Suicide Med by Freida McFadden Read Free Book Online Page B

eats it. And you know what?”
    “What?” I ask.
    “It’s the best strawberry he’s ever tasted,” Rachel says.
    What? What in hell does that mean? What does that story have to do with anything ?
    “I don’t get it,” I finally say.
    “No,” Rachel murmurs. “I wouldn’t imagine you would.”
    Then she goes back to her yoga without offering further explanation.
    Maybe I should try yoga. Maybe if I did some meditation and stretching, I’d stop worrying about the exam too, and just waste my time telling stupid stories about strawberries and tigers.
    Since Rachel clearly has no intention of turning off her music, I grab a few of my books and head out into our living area. It’s been furnished for us, but very sparsely. We’ve got a loveseat that’s decorated with flowers and is so old that a puff of dust rises out of it every time I sit on it. Somehow I always imagine insects swarming under the surface of the cushions. We’ve also got a little “dining table,” which is nothing but a tiny square wooden table flanked by a couple of metal chairs. I sit on one of these chairs, but it has a bum leg and shifts every time I move. I try the other chair, which creaks so threateningly that I get scared and move back to the gimpy chair.
    Sighing, I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and call Seth. This time he answers after only two rings. “’Lo?”
    “Hey, it’s me,” I say.
    “Hi, me,” he says. I can hear him smiling at the other line and I smile back. Maybe my life isn’t completely awful if he’s in it.
    “What are you up to?” I ask him.
    “Not much. You?”
    “Just trying to study, but Rachel’s being loud.” I hesitate. “Seth, did you know that there have been a bunch of suicides at Southside?”
    “Yeah, of course,” he says. “Suicide Med. Everyone knows that.”
    Everyone but stupid me.
    “Why didn’t you tell me?”
    “I thought you knew,” Seth says. “Everyone knows. How could you not know?”
    “But…” I want to make this his fault somehow, at least partially. “Weren’t you worried about me going to a school where a bunch of students died?”
    “No,” Seth says. “I mean, they killed themselves. You’re not going to do that.”
    I might, I almost say. But he’s right—I wouldn’t. “Well, there was that murder-suicide last year.”
    “Yeah, but the killer is dead now,” he points out. “It’s not like there’s some crazy serial killer stalking the campus. These are all, like, independent events.”
    Somehow I think of what Rachel said, about how every single year since Dr. Conlon’s been at Southside, a student has died. That’s definitely a coincidence though.
    “It’s just a little disturbing, that’s all,” I say.
    “I guess so,” Seth says, not sounding like he means it.
    I hear a flush in the background. I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it in horror.
    “Seth,” I gasp. “Were you on the toilet?”
    He pauses, then I hear him say: “Yeah.”
    I groan. “Seriously, Seth? You picked up the phone while on the toilet? Number one or number two?” Before he can answer, I say, “Wait, forget it. I don’t want to know.”
    “Look, Heather,” he says. “The other night you were crying because I didn’t answer my phone. So I figured, you know, I better pick up.”
    “Not on the toilet!”
    He sighs. “What do you want from me, Heather?”
    I get this jab of pain in the pit of my stomach. What do I want from him? I want him to be my boyfriend. I want him to care about me. And not just because I tell him to.
    “Nothing,” I say quietly and the chair creaks beneath me.
     
     

Chapter 7
     
    I show up early at the Southside Med’s library the next day, equipped with my anatomy atlas and my textbook, along with a water bottle and a baggie full of chocolate bars and potato chips. Yeah, that pretzel and Coke yesterday were just the tip of the iceberg. Soon I’m going to have to make another trip to the mall to buy new pants. Or