Lynda drops the almost-empty bottle of Diazepam and watches it fall nine floors onto the concrete-paved sidewalk. Still wearing her light blue party dress, she is on the balcony of her room, one leg over the railing. Having no more tears to shed, she stares at the night traffic, nine stories below. From up there, the shiny cars look like nothing but small toys. Vroom. Vroom. She hears in her head the sound of a kid playing with those toy cars.
Leaning forward, she ignores the entreaty of the breeze that blows up from the street, pushing her back inside.
“This is just a video game,” Lynda hears unexpectedly from behind. She screams while turning back to the voice.
“Ms. Gonzales! What are you doing in my room, at this hour? Don’t get close or I jump.”
“It’s OK,” Ms. Gonzales says, taking a step back. “It’s OK. I’m not getting close.”
“Wasn’t today your day off?” Lynda asks, willing her voice to calm.
Ms. Gonzales has always been a reliable shoulder to cry on. A good listener to whom Lynda has told all about her most private feelings, the stuff that Mom could never understand.
“I came only for you,” Ms. Gonzales says like an angel who has just dropped down from the sky. “Listen, Lynda. You shouldn’t let these things upset you.”
“I finally found love,” Lynda says in a most depressive voice, “and I lost it—”
“Good. I happen to know a young man named Ryan who’s still madly in love with you.”
“—to that bitch Chhaya. Can you believe it? She didn’t even make it to the prettiest list in the yearbook.”
“He loves the passion you have to win games. The way you care about these little things, and the way he can make you feel better afterward. The way you giggle out of pity when he tries to be funny. The way you stood up to that jerk, Billy. The way you made his heart smile.”
“Billy who? What’re you talking about? I’m talking about Michael, the most popular guy in our school, a TikTok legend, over a million followers. Do you understand?”
“I understand, but—”
“From tomorrow on, every time I walk into our high school, my classmates will point me out to each other. ‘Look, that’s Lynda, the loser that Michael dumped.’”
“Lynda. None of these matters,” Ms. Gonzales says louder, running out of patience.
“Are you even listening to me?” Facing the street, Lynda throws her other leg over the railing.
“This. This city. This life. Your Prom. Your Date. The yearbook, and its stupid lists and rankings. None of them matters.” She looks Lynda directly in the eye. “It’s just a game, Lynda,” she continues, her voice begging to be believed. “It’s just a game.”
Pulling herself closer to the balustrade, Lynda turns back to Ms. Gonzales.
A smile cracking on her face, Ms. Gonzalez takes a step forward, offering a hand of help.
Closing her eyes, Lynda takes a moment to wrap her head around what she just heard and why Ms. Gonzales speaks so weirdly tonight. She takes a deep breath and opens her eyes when a sad smile appears on her face. “Yeah, it’s all a game,” she says, looking over her shoulder down at the concrete-paved sidewalk, nine stories below. “A game in which I am a loser.”
Lynda jumps off the balcony.
“No-o-o-o,” Ms. Gonzales screams, unsuccessfully springing to the railing to grab Lynda at the last moment. Ms. Gonzales falls to her knees when she hears the crash. Holding the bars of the balustrade, she bursts into tears. “I want out,” she cries. “Game over. I want out of this damn game,” she says before passing out on the balcony.