My mom calls at what should be the end of sixth period but instead is me back in bed with the covers pulled over my head.
I have never cut class before. I’ve never even thought about cutting class. I have no idea if she’s going to tear into me or have Dr. Chao make a house call. I cross my fingers that it won’t be the first one. The half-mile walk home took me twice as long as usual, and I don’t have the energy to get into an argument with her. I take in a deep breath, blow it out, and then answer the phone.
“Genevieve. Where are you? The school called and said you never showed up to your afternoon classes.”
“I went home early.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“I tried, Mom. But school is . . .” I pause for a second to come up with the right word. “Unbearable.”
She exhales in a way that indicates a forthcoming lecture. “Why is it unbearable?”
“People won’t stop talking about Dallas.” I hear someone in the background ask for more 5.0 Prolene and it occurs to me that my mom is talking to me in the middle of some kid’s heart surgery. “We can talk about this tonight if you’re busy,” I say.
“Stitch,” she says sharply, and then to me, “I can multitask. Dallas was their friend and your boyfriend. Your grief is their grief too.”
It’s similar to what Shannon said, and I’m sure for some kids that it’s true. But I feel like half the school are misery-mongers, people who just want to get in on a big event so they can post about it on their blog or Facebook later.
“Genevieve?” my mom prompts.
“I know,” I say. “But some people really suck. This girl in third hour took my picture to post on her KadetKorps blog and then this boy asked me if I had any Dallas memorabilia he could sell on eBay. I don’t want to go back. I’m not ready to deal with all that.”
“Stitch.” A pause and then another sigh. “I forgot how thoughtless kids could be. We’ll talk about it later, all right?”
“All right. Thanks, Mom.”
“I love you,” she says.
I wait for the “but” that usually follows those three words, as in “You know I love you, but you’re being overdramatic or too sensitive. . . .”
This time my mom doesn’t feel the need to tack on a qualifier. A warm feeling spreads in my chest. “I love you too,” I say.
Just as I hang up, my phone buzzes again. I realize I have four texts from Shannon.
Shannon: Where are you? Someone said you went to the bathroom in World History and never came back.
Shannon: Did you fall in? Seriously, G. Are you skipping lunch today or what?
Shannon: Did you go to the nurse? Are you skipping class?? Please respond. I’m worried about you.
Shannon: You have five minutes to answer this or I’m calling the hospital and having them page your mom.
Me: Sorry. I didn’t mean to ignore you. I was resting.
Shannon: Resting?
Me: I went home.
Shannon: Why?
Me: Because our classmates are idiots. This kid in 3rd hour wanted to know if I had any of Dallas’s stuff to sell and Ciara Clark asked me if I’d tell her Dallas’s last words for a blog exclusive.
Shannon: WTF? I hate that girl. Were you and Dallas still fighting when it happened?
Me: What?
Shannon: You know. You texted me that night and said you thought it was over.
My phone starts to shake in my hands.
Me: What did I say exactly? Can you screen shot it for me?
Shannon: Sure. You don’t remember that either? I figured you just didn’t want to talk about it.
I wait for the image of my text to appear. I skim the words.
Me: Thanks. I gotta go.
Shannon: Are you all right? Do you want me to come by? I can bail on swim practice if you need me.
The last thing I want is for this whole thing to mess up Shannon’s life too.
Me: I’m fine. Don’t skip practice for me. I’ll text you later.
Shannon: Okay, if you’re sure. All the hugs.
Me: All the <333
I read and reread the texts I sent her that night, and another memory begins to piece itself together in my brain.