Тонкое искусство пофигизма

           Noonelookedatmeoracknowledgedme.Everyonestaredatthewater.Iaskedagain,andagirlstartedcryinguncontrollably.

           That’swhenIputtwo-and-twotogether.

           IttookscubadiversthreehourstofindJosh’sbodyatthebottomofthelake.Theautopsywouldlatersaythathislegshadcrampedupduetodehydrationfromthealcohol,aswellastotheimpactofthejumpfromthecliff.Itwasdarkoutwhenhewentin,thewaterlayeredonthenight,blackonblack.Noonecouldseewherehisscreamsforhelpwerecomingfrom.Justthesplashes.Justthesounds.Hisparentslatertoldmethathewasaterribleswimmer.I’dhadnoidea.

           Ittookmetwelvehourstoletmyselfcry.Iwasinmycar,drivingbackhometoAustinthenextmorning.IcalledmydadandtoldhimthatIwasstillnearDallasandthatIwasgoingtomisswork.(I’dbeenworkingforhimthatsummer.)Heasked,“Why;whathappened?Iseverythingallright?”Andthat’swhenitallcameout:thewaterworks.Thewailsandthescreamsandthesnot.Ipulledthecarovertothesideoftheroadandclutchedthephoneandcriedthewayalittleboycriestohisfather.

           Iwentintoadeepdepressionthatsummer.IthoughtI’dbeendepressedbefore,butthiswasawholenewlevelofmeaninglessness—sadnesssodeepthatitphysicallyhurt.