch,” he nods at the insulated lunch bag sitting between us. “Turkey sandwich, no crusts, Swiss, ranch. Cheetos, coke, cookies, and yogurt. With a spoon. I put an apple in there, too, since you didn’t have time to eat any pancakes.”

Food. He packed me food. Lots and lots of food. I used to dream about this, about Dad packing me a lunch, leaving cute notes that would make me feel okay after being torn down by the whispers in the halls, caring about me enough to make sure I knew someone out there wanted me around. Then I grew up. Dreams don’t come true.

“Remember what I said. You need anything, call. I’ll be here in a heartbeat.”

Stop. Please, stop.

We pull into the school’s lot, but Dad bypasses the line of cars waiting and heads for the visitor parking spaces. I don’t know what he thinks he’s doing. This isn’t how carpool works. Jesus, Dad, being a rock star doesn’t exempt you from waiting in the carpool line. I almost point at the line and make him aware of his faux pas, but I catch myself. Let him get in trouble with the administration.

He parks, and I swing the door open. I don’t wait for a, what’s sure to be heartfelt, goodbye. I don’t want to hear it. I shove out of the car, grab my empty backpack—I see no point in pretending I’m actually going to do anything at school today by filling it with binders and pencils and… rulers? I don’t know. I have no clue what’s going on in my classes—and swing it over my shoulders. I leave the lunch bag. Dad will think I forgot it when he gets home or he’ll forget all about the lunch bag sitting in-between our seats until he picks me up. I go to make a getaway, clean and perfect, but Dad gets out of the car, too.

And shuts the door behind him.

Dad, seriously, I can’t deal with you breaking from the norm today. Get back in the goddamn car.

“Here.”

He holds out the lunch bag. Apparently, he won’t let me conveniently forget it. The bag dangles from his fingertips, taunting. I don’t want to accept his offering. I don’t feel like playing today, but I take it from him anyway. The bag is heavy, weighed down by the food Dad jammed into it. I have to hold it with both hands. Pressure pushes on my chest and tightens my lungs. My skin tingles with awareness.

Ugh, food.

I’m so hungry.

No. Nope, nope, nope, whole bunch of nope. I’m not eating this. I can’t. I don’t care how tired I am or how much I hurt or how much my schooling is suffering or how much I’m screwing up. None of that matters. Nothing matters. As long as I don’t eat.

So I don’t give into the urge to rip the bag apart and shove the food down my throat. I stare at Dad, wait for him to say his goodbyes and get back in the car, but all he does is smile sheepishly at me. The expression looks strange on a man his size. Put the rocker scowl back on, Dad, people are watching.

“I need to talk to your principal.”

Goody. Going to feed him some lame excuse to cover for me skipping? Oh, I know, let’s use “Danny’s not feeling well.”

It worked on Brooklyn.

“I have to change your contact information.”

I don’t understand.

He speaks, but I don’t catch the words. He’s using the same voice he uses on Brooklyn, the one meant to soothe before hell breaks loose. The timbre is nice, low, smooth despite the natural scratchiness. I could listen to Dad read the phonebook in this tone, and I’d be content. Happy, even. But then his words register.

“Mom just needs a little break.”

The world tilts. Everything in my body tightens and knots in the most painful way. I can’t breathe. I think I’m going to vomit on Dad’s nice shoes. Tears cloud my vision, and I’m going to embarrass myself by crying in front of the school. I don’t care.

Mom’s giving me up.

“She’s stressed is all. You know how she is. Works too much, comes home late, does it over again the next day. She doesn’t have time for—” He cuts himself short, opens and closes his mouth, then clamps it shut and has the decency to look ashamed.

Go ahead and say it, Dad. Me. She doesn’t have time for me. Just like you. Don’t worry, you’ll both get a break soon. A nice, long break for all eternity. You won’t have to make an effort to remember I exist ever again.

I wonder how long it will take for them to forget me.

“She doesn’t know how to handle things like this,” Dad amends his slipup.

See, Dad, fixing a potential mistake isn’t hard.

“Danny?”

I turn and shuffle away, toward the school building. I don’t have time for this crap. Mom doesn’t want me. Dad doesn’t want me. I don’t want me. Same thing, different day.

Doesn’t mean it hurts any less.

Dad’s footsteps rush after me. Took him some time to get over the abrupt end to his conversation. Lucky for him, I can’t walk fast enough to make much progress, and he doesn’t have to run to catch up and keep pace with me.

“I’m sorry, sweetie.”

Fantastic timing, Dad.

“This is the last thing you need right now, I know, but Mom’s doing it because she cares. She loves you. She wants you better.”

Shut up. Stop talking to me in that voice. I’m not Brooklyn. I won’t throw a tantrum because Mom is tired of pretending to want me around. I’m not a child.

“Danny, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Too late.

I head up the steps, dodging groups of students loitering outside, and push through the giant double door. Dad continues to walk with me. The hall is quieter than normal, aside from excited murmurs. Students stare. Their eyes burrow under my skin. I did something. I don’t know what, but I know I did something. I keep my gaze to the floor, keep my head down, keep my shoulders slouched, keep moving. If I don’t draw attention to myself, they’ll leave me alone.

“Danny, are you okay?”

I stumble to a stop.

Oh, right, Dad. The M. Shadows is at school. He’s walking through the halls. He’s probably smiling and nodding at people. He’s breathing the same air as them. The staring isn’t about me. It’s about him.

We passed the principal’s office.

I face him, purposefully look towards the door of the principal’s office, then at Dad’s shirt. All black today and wrinkled. He probably didn’t change it before bringing me to school.

“I’m sorry.”

He’s repeating himself. Put it in a song, Dad.

“Let’s pick up ice cream after school today. We can talk.”

You can talk. I’ll pretend to listen.

He pulls me into a tight hug. It’s uncomfortable, and I don’t like it. Even worse, people are watching. Great. Fucking great.

"Go meet up with your friends,” he mumbles and releases me. “I’ll pick you up. On time. I promise.”

Forgive me if I don’t believe you, Dad.

“Bye, sweetie.”

With one last dimpled smile, he traces his steps back to the principal’s office and disappears. I stand there, rooted in place, listening to the excited whispers around me and debating my options. I wonder if I can get away with skipping school and sleeping in the park. Probably not.

Looks like I’m stuck suffering through the school day.

I go back to shuffling through the hall. I hear pieces of whispered conversations as I maneuver around students.

“M. Shadows was—”

“—Dannilynn”

“Why was she—”

“—freak? Seriously?”

“I thought Brooklyn was—”

“—tie that man to a bed and—”

Ew.

I don’t stop at my locker. I don’t need textbooks. They’re heavy, and I’m not using them. Besides, stopping for even a second will make me vulnerable. Vultures prey on the stagnant bodies.

I shuffle and dodge and keep my head low and hope no one notices me, which is stupid because I stand out. For the wrong reasons. Sweats aren’t fashionable in SoCal, and I err on the side of too thin. The ponytail doesn’t hide the grease in my hair. I don’t think it’ll ever be clean again. My skin, what’s visible of it, is turning yellow. My nails have a hint of blue to them. There are dark circle under my eyes, but all I do is sleep. I’m breaking out. I’m a hot mess. I’m an easy target.

I duck into my first hour class. English. The room is empty aside from the teacher sitting at her desk going over papers. Lesson plans, an assignment I didn’t do, I don’t know what, but she looks up. Her brows knit. There’s judgment in her deep-set eyes. There’s always judgment in her eyes when she looks at me.

I can’t remember her name.

“Dannilynn,” her voice is stern by nature, “I hope you’re feeling better.”

She doesn’t care.

What is her name? Something with an A, I think. Mrs. Alexander, Adams, Allen. Or maybe it was a B. Or any other letter of the alphabet.

Mrs. Some Letter of the Alphabet goes back to her papers. She’s done trying to interact with me. Fine by me. I have no reason to talk to her. I just want to sleep. In fact, that’s exactly what I’m going to do… try to do.

I look down at the lunch bag clutched in my hands. It’s heavy. I should have tossed it in my locker. I’ll have to carry it around until I get the chance to stop by my locker again. I don’t want to carry it. I don’t want to look at it. I don’t want to eat it. I can’t eat it.

I drop the whole lunch bag in the trashcan by the door.

Fuck it.

I shuffle to my seat, the one at the back corner of the classroom near the window, drop my empty backpack to the floor, and plop into the chair. A sharp pain shoots up my spine. My nonexistent ass is complaining already. The black spots appear and send me off center for a moment, but they disappear quickly.

Ow. These chairs, they’re uncomfortable. I have no padding to protect myself. I planned ahead, put on extra socks, to avoid the pain of walking because the padding in my feet is gone, but I didn’t plan for this.

Should sew pillows into my sweats.

Oh my god, that’d be amazing. Why isn’t that a thing yet?

Dad can create it. Part of his “tribute to my dead daughter” activities. It makes total sense. Do a song, create an organization, do a couple talks and interviews, make sweatpants with pillows in the butt. Mom’s fashion house can produce them.

She’d never go for it. Had I died younger, she would have created any of the weird clothing I suggested. The duck-shaped skirt was brilliant in my opinion. I’m too old now, and she’s the CEO, and You should know better, Dannilynn.

I hope she at least makes the duck-shaped skirt of my childhood dreams. She doesn’t even need to sell it. Keep it in the living room, my old room, somewhere. I’d appreciate it. But I’ll be rotting six feet underground. I won’t see it, and she’s washed her hands of me anyway.

I settle my head on bony arms, hold back another wave of tears. This isn’t comfortable, not by a long shot. I close my eyes, hope for sleep. The bell ring. Students begin to flood the room, loud, rowdy, obnoxious.

Great.