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He’d been heading for the door of the Suicide Prevention Center, but I didn’t want to mention it and scare him away. Blood rushed to my head as I tried to figure out what I should do. If I went back inside to get someone from the center, I was pretty sure he’d be gone when I got back.
“Do you, uh . . . need a friend to talk to?” I asked.
The kid looked right at me, narrowing his eyes just a fraction. “What’s that mean?”
“Just, you know . . . that if you need some help . . .”
His eyes filled with tears and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “I don’t know why I came here.”
“That’s okay.”
“It’s not that I want to die, but . . . I just don’t know if I can stand living anymore.” His voice broke again and he looked down at the ground. “I know that sounds stupid.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Every day is a living hell.”
“I’m sorry, man. Truly, I am.” I sat down on the concrete steps of the center and gestured to the spot beside me. “I knew someone who went through that and she said it felt like drowning. Like, no matter how hard she fought, she just kept getting pulled under.”
He sat down beside me and sighed heavily. “That’s what I feel like.”
“My name’s Bennett,” I said, offering my hand.
“I’m Dan.” He shook my hand and leaned his elbows on his knees.
“You think it might help to talk about it?” I asked, holding my breath as I waited for his answer.
After a minute, he answered. “It’s mostly school. There’s a group of guys whose mission in life is to humiliate me.”
“That’s rough. They sound like a bunch of dicks.”
He cracked a small smile. “Yeah. And my mom drinks a lot. It’s hell at home or hell at school.”
“Is there anything that feels like a break from all of it?”
He shrugged. “Music, I guess.”
“Yeah? What do you like?”
“Punk.”
“Cool. What grade are you in?”
“Sophomore.”
I remembered myself at that age. Pimply and awkward as hell. Desperate to get laid for the first time. But hockey had kept me focused and guaranteed me friends.
“What do you think you might like to do after high school?” I asked Dan.
Another shrug. “I’m not good at anything.”
“Maybe you just haven’t figured out what it is you’re good at yet.”
A middle-aged guy with a dark beard walked out the front door of the Suicide Prevention Center.
“Excuse me,” he said to us, “I’m the director of the SPC, and I meant to say hey earlier. I’m Vaughn Shelton. I hear you’re our new volunteer.”
“Yes, sir.” I shook his hand and looked at Dan. “This is Dan. He was stopping by because he’s having a hard time with some stuff and we’re just talking.”
