PARADISE
"Once upon a year gone by,
She saw herself give in.
And every time she closed her eyes
She saw what could have been."
The package was there.
It was propped against the door, eyeing me like a predator ogles its prey right before devouring it whole. Standard brown, square package, sealed with duct tape. My name -- Zachary Goode -- was printed neatly with a cobalt pen, but there was no return address.
I glanced around, as if expecting the mailman to be nearby so I could ask for an explanation. What was this lousy box doing outside my door without a return address? It's not like anyone would actually be sending mail to me…right?
Rolling my emerald eyes with a heavy sigh, I scooped up the surprisingly heavy package and brought it inside, where I dumped my backpack and shoes by the couch before darting into my room. "I'm home," I mumbled quietly, half-heartedly to myself. No one else would answer, of course.
I sat down on the mahogany bed, the peculiar package cradled on my knees.
I ran a hand through my tight, chestnut-colored curls once before ripping open the package with gusto, as I quirked a grin at whatever could possibly be locked away in this cardboard box. It made me quite curious -- after all, this stuff didn't happen everyday.
What I saw, however, was nothing I could have expected.
Seven neatly stacked, ink-black audiotapes with numbers printed on the sides. One, three, five, seven, nine, eleven and thirteen. Huh? Perplexed, I flipped over the first one. The backside read 'two.'
What the…?
Was this some kind of joke? It didn't seem like something my sort-of friends from school would do -- anonymously ship me seven audiotapes? No way. Confused, but nevertheless curious, I stole across the room and slipped through the doorway, aiming to snag the old Walkman from the cupboard by the kitchen.
I popped the first tape in and settled back on the couch with anticipation. Whoever had sent me these tapes would soon be revealed, right? Yes. Yes, of course.
Hello, Cameron Morgan here. Hopefully you haven't forgotten me yet.
My breathing hitched unceremoniously as I fumbled desperately with the pause button. I wrenched the earplugs out of my cranium and sat back against the couch. My fingers trembled. You have to be kidding me -- Cameron Morgan, Cammie. No. Not her, please, not her, not…
Cameron Morgan was dead.
She'd killed herself.
"She slowly swallows all her fear
And soothes her mind with lies.
Well, all she wants and all she needs
Are reasons to survive."
CAREFUL
"I settle down
A twisted up frown
Disguised as a smile, well
You would have never known."
Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, God, no!
This wasn't happening. I sprang off the couch like it was on fire and began pacing the dilapidated living room, angrily running my thin, tanned fingers through my hair. Cameron Morgan's voice simply could not be resonating from those tapes. I'd sworn…I was supposed to…
She wasn't supposed to barge back into my life like this. She was supposed to be gone.
I was hideously compelled to continue listening, so I heaved a sigh and sat back down on the couch, next to the Walkman. I glared at it, but it stayed innocently immobile. Maybe…well. I couldn't just leave them there -- couldn't just disregard them. And it was her voice…I hadn't heard it in so long…I wanted to listen.
I pushed play.
Anyway, if you're listening to this, you are inadvertently responsible for my current predicament -- AKA death. Yes, I will be dead by my own hand by the time you hear this. Yes, you caused it. You, who are probably wondering what the heck is going on here. All in good time, right? You'll stick around for the entirety of my story. I know you will.
I shivered -- an utterly uncontrollable action. Her voice was so real, so powerful, that it was easy to succumb to the complete reality of these tapes. Nothing else existed but her strong, defiant voice, pinning me to the couch with her fiery accusations.
So, there are two rules when it comes to these tapes…my life, my story…
First one's obvious, guys. Listen. Listen and learn.
Second one? Pass them along. When your name pops up…and believe me, it will…when you get an earful from me, just be prepared to finish off these lovely tapes and ship it off anonymously to the victim that appears next. The last person? You can keep it. Aw shucks -- lucky for you, huh?
By the way…
If you don't pass along the tapes…you'll regret it. If they don't make it around to all thirteen of you, if you don't stick out hearing every single word I have to say…
The tapes will become public.
Someone else has a second set of these audiotapes. They will release these pretty gems out into the world, and you can watch all thirteen of your precious, shiny reputations smudge and splatter with your wrongdoings…ooh, poetic moment, huh?
She's insane, I thought. She's gone deranged, nutters, completely bonkers…no wonder she's dead. I swallowed a lump in my throat. I could not think like that. I would go insane far before the end of these vicious tapes.
I'll begin my story with you.
Rebecca Baxter.
A chill spread up my spine. I knew her, of course -- everyone at Gallagher High had her name branded into their memory. Cocoa eyes, mocha hair, fiery confidence and the ability to kick anyone's butt at kickboxing…she was a force to be reckoned with, alright. What could she have possibly done to Cameron Morgan that cause her to end her own life?
Alright, Bex. Let's do this.
Three years ago, the first day of high school. I was just starting at Gallagher High. I had no friends here in dumpy little Roseville. Just me and my mother.
Your locker was right next to mine.
"Hey," you said before school, equipped with a toothy smile. "I'm Bex. Who are you?"
I introduced myself. "Cammie Morgan. I'm new here."
We shook hands and chatted our way to first period. You had almost the same schedule as me -- what a coincidence! You thought I didn't see that gleam in your eye; that too-nice, too-interested sheen in your irises. No, I saw it. I knew who you were the moment I set eyes on your glowing mocha skin and matching cocoa eyes, your purple halter tops and black skinny jeans.
You're that girl…that girl who's never quite comfortable enough in her own skin. Everyone else is better, right? You're not the best…at anything. Fashion. Boys. Academics. Sports. Not even stamp-collecting. Nothing at all…
Except thievery.
My blood ran cold.
Now, pause the story for a sec. You all should have received a map with these tapes. Go ahead -- unfurl it, and find my…our…school. It's right there, one of the many spots in town circled in dark red ink.
I instantly pressed pause, heaving a deep breath as if I'd just woken up suddenly from a long nap. I sprung to my feet, ripped out the earplugs and ambled back into my room. The box was still sitting there, the rest of the tapes snuggled inside. I had the sudden, provocative urge to throw the box in the nearest river. I blinked and fought it back, thinking it was too late for that now. I'd already started listening, and I was addicted.
It was then that I noticed it.
The thin slip of paper, barely visible behind the last tape. I reached out and snagged it immediately, unfolding it gently. It was a creased and slightly worn map of our little town: Roseville, Virginia. There were familiar areas circled in bright red marker. One of them -- I located it quickly -- was Gallagher High. Our, my, high school.
What is this all about? I wondered. Why was she telling us her story? I don't need this…I didn't need…
But, oh, how I did. Pressing stop now would be like killing Cammie myself. I couldn't do it -- quash her voice. Plus, what if her threats weren't empty? What if someone else had another copy of the tapes, waiting to release them if I didn't go through with her demands?
Why do I care? A tiny voice wondered. Then I reminded myself…
I had no idea what role I played in Cameron Morgan's death. Cameron Morgan. I would do it, because it was her voice filling my head -- a voice no one thought they'd ever hear again. It was horrifying bliss to press play.
You see it? Gallagher Academy? Good.
I rubbed my eyes with the palms of my hands, clenching them into fists while resting them on my forehead. This was torture. I couldn't possibly be on these tapes, could I? What could I have done to her, really? There was nothing like…nothing…
Now, where were we…?
That's right.
Rebecca! You never thought I would find out, did you? Hahahaha.
Her chuckles were dry and cracked, echoing in my ears like a sick mantra.
You see, Bex and I became good friends. Close, y'know. Over the years, I trusted her big time -- all our meetings at the high school, where we'd lounge around campus after hours and poke fun at anything and everything, even ourselves. You were my best friend…
…until you stabbed me in the back. Yeah, it hurt. Does that make you happy? Does that fill your sparkling eyes with glee and make you dance and frolic around your pristine bedroom?
I wonder if your sweet mother and father have any idea who you really are. Abraham, with his chocolate skipping eyes, and Marie, with her bubbly laughter. I'm sure they don't fathom who -- what -- you are inside. They adore you; heck, they adore me! Well, 'adored' me. Past tense.
There was a tug in my stomach. I had to press pause.
Immediately the thundering silence of my forlorn house took over. All I could hear was my galloping heartbeat, my irregular breaths. Rolling up and off the couch, I stepped purposefully out the front door -- Walkman and map in hand -- and slammed it behind me. No way was I going to stay cooped up in there while listening to this.
I idly shoved the Walkman and crinkled map into my sweatshirt pocket, hands enfolding it in a sweaty embrace. I was jumpy and twitchy -- flinching when my neighbors started up their car, and starting when a sparrow flew by my feet.
I walked the few blocks back to school. It had only ended forty five minutes ago -- had it only been that long? -- but it felt like hours. I slipped through the open gate and chose a lonely maple tree to settle under. The leaves were scattered on the ground around me, and I rustled their dead skins loudly when I sat down.
Oh, man. I already felt exhausted, and I hadn't even been through the first tape. How could I possibly continue this? How could I continue to listen to her voice -- Cameron Morgan's -- spill out of the speakers like she hadn't gone and ended her life, just two weeks ago?
That was a hard question.
I pressed play.
Rebecca, dear, let me tell you and the other people listening…let me tell you a tale of November 15th, junior year. Bex and I were walking home together, the misty gray clouds hovering over our heads.
You gasped, the little intake of air startling me from my daydreams. "What's wrong?" I asked casually, not expecting it to be anything huge. What could possibly go wrong in trashy little Roseville? I'd been thinking that thought since I first moved here, freshman year.
"I left my History textbook in my locker -- Mr. Solomon said we're having a quiz tomorrow! I have to go back and get it!" You were paranoid, cocoa eyes huge and eyebrows knitted together with stress. "But I have to be at my mother's restaurant by three o' clock!"
"I'll get it," I volunteered helpfully. Why not? I could use the exercise.
You instantly shut down. Your shoulders slumped, and you fidgeted uncomfortably in your glimmering, designer shoes. "No, that's all right, Cam. I'll head back myself, you go home."
Hmm. Pretty suspicious -- not to mention cold. Thanks for that, by the way.
"Seriously, Bex, it's no problem. I can run down there and be back in twenty minutes--"
You cut me off with a roll of your beautiful brown eyes. "Cammie!" You snapped, and I flinched. "I'll get it myself. There's no need for you to be poking around in my locker."
With that, you turned tail and fled back toward the school.
So, of course I followed you. I was confused (and a bit hurt), and I wanted to know why exactly you'd blown me off. You can all understand that, right? Digging deeper to understand why your friend hurt you? You should. You all should understand perfectly.
What did Bex do to her? I wondered. Sure, I'd heard the rumors about Rebecca Baxter -- everyone had. She was the second-most popular girl in school, trumped only by Macey McHenry. I was intrigued.
You didn't even notice me.
I felt kind of like a stalker, and I almost turned around. But then I saw your eyes again: shadowed as you snapped at me, cold and afraid. I wanted to help you. I watched as you spun the dial of your locker, just like everyday, and opened it.
I never realized, until that moment, that I'd never quite seen the inside of your locker. You always hid the inside with your body, your hands, the locker door.
I understand why now.
Peeking around your shoulder, I craned my neck to see what exactly was locked away in there…and I saw them. Items -- everyday stuff. Articles of clothing, notes, cell phones, makeup, jewelry, shoes, backpacks…all shoved into a huge mass that stretched to the top of your locker. Only problem?
They weren't yours.
I saw Grant Newman's binder and his favorite track shoes, Liz Sutton's butterfly hair clip and English scribbles, DeeDee Foster's lip gloss and love notes, Josh Abram's crappy old cell phone and gym shorts -- followed by more junk that I didn't recognize.
Not to mention there, right on top of that glorious mountain, was something I never thought I'd see again. Something I'd told you about, numerous times, and showed you in solemn moments. Something I kept on me at all times, until it went missing one day at the Roseville skating rink. You were there with me. The last thing my dad gave me before he left...
A simple, silver chain.
I pressed pause, trying to digest what my deceased peer was explaining. Rebecca Baxter, the exotic British girl who'd transferred before junior high, who most people respected and/or feared -- stealing? Had she stolen anything from me? Shivers overtook me as I thought of how many people had already heard these tapes, had already listened to Cammie strip Bex down until she was nothing more than a mindless thief.
That made me wonder, yet again, when my name would appear.
Standing up, I stretched my already sore muscles and glanced around. The school was pretty much empty -- there were a couple of lazy freshman strolling by the gym, and a secretary was click-clacking on high heels back to the office. The sun was slamming yellow-orange beams of light all around me, and a breeze tickled my hair. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, breathing out deeply.
Oh, Cammie, I thought, lounging over to a bench by my third period. I plopped down and hesitated, finger over the play button. I shook my head sadly -- this was pathetic of me -- and pressed play.
You stole it from me.
Instead of backing away like I should have, I stepped out from where I'd been cowering around a corner, to where you could see me clearly. When you heard my quiet footsteps, your head snapped up warily. Our eyes met…and you shut your locker, textbook in hand…and walked right over to me.
"Bex--" I started, but you didn't let me finish. You never let me finish.
"Don't even start, Cam. I thought I told you to go home?" Were those tears really stinging your eyes, or was that my wild imagination?
I fingered the Walkman idly. Cammie's voice was cracked and broken, as if reliving this experience was not a pleasant thing. I could see why.
"You did," I muttered. "But--".
"So…you didn't. 'Cause why? Don't think I can handle myself? Don't trust me, do you?" You were enraged -- you knew I'd seen everything, and you were stark raving mad about it. I was more shocked than anything; my best friend was a thief. Immediately, I wanted to understand. I wanted to figure out why you of all people -- the only one to really see me in years -- would resort to this.
"Why did you take all those things? Why do you have my necklace?" I asked, stung that you'd stolen my cherished piece of jewelry. Your locker was like a lost and found, full of the student body's favorite items. You nicked them all, didn't you? Every…single…one.
"I'm sorry, Cammie, but that necklace is mine -- you must be confused," you said. Your voice was like icicles hanging in the air between us, and your eyes…such beautiful eyes…froze over when you shoved past me.
You never spoke to me again, Rebecca Baxter.
Not directly, at least. You lost me, your nobody best friend, and went on to bigger and better things. Don't worry, though. Your name will come back up…just later in the story. Many tapes away.
Not many of you know what comes next, after Rebecca Baxter threw me away and left me to rot. According to most of you, I disappeared off the radar for a while. A few of you know the truth, though, because one of you was the one to unintentionally pick me up and dust me off -- though you didn't try. You didn't try for much of those days.
Yeah, DeeDee. You're next.
I stopped the audiotape.
I took a deep breath. She's dead, I thought. She's really dead. And yet….she'd recorded these messages for me…us…oh, man. If there was one thing I wanted more then anything, it would be to scream so loud that everyone could hear how much I hated Cameron Ann Morgan at this moment.
I hated how she'd sent me these tapes. I hated how she'd left me, left us, hated how she was patiently showing me the real side of Roseville -- the side no one else saw but her. I hated how she was right. She was always right.
I flipped the tape over and pressed play.
"Open your eyes
Like I opened mine
It's only the real world
Life you will never know."
