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You are seventeen, and you’re sure that your senior year is going to kill you. You think you bit off more than you could chew, taking four AP classes, but it’s not like you can afford college without one hell of a resume, and your friends are in each class—nerds stick together—which means less chance to be singled out when you’re alone.
You are seventeen, and Pete befriends a popular girl who’s suddenly shown a genuine interest in him. He’s nervous just talking about her, worried that you and Ruth will hate him for ditching you, but you couldn’t be more excited for him. You push him towards her. It’ll work out, you promise. She’s cool, and she’s willing to risk her reputation just to call him. It’ll work out.
You are seventeen, and you’re cleaning Pete’s bloody nose in a parking lot at midnight, Ruth swearing to the blinking stars above that she’ll kill Stephanie Lauter for what she did. Pete is deflated in a way you’ve never seen before. You can’t do anything, not even apologize, not even blame the girl, because you should’ve known nothing ever goes right for you guys.
You are seventeen, and in the boy’s bathroom, Grace Chastity lures you and your friends into pranking their high school’s biggest villain. Ruth is curiously into it, as is Stephanie Lauter, who you might have misjudged, but Pete refuses to get involved. You have your reservations, until you look at the nasty shiner Max Jagerman left on your best friend. With a sudden bout of confidence, you agree without another moment of hesitation.
You are seventeen, and your camcorder sits on the top step of the Waylon place where you dropped it. Where Max Jagerman dropped three stories to his death, broken wood sticking out from his chest. It doesn’t take too much coercion from Grace to hide the body. What else can you do? The police won’t believe it was an accident. This will protect you, Grace promises. The bleach burns your nose as you scrub your bully’s blood out of the floorboards and wash away any sign that you were ever there.
You are seventeen, and there is still blood on your hands. Stephanie drives each one of you home, and in your bathroom, door locked, you can’t manage to get Max’s blood out from the sleeve of your Jujutsu Kaisen shirt. You can’t throw it away, it was a gift from Ruth. You bury it in the back of your closet to wash while your parents aren’t looking. In your restless sleep, you replay Max falling over and over until your alarm goes off and the real nightmare begins.
You are seventeen, and for the first time in your life, you feel like you belong. The football jocks drag you to lunch with them, they high five you in the halls, they help you in and out of your costume. Hell, they even apologize for bullying you, even though you understand why they did. You didn’t like yourself much, either. Not until people started to care. You never thought anybody cool could ever care about someone like you, but they do. The homecoming game will start soon. The crowds outside cheer for Zeek the Nighthawk, cheer for you. You’ve never been wanted before. You finally feel alive.
You are seventeen, and the locker room doors slam close in your face as Max Jagerman, bloodied and grey and vengeful, shoves you to the floor of the locker room and makes you pray for your life. You beg him to stop, you’re not a loser anymore. You have friends now, and they care about you. Max doesn’t care. It’s not enough to stop him from tearing into your chest and shoving your head under the water until you finally stop struggling.
You were seventeen, and there’s toilet water in your lungs. You’re dead, you know that, but something holds you there. Nobody finds your body until the following Monday. Your body is already bloating, face blue, your blood on the locker room walls brown and flaking. This must be what Max felt when he died: unmissed, unwanted, unseen. You watch them cart your body out, scrub the blood away, and it was as if you were never even there.
You were seventeen, and you hear weeping from the auditorium. Ruth weeps beside her body, underwear stretched over her head, blood pooling around her. When she sees you, her eyes widen, and the tears come down harder. She throws herself on you, sobbing, apologizing to you for nothing in particular. You comfort her, and you apologize too, for nothing in particular. You’re dead, she is too, but at least you’re not alone. Loneliness hurts more than dying.
“All I wanted was to be seen,” she whispers.
“Me too,” you say.
You were seventeen, and you watch Max’s soul be dragged to the empty Black by whatever the hell is holding you there. Pete and Steph kiss in triumph, both crying. Ruth holds your hand. You yell across the football field that you’re glad they made it out alive, but they won’t don’t you. Only Grace seems to acknowledge you, staring right at you and Ruth for a long while before shaking her head and sneaking off, holding a black book.
You were seventeen, and you’re bitter as Homecoming is held without a regard for their deaths. No memorials, no remembrance, just singing and dancing and living. You’ll never get to dance with his friends. Ruth will never get her spotlight. Ruth knocks over the punch table, and everyone blames it on a broken leg. Not even in death are you seen.
You were seventeen, and you watch Pete and Steph graduate. They keep two empty seats between them, a small moment for you. You sit. Ruth does, too. You hope Pete knows how grateful you two are, to be able and share this moment with them, even if they get to leave and you don’t.
You were seventeen, and you will never turn eighteen. But at least, everyone else will.