My sister was clueless, and we kept it that way. She wouldn’t have figured it out anyway. Dad had long since given up trying to teach anything mechanical to Kerry—she was a girly-girl in every sense of the word. She was a kid, a baby in my eyes. I was in eighth grade, and I stupidly thought I was special. I wasn’t breaking the law! I was a man, taking care of my family. I was helping.
I think Mom started to count on my driving.
I know she did.
She asked me to take care of my father on the day my sister died. That was our code. Take care of him meant, “Drive him wherever he needs to go.”
I was supposed to be on an overnight trip for Scouts that weekend. I’d been looking forward to it for weeks, but then Mom got called into work. Dad had gone through half a six-pack by 9 a.m. Mom didn’t want anyone to see Dad show up with me at camp smelling like a brewery. So my trip was canceled.
I sulked around the house for hours, slamming doors and heaving big breaths of disappointment. I’m sure you can imagine. When Dad asked me to drive him to his shop, I slammed my door in his face and told him to get there himself if he wanted to go so badly.
I thought he’d stay home. In such a short amount of time, I’d grown used to being his chauffeur, and I assumed that if I weren’t driving, he would stay home.
I was wrong. He went out.
He took Kerry with him.
Only one of them came home.
The stormy weather from Friday night has returned, forcing everyone to hang out in the cafeteria before classes start. Today’s breakfast special is pancakes and hash browns, so the place is packed. Rowan skipped the pancakes in favor of a fruit cup. I can’t remember the last time we had an opportunity to sit down and actually eat before school started. Breakfast isn’t a quick affair when hundreds of other people have the same idea.
The rain kept me out of the cemetery this morning, though, and I’m feeling the need for some comfort food. A stack of pancakes sits on my tray, untouched.
Now that they’re in front of me, I haven’t been able to take a bite.
“What’s up with you this morning?” says Rowan, popping a blueberry into her mouth.
I can’t stop thinking of The Dark’s letter. I can’t repeat a word of it to Rowan. He didn’t say I needed to keep his words a secret, but he didn’t need to.
I poke at the pancakes, but they look like a big, sticky mess. “Just thinking.”
“About your mystery guy?”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Don’t mock it.”
She shrugs equably. “I’m not mocking it. Why don’t you try to find out who he is?”
“I’ve thought about it.” I hesitate, considering his letter. “I don’t think we have that kind of relationship. I think it only works because we don’t know who the other person is.”
“What do you talk about?”
I look away and prod at the pancakes again. I’d be lying if I said I weren’t desperately curious about him. I wonder what would have happened if Declan Murphy hadn’t shown up Friday night. I’ve never been able to speak so openly with someone. With The Dark, I’m not some girl who had it all together before veering off the rails. I’m just . . . me. He’s just . . . him.
Rowan is still waiting for an answer. I shove a forkful of pancake into my mouth. “Nothing. Just . . . stuff.”
“Oh my god, Jules. You are blushing!”
This is appalling. She’s right. I can feel it. “I am not!”
She leans in and teases me. “Do you need a mirror? You’re bright red.”
“Stop it. It’s not like that. We talk about . . . heavy things.” I don’t want to say “death.” Even that much feels like breaking a confidence. “We’re not flirting.”
“So he hasn’t sent you a picture of his manhood yet?”
I burst out laughing. “Has Brandon sent you a picture of his?”
“No!” Now she’s blushing.
“Knowing him, it would be artfully framed, with perfect lighting and specifically placed shadows—”
“Shut up!” But she’s giggling.
I have missed this so much. I didn’t realize how much until we were doing it again.
Rowan’s laughter stops, her eyes fixed on someone behind me. “I think Mr. Gerardi is looking for you again.”
I wait for the instinctive need to hide to overtake me, but this morning it’s missing. I turn in the seat and look for my old photography teacher. When he sees me, his face lights up, and he maneuvers his way through the cafeteria to where we’re sitting.
“Juliet,” he says, “I’m glad I caught up with you this morning. I had a chance to download the pictures from Thursday afternoon, and you got some amazing shots. Really nice use of light.”
“Most of those were probably the ones I took,” says Rowan.
His eyebrows knit together. “What?”
“She’s being silly.” I hesitate. It’s weird to be complimented on photographs after so long. “Thanks.”
“I was wondering if you’d have an opportunity to help me edit some for the yearbook.”
I freeze.
He speaks into the silence, and his voice is gentle, accommodating. “Only if you have time. I don’t want to tamper with your work if I don’t have to.”
A familiar tightness begins wrapping around my chest, and I look away from him. I’m glad I took the photographs, but going back to the photo lab means putting another foot closer to rejoining that world. “I don’t know.” I peer up at him. “Can I think about it?”
“Of course.” He begins to turn away but then pauses. “There’s one in particular that I’d like you to do on your own, if you wouldn’t mind. I think it would be a perfect wrap shot for the cover.”
My heart stops and stutters back to life. Every year, they do a shot that wraps around, from the back of the yearbook to the front. It’s a big deal, and it’s usually a planned thing. I don’t know if it’s ever been a photo taken by a student. “Really?”
He nods. “Really.” The first bell rings, and he looks at the clock. “I need to get back to my classroom. Let me know, okay?”
“Okay.” My voice trails after him as he fights his way through the swarm of students.
“Jules!” Rowan hits me in the arm. “This is awesome!”
A year ago it would have been a dream come true. Now I’m not sure how to feel about it. I stepped away from photography for a reason. I’ll never have the talent she had. My thrill at Mr. Gerardi’s praise is so minor compared with what Mom could have captured with a camera.
“I have to go to homeroom,” I say. “I don’t need another detention.”
She must pick up on my mood shift. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Fine.” I storm past her to pitch the unfinished pancakes into the trash can, then whirl to rush to class.
I end up in the path of Declan Murphy. He’s got an empty container in his hands, so he must have been headed for the trash can as well. I consider ducking away and losing myself in the stream of students, until I realize that he seems to be considering the same thing.
For a moment, we both freeze—but then he completes his motion, tossing the container into the trash before stopping in front of me. He’s as tall and imposing as ever, but after the way he helped me in the rain, he’s not nearly so frightening. I keep thinking about what we talked about, how people are judged on one snapshot of their lives, and I will myself to look up at him.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.” His voice is quieter than I expected, and his presence has created a pocket of space between us. I’m going to be late for homeroom, but for a heartbeat, I don’t want to move.
“I got new tires,” I announce. “And a new battery.”
“I noticed.”
I blink. “You noticed?”
“Well, I noticed the tires.” He lifts one shoulder. “Your car is hard to miss.”
“Oh.” Is he insulting me? I don’t know what to say, and I can’t read his expression.
> He moves a little closer, and for the first time, he looks less guarded. Almost hesitant. “Hey, I wanted to ask you something.”
I look into his eyes. This is so different from when we were in the car, when I was nearly pressed against the door to stay away from him. The rush of students makes me step closer, too, getting out of their way. I never thought I’d be this close to him, exchanging words like we’re not at opposite ends of a spectrum.
A breathless Rowan catches my arm. “Jules, what are you doing?” Her eyes flick dismissively at Declan. “I thought you didn’t want to be late.”
“Just a sec,” I tell her as the second bell rings. We have three minutes to be in our seats, but my subconscious is telling me to play this out. I look back at Declan, but I can already see his expression shifting, shutting down. “What did you want to ask me?”
He looks down at the two of us. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” He moves away, sliding into the throng of students making their way to the door.
“Wait!” I call after him, but he’s already gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
From: Cemetery Girl
To: The Dark
Date: Monday, October 7 09:12:53 AM
Subject: Rage-y thoughts
I’ve been thinking about your email since I woke up.
We’ve spent a lot of time talking about guilt and blame and intersecting paths and single defining moments, but right now I want to punch someone. It’s obvious you feel responsible for what happened to your sister, and that makes me so angry. I want to find your parents and beat them senseless. I hope you don’t hate me for saying this, but I’m glad your father is in jail. I think your mother should be, too. Who lets a thirteen-year-old kid drive around town to protect a drunk? WHO DOES THAT?
I just snapped at a teacher who told me to put my phone away. I’m so angry I’m going to end up in detention.
I can’t believe your parents put you in this position.
I can’t believe your mother let it go on.
I can’t believe I don’t know who you are, because right now I want to wander the halls of this school until I find you, so I can grab you and shake you and tell you THIS IS NOT YOUR FAULT. Do you understand me? THIS IS NOT YOUR FAULT.
Does anyone else know about this?
You do know who I am. Find me. Grab me. Shake me. Please.
I want to type the words so badly. I’m practically shaking myself. Not even Rev knows the whole truth, and now I’ve dumped it all on a girl who might still think the real me is a worthless waste of space. I almost told her this morning, but now I’m glad I didn’t. Would she still feel this way if she knew it was me?
Her hurt for my alter ego pours off the screen, though, and my chest swells from the pressure. I can’t remember the last time someone other than Rev spoke in my defense. Emotion gathers steam in my head, and my eyes feel hot.
Yeah, I need to shut this down. I close the app and shove the phone deep in my backpack.
I immediately want to pull it back out and read her words again.
I know my parents were wrong to let me keep driving. I know it.
But I had alternatives, too. I could have told someone. I could have called a cab that first time. I never had to volunteer in the first place.
I could have driven the car on the day Kerry died. I was selfish and stupid, and I could have stopped it.
I was stupid and selfish last May, too, when I drove my father’s car into that building. No one made me do that, either.
I wonder how Cemetery Girl would feel if she put those two events together.
“Declan, would you mind reading the first two lines?”
The air is heavy with expectation. I look up and realize everyone else has textbooks open, notebooks and pens ready. I’m still sitting here with a closed book, and no pen or paper anywhere.
Mrs. Hillard is watching me. Her voice doesn’t change, and I don’t detect an ounce of impatience. “Page seventy-four. The first two lines.”
I could heave and sigh and act like this is a huge imposition, but she’s not hassling me, so I can return the favor. I flip the cover and find the page, then read without really caring about the words. My mind is still trapped in that email, in Juliet’s hot temper on my behalf.
“‘There’s not a joy the world can give like that it takes away, when the glow of early thought declines in feeling’s dull decay.’”
The words click in my head, as if my brain was waiting for them. Paper rustles somewhere behind me, but otherwise the room is quiet.
“What do you think that means?” asks Mrs. Hillard.
The words of the poem echo in my head, over and over again, though now it’s a memory. I’m remembering this same poem read on a different day. My head buzzes with the sound of my mother’s voice, reading that exact verse.
Mrs. Hillard is studying me, waiting to hear what I have to say. “Read it again to yourself,” she suggests. “Everyone, read it again. Give it a moment. Let it sink in.”
My eyes read the line again as if they’re pulled to the ink on the page.
Time stops, just for a heartbeat. My brain is too tangled up in death and guilt, and I can’t read another word of this poem. My chest is going to explode, or maybe my head. Blood roars in my ears, deafening me.
I slam the book closed and shove it in my backpack. I’ve never walked out of class before, but I’m walking now.
Mrs. Hillard comes after me. “Declan!”
“I’ll go to the office.” My voice is rough and broken, and I don’t even care.
“Stop. Tell me what just happened.”
“I hate this!” I’m loud and furious, and I round on her in the hallway. “Would you leave me alone?”
She doesn’t react to my anger, and she doesn’t try to calm me down. “Why?”
A door farther down the hallway opens, and another teacher pokes his head out. He sees me in the hallway, fists clenched and shoulders up, and he looks back at Mrs. Hillard.
“Do you want me to call security?” he says. Of course.
“No. No one needs security.” Mrs. Hillard takes a step away from her doorway, until she’s right in front of me. The other teacher doesn’t move, but she ignores him. “Go to the office,” she says to me. “Will you wait there for me?”
My body feels ready to rattle apart, held together by nothing more than the way my fingers are biting into my palms, but I manage to nod.
“Good,” she says. “I’ll be down after class.”
Hamilton High School was built over thirty years ago, and you can see the age in areas that haven’t seen much of an upgrade. The main office is one of those places. Countertops are bright orange, peeling in spots, and the paneled walls have been repainted a glossy white so many times that they still look wet. The administration has done a decent job trying to make it inviting for students, with a small area off to the side featuring plush chairs, a round table, and racks of college brochures and guidance pamphlets.
When I walk through the main doors, I want to ask for the sick room—but the only thing worse than waiting on a teacher would be waiting on my mother. One of the secretaries glances up at me. Her name is Beverly Sanders. Her hair is bleached blond this year, and she has a penchant for floral sweater sets. She’s going through a divorce.
You could say I visit the office a lot.
The air conditioning is blasting in here this morning, and I’m freezing. My body feels like it’s shrinking in on itself. Everything around me seems huge. My breathing sounds loud in my own ears.
Ms. Sanders doesn’t stop typing. “I’ll let Mr. Diviglio know you’re here.”
Mr. Diviglio is the vice principal. He deals with student issues. We’re great friends.
By which I mean I would rather slam my hand in a door than sit in an office with him. Especially right now.
I clear my throat, but my voice is still rough. “I don’t need to see him. Mrs. Hillard to
ld me to wait for her here.”
Her fingers go still, and she looks up at me more fully, then glances at the clock above the door. “The bell won’t ring for another twenty minutes.”
“I know.”
“Take a seat.”
I drop into one of the chairs and try to get my thoughts to settle. They refuse. I read Juliet’s email again. I wonder what it would feel like to hear her say those things to my face.
I wish I could talk to her right now.
Please, I want to say to her. Please figure me out.
It’s you? she’d say. Ugh. You big freak.
“You’re not supposed to be using a phone during class time,” says Ms. Sanders.
My eyes flick up. “I’m not in class.”
Her lips purse. “Please put it away.”
I sigh and shove it into my backpack.
By the time the bell rings, my anger has burned itself out, leaving me anxious and twitchy. It’s the first lunch bell, and students pour into the office for various reasons. No one looks at me. I wait, my elbows braced on my knees.
I count each minute, until I start to wonder if she’s forgotten.
Mrs. Hillard comes bustling in five minutes after the bell, a bag slung over her shoulder and a harried expression on her face.
When she finds me sitting in one of the armchairs, she lets out a long breath. “You waited.”
“You told me to.” And then I feel like an idiot for waiting.
“I’m glad you did.” She nods to the left, toward one of the doors. “Let’s go into one of the conference rooms.”
The conference rooms are where you go when they want to call your parents, or someone wants to have a serious conversation, which generally means something that’s going to go on your record. But she’s not grabbing an administrator, so I follow her, and we sit.
Her voice is calm, but she doesn’t screw around. “What happened in class?”