I stay home the next day, Friday, my last day being AWOL. But Mom drives me into school after dismissal to get makeup work from my teachers and turn in my basketball gear.
She pulls up in front of the school and parks along the curb.
“I’ll wait in the car,” she says, opening her book. “Take your time.”
I decide to take care of basketball first.
I find Coach Langley in the locker room office, chatting with two of the wrestling coaches. The rest of the team turned in their uniforms and practice jerseys yesterday, two days after our last game. The season’s officially over. My stomach drops and my whole body feels numb, but I force myself to knock.
“Hey, Matt. Come on in.”
I pull my stack of jerseys out of my bag and hand them over, half expecting him to rip them out of my hands. But he tosses them on separate piles stacked against the wall and checks my name off on a clipboard on his desk.
Without looking up, he says, “Open gyms start up in two weeks.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Better be,” he says.
I nod and go, wondering what the hell just happened.
So. (1) Grampa is, in fact, a Jedi. (2) I am going to work my ever-loving ass off.
On to the teachers.
After an alarming hug and a stack of study guides from Mrs. Shepler, my book bag is loaded down, and I have one last stop. Mr. Ellis.
Even more than with Coach, I am dreading having to face Mr. Ellis. The last time I saw him, he was confronting me about a major assignment I refused to do. Then when he tried to help, I essentially told him his assignments were pointless and to shove it up his ass. And this to my hands-down favorite teacher of all time. Nice.
Like I said, calling a time-out didn’t make my shit disappear. Maybe now, though, I can handle his disappointment without telling him to fuck off.
When I turn the corner to his hallway, though, I freeze. Mr. Ellis is sitting on the floor outside his room, staring into an open locker. I know whose it is.
Mr. Ellis does a double take when he sees me and gets to his feet, one hand on the locker door like I’ve caught him in the middle of something embarrassing and he can’t decide whether to close the locker.
“Matt,” he says, looking into the locker again, then back at me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were coming in today.” He puts a hand on my shoulder when I reach him, then quickly pulls it away.
Tabby’s locker is mostly empty, tidy, her textbooks and binders stacked on the bottom, a couple of random items on the top shelf, the rest probably cleaned out by Tabby before she left for Christmas break.
“I was finally getting around to cleaning it out,” he says quietly in explanation. “Haven’t been able to get myself to do it, and no one’s asked for the books yet.”
I stare, breathless.
“I loved that girl,” he says, and I look at him, stunned, but he’s still staring into the open locker. “She was in my homeroom. And my last-period class. What an awesome human being.”
I can’t respond to this—I feel like I might have to sit down on the floor, too, my eyes burning.
He reaches into the top of the locker, picks up a hairbrush and sets it back down. He reaches in farther, then chuckles, and pulls out an empty box of Nerds, smiling and shaking his head with tears in his eyes.
I don’t know what the dying-animal noise is that escapes my mouth, but it startles Mr. Ellis. I reach for the empty box, and now I do sit, dropping to my knees on the floor.
I don’t want to cry in front of this man. I really don’t. I’m supposed to have my shit together now. Time-out, and all. But here I am, on the floor of an empty hallway, sobbing into a tiny, empty candy box like a freaking lunatic.
Mr. Ellis helps me to my feet and pulls me into a hug. Not how this was supposed to go.
“I’m so sorry, Matt. I didn’t know.”
I force myself under control, clutching the empty box. “No. Sorry. It’s okay,” I stammer, wiping at my eyes.
He leads me into his empty classroom and sits down in a student desk in the front. He pulls out the chair next to him for me to sit, and I do, taking deep breaths but not letting go of the box.
“So you two were pretty close, huh?”
I nod. “She was my neighbor.” I shake my head—that sounds stupid. “We grew up together,” I try again. “She was one of my closest friends. My first friend.” Which still doesn’t sound quite right—not enough. How do I explain what Tabby was?
“I’m so sorry, Matt,” he says again when we’ve both calmed down a bit. “I had no idea. Your memoir—I never meant for you to have to—”
“No, it’s okay,” I say. “You shouldn’t be apologizing. I’m the one who was a jerk. I’m sorry I wrote what I did—for not writing at all before that. I’m sorry I’ve treated you the way I have in class.”
“No, don’t worry about it, Matt. I understand now.”
We go on deflecting each other’s apologies for a few minutes before I finally pull myself together.
I rub my eyes again. “Okay, I didn’t actually come here to cry all over you,” I say. “I wanted to get any makeup work from the past two weeks. Besides the memoir. I’m coming back on Monday.”
Mr. Ellis smiles and shakes his head. “You’re good, Matt. Let’s start fresh on Monday. And please don’t worry about the memoir. I’m just excited to have you back in class. We’ve missed you.”
I don’t know that I buy all that, but it feels good, nonetheless. And I do miss being in here. Trip, and Mr. Ellis, and feeling normal, and funny, and halfway intelligent again.
“Thanks, Mr. Ellis.”
“Oh, hey,” Mr. Ellis says as I stand up to leave. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, or seen any of the posters.” He nods to one hanging inside his classroom door. “But the students and staff have organized a dance-a-thon. For Tabby. It’s tomorrow, all day.”
I walk to the poster and read.
TABBI-THON—1st Annual Memorial Dance-a-thon in Memory of Tabitha Laughlin
The text is imposed over a black-and-white image of the student section from one of the basketball games, Tabby in the center, face painted, hair braided, huge varsity jacket draped over her raised arms.
“The school’s set up a scholarship in Tabby’s name, so all the money raised will go to getting it started. I’m hoping we can do it every year.”
I nod, still looking at the poster, again unable to get any words to come out.
“It should be pretty emotional, but fun. I think a lot of us need that.”
“Cool” is the best I can manage to choke out, still staring at Tabby’s image—one that broke my heart before but obliterates it now.
“Hope I see you there, then, Matt. And thank you for coming in.”
“Thanks,” I say, forcing a smile without meeting his eyes. I give a small wave with the hand still clutching the Nerds box and walk out.
It’s a good thing.
It is. I know it is.
But knowing it doesn’t stop these waves of resentment. Of jealousy.
But it’s okay. It is.
Other people loved her, too. And I’m sure they are hurting, and this is a good thing they’re doing in her name. It’s good. Had it been for someone else, Tabby would have loved it. And talked about it, and raised money for it, and badgered me about it, and danced her heart out the entire time. Of course other people loved her.
I’ve been so obsessed with wanting her influence all to myself, I’ve missed how far-reaching her effect really is.
Not like she lives on in our hearts, or some made-up shit like that—I pass more and more posters in the halls on my way out, and looking at her picture doesn’t make her feel alive in my heart. If anything, she feels even more acutely gone.
She’s gone.
She doesn’t live on in anyone’s heart.
But she’s left an indelible mark on mine. A lasting effect on everything I do.
Good work, brain. That made perfect sense.
Mom’s exactly where I left her, the car idling along the curb in front of the school.
I throw my bags in the backseat—book bag heavier than before, gym bag lighter—and climb in the front.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Everything’s fine.”
And, all things considering, it kinda is.