Sweethearts

"You know, these things are made of bone meal."

"No they're fucking not."

"I'm serious. They grind up all the dead rats they find on the floor of the factory, add some sugar, and presto gizmo, cheap Valentine's candy."

"OK. Pretend I've suspended my disbelief for a second. If sweethearts are made of dead rats, then why are you eating them?"

"I need the calcium."

"I swear to god, Kurt."

I sparked another menthol cigarette and took a long drag. We'd been sitting out on cancer hill for the better part of an hour, waiting for Squeak to show up. He was the one who'd stolen keys from the janitor's office, because he had the quickest fingers, and the most innocent face. At a grand height of five feet, three inches, with pink cheeks and straw blonde hair, the kid looked like he still belonged in grade school. 

Kurt, on the other hand, was the most obvious sort of trouble you could find in a sleepy place like Newton, Indiana. Gatorade-blue mohawk, septum piercing, and tattoos splattered all down his biceps. He wore leather, and denim, and metal spikes like a big city gutter punk. It wasn't till you got to know him that you realized he was just a cheese-brained goofball that liked his whippets way too much. 

As for me, well, I was a mess in high school. Much like anybody is. I dressed to blend in with the crowd of the early 2000's and kept my head down. I was a little too thin for sports, a little too nerdy for the stoners, and not quite smart enough for the actual geeks. So I got lumped in with freaks like Kurt and Squeak. We were all full of reckless teenage hormones and a sense that life was holding out on us.

Which is how we came up with a stupid idea like breaking into the school at night to do some Valentine's day decorating. 

The senior girls had been plastering construction-paper hearts and lace all over the walls for weeks. There was even gonna be some tables set up where you could buy a rose and get it delivered to someone during class on the actual day. The three of us were painfully single, and just 'edgy' enough to want to make some sort of statement about corporate hallmark holidays. We figured it'd be a real laugh to set up some sort of gory scene in the main quad where everyone would see it.

Newton High was constructed kinda like a diamond, on a slope of a hill, with classrooms all along the outside, and the big block of lockers square in the middle. The quad was pretty big, with lockers all around the outside of it, and a balcony hanging over it, where the principal had her office and would make announcements and stuff. The quad is where most people ate lunch, and where there'd be dances. It was basically center stage of the school. The perfect place for a fucked up little piece of performance art.

The crunch, crunch, crunch of Kurt devouring sweethearts echoed through the silence. It was long past sunset, and nearly a new moon. There wasn't much light to see by, sitting on that ragged slope just a few hundred feet away from the school. We called it cancer hill because the grass was dead from so many cigarette butts being dropped to the ground. Even the singular oak tree that everyone liked to lean against seldom had any leaves, and looked like it was gasping for air. 

I saw a small light bobbing in the distance. Probably Squeak on his longboard, coasting down LeeHigh drive, on his way to meet us. 

"D'you think we'll see her tonight?" Kurt took another swig from his bottle of Jack. He'd been drinking for hours, but I wasn't that worried about it. Despite being scrawny, the guy could drink a horse under the table and come out swinging.

"I guess it's about as likely as seeing Bigfoot."

"We're not in the forest, Frank. You have to at least concede seeing the ghost of Mary Wellington is a little more likely than a woodsy cryptid."

"A bigger percentage of zero is still zero."

"Don't be like that."

"I know you've got a big old ghost hunter boner. That's your prerogative. I'm just here for the kicks, bro."

"You know the non-believer is always the first one to get picked off, right?"

"I'm literally going to punch you in the face."

The light in the distance got progressively closer, until I could make out Squeak's small form, walking up the hill. Kurt and I stood up and pulled our black beanies further down over our ears. It was February after all. Still icy and cold as all shit. 

Squeak was a man of few words. He grabbed Kurt’s whiskey bottle and took a few gulps in lieu of a greeting. Then he held out the key ring he’d successfully bogarted, and we were off to the races.

The school didn’t have an alarm system, and the dummy security cameras on the walls didn’t actually record anything. So once we figured out which key got the back door open, we were home free. Squeak and I both had heavy backpacks full of fake blood and other special effect supplies scrimped and stolen from halloween stores. Kurt was carrying the star of our show under his arm. A discarded department store mannequin we’d been saving for a special occasion such as this.

The plan was pretty simple. We were playing off an old urban legend from the 60’s. The story goes that this girl Mary committed suicide by jumping off the balcony and hanging herself in the middle of the quad. Supposedly it happened in January, but people sometimes associate it with Valentine’s day. It’s a more compelling angle. Her being a jilted lover or something. In some versions of the story, they even call this girl Bloody Mary. Like the game little kids play to spook themselves in bathroom mirrors. 

Of course, no part of the story has ever been substantiated. There are no records of a deceased high schooler named Mary Wellington. No records of any suicides on the campus. Though the school was built in the 40’s, it didn’t get remodeled until the late 80’s, so it’s unlikely there was even a balcony above the quad that someone could jump from when the story supposedly took place.

We might have been little shits, bent on vandalism, but I wouldn’t have gone along with a plan that disrespected an actual dead girl. Going into the school that night, I was sure beyond a doubt that the legend wasn’t remotely true, and therefore, we weren’t really hurting anybody. We might scare some freshmen before everything got taken down, but that was it.

We posted up in the middle of the quad and started unpacking supplies. Squeak got to work splattering fake blood and guts all over the place, while Kurt and I worked on the mannequin. Dressing it up in the most elegant gory finery we could manage. We went all out, placing electric candles, and wilting flowers. We made sure to stage most of the scene right in front of the big ‘Happy Valentine’s Day’ poster hanging off the balcony. 

Finally, the only thing left was to hang our leading lady. 

The mannequin wasn’t all that heavy, but she was cumbersome. Kurt and I carried her together while Squeak put the finishing touches on his splatter painting. The only way to get up to the balcony was a narrow staircase. It was a little tricky, but we managed it just fine. 

It was a little eerie when we got to the balcony. Maybe it was something about being up so high in the dark, when we never really went up there in the daylight. Maybe it was the bloody mannequin with us. Maybe it was just the surreal quiet of the usually bustling school halls. Something about the scene had me kind of twitchy. I set about tying the rope to the wooden banister that ran along the balcony quick as I could. Kurt, on the other hand, seemed to just be taking in the view.

“Kinda sucks that we won’t be able to tell anyone we did this.” He let out a small sigh.

“I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to spend the rest of the year in detention.”

“Yeah. I know. Just… we’d be kings.”

“Well, maybe. Maybe people would just think we’re psychos.” 

I checked the thick square knot a few times, tugging on it hard as I could. I wanted to make sure it would hold until morning. Then I set about tying the noose. I wanted to use a real slip knot. Make it look authentic and stuff. 

“Hey, Frank?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you see Squeak?”

I glanced down at the quad. It was pretty dark. Squeak’s flashlight was lying there on the ground, pointed at the setup, but he didn’t seem to be standing by it. 

“I dunno. Maybe he went to take a piss or something. Are we doing this, or what?”

Kurt held the mannequin steady as I looped the noose around its neck. It felt more than a little morbid, despite just being a prop. We tossed her over the bannister on the count of three. My stomach twisted, watching the rope strain and jerk, almost like someone was struggling at the other end of it. 

We descended the stairs, sweeping our flashlights back and forth, looking for our third Musketeer. He wasn’t anywhere in the quad. The mannequin looked scary as all hell at that point, swinging gently back and forth, surrounded by dripping red carnal chaos. I couldn’t look at it for very long. I just focused on loading up my backpack while Kurt looked for Squeak. The minutes ticked by. I was done and getting antsy. 

I nearly jumped out of my skin a few times. I could swear I heard someone laughing. It sounded soft and far away, but somehow still distinct. 

At a certain point, I figured I must be the sucker. Kurt and Squeak were messing with me. 

“You guys are fucking hilarious!” I called into darkness. I couldn’t even see the flicker of Kurt’s flashlight anymore. 

The strange giggling was getting closer. I’d never heard Kurt or Squeak make a sound like that. I’d never heard another human make a sound like that. It’s so hard to describe thinking back. But you know how music will sometimes give you chills? That sound. That sound was making me cold like somebody had just dumped a bucket of ice over my head. It was visceral. Bizarre, and so very wrong. 

I’ve always liked to think I’m the sort of guy who would survive a horror movie. Definitely not the macho type who’d put their pride over scuttling off to live another day. So when the freaky, disembodied laughter got too close for comfort, I fucking booked it.

In the moment, I didn’t care about where my friends were, or what the fuck was even going on. I just knew deep in my bones that I had to get out of there or something terrible was going to happen. The fear only heightened as I ran out of the quad, and down the hallway towards the back door. 

It felt like something was following me.

The skin on the back of my neck prickled. An intense, inexplicable nausea crashed through me in a putrid wave. It tasted like I was breathing dead air. Like I was trapped in a small, humid room full of rotting meat. My knees wanted to buckle. 

I still think about what might have happened if I didn’t make it to the door. I wonder if I would have just passed out and never woken up again. Or if it would have been far more gruesome. Sometimes I tell myself that death won’t be so bad. That I wasn’t concerned about anything before I was born, so it won’t matter after the screen goes dark either. But I’m not sure I really believe it. Deep down, I spend a lot of time anxiously pondering the things that lurk in that darkness. The thought of what might be waiting on the other side always brings a paralyzing dread. 

That night, however, I was lucky. I’d built up such a downhill momentum that I practically smashed into the door as I pushed it open. Bursting outside into the frigid air felt like breaking the surface of a lake after nearly drowning. I kept jogging until I got to cancer hill, around where I’d been sitting before. I hoped that maybe I’d see Kurt or Squeak tumble out the door laughing at me. But they didn’t come. 

I waited outside for a while, getting progressively colder. I sent out several texts. Squeak responded after a few tries, saying he was already home. It didn’t particularly surprise me. It wasn’t the first time he’d taken off from a crime scene in progress without so much as a goodbye. That’s why he never got in trouble for tagging or selling weed, even though he did both things blatantly and often. Kurt on the other hand, had gone radio silent. 

Looking back, I know I should have called the cops. But I was sixteen. Afraid of getting in trouble. We were breaking and entering with the express purpose of vandalism. Besides, it wasn’t like anything bad could really happen to him wandering around the school at night. I convinced myself that I’d just gotten psyched out in the dark and that there was no cause for panic. 

Some primal survival instinct kept me from going back in the school, even after my heart rate had slowed and I felt like a dumbass for being so scared. I ended up just going home. I figured Kurt must have passed out drunk in some random corner of the school and I’d see him in the morning. 

I slept through my alarm. I thought it was weird that my mom didn’t try to wake me up. But I rushed to get dressed and hop in my car. I didn’t listen to the radio or anything on the drive over, because who does that when you have an aux cable? 

I was puzzled to find the parking lot empty. Scared to see the red and blue flashing lights and police tape. A gruff officer walked over to me and said the school was closed for the day. He wouldn’t answer any other questions. 

I left the parking lot, but started to panic. Kurt still hadn’t texted me back. There was no answer when I called him. There wasn’t even an answer when I called his house. 

I didn’t find out what happened until later that night, when my dad was watching the local news. School closed due to a student suicide. I knew who it was, even if the name was withheld. There’s only one person it could have been. 

It was a closed casket funeral. The school held memorial services. There were a lot of talks about suicide prevention and how we all have to do our parts in getting people the help they need. People kept giving me their condolences and asking how I was, even if they barely knew me. Some of them had the nerve to speculate about why Kurt might do something so drastic as take his own life. He seemed like such a happy guy. Guess it goes to show you never can tell how someone feels from the outside. 

Valentine’s day has been hard for me ever since all this happened. The years go by, but it doesn’t lessen the sting, or the uncomfortable twisting in my stomach. I’m still not certain that Kurt actually killed himself. Sometimes I convince myself that he did, and I’m just in an irrational state of denial. 

But no amount of circular internal argument can change the pictures. 

Every year, on February 14th, right at the stroke of midnight I get a text from Kurt’s old phone number. It’s a number that has long since been disconnected. If I try to call, I just get a message that it’s not in service. That doesn’t seem to matter, so far as its ability to send me texts. 

Every year, I get a picture of Kurt’s limp body, hanging from the school balcony, in front of a festive banner that’s been splattered with fake blood. His eyes are wide and bulging. His face is blue. His neck tilts to one side, like it’s been broken. He’s in the exact position our dummy was supposed to be in. With all the electric candles and dead roses at his feet, to finish the terrible scene. 

The first time it happened, I threw up. The second time, I cried. I’ve tried to show it to other people, but they don’t see anything. Just a blank jpg. Maybe I’m crazy. I don’t know. 

You can grow accustomed to the strangest things. When my phone buzzed this morning, it was almost a relief. A reassurance that I’m alive and my timeline is still moving forward. I’ve spent another year outlasting whatever might be waiting for me at the end. 

I guess all that’s really left to say, is happy Valentine’s day.