I eat lunch in a bathroom stall. I’ve been in there awhile and the initial rush has passed, and I think I’m alone. Then I hear two girls talking.
“What’s she even doing back here? Isn’t there a law against that?”
“There should be.”
“Lana Brighton started a petition, saying it’s disrespectful to the families and friends of the dead kids to have her here.”
“Where is it? I’ll sign.”
I should confront them. Three years ago, I would have done exactly that. Walk out, chin up, and say, “Oh, hey, I heard you talking about a petition. Tell me more.” That’s the old Skye. The new one stays in the bathroom stall, stuffs her half-eaten sandwich into her bag and waits for the bell.
I have survived my first day at school. Well, almost. One period to go. I’m feeling okay. I’ve had looks in the hall. Whispers trail after me. But I’ve had kindness, too, particularly in my second-to-last class – senior physics – and maybe it’s because the kids are older, college-bound and focused on their studies. Instead of glares, I get sympathetic smiles. Instead of whispers, I get the same questions every new kid gets, like asking where I moved from. At the end, a girl who looks familiar offers to walk me to my next class.
“You probably don’t remember me,” she says. “I’m Tiffany Gold.”
I stiffen. I don’t mean to, but I remember her now. Isaac’s girlfriend. Isaac Wickham, ringleader of the North Hampton shooting.
“Yep,” she says with a wry smile. “That Tiffany Gold.”
Shame floods me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean —”
“No, it’s okay. It’s got to be a shock, seeing me here. I should be in college.”
“You were younger than…” I trail off.
“I was a year younger than Isaac and Luka. I’m doing a victory lap this term. Which means I’m the only student at RivCol who was there that day, and you don’t need to worry about bumping into others. If that helps.”
“It does, thanks.” I take another step. “How are you doing?”
“Fine. People have pretty much forgotten my connection by now. Even in the beginning, they cut me slack. I was just the poor girl who got mixed up with the wrong guy.” She makes a face. “I’m not handling this very well. I wanted to say hello.”
“Thank you.”
She smiles and relaxes. “Anytime you want to talk, I’m here. If you’d rather not, I get that, too. No hard feelings.”
I thank her again, and she helps me find my last class.
I have math now. I’m not top of my class anymore. Far from it. One therapist said that’s because I learned about the shooting right after math class. Loathing by association. I don’t always buy my therapists’ theories, but that one was spot-on with this. Math used to be my favorite subject, and now the only reason I still take it is that I’ll never get into a science program otherwise.
The teacher directs me to a seat. The girl behind me promptly moves. I ignore that. I can get through this.
I will get through it.
Class is about to begin. The teacher – Ms. Distaff – is turning on the SMART Board when the door opens. And it’s him.
It’s the boy I saw this morning.
And the boy I saw this morning?
Jesse.
For three years, I’ve tried to banish this face from my memory. When I thought I misidentified some random guy earlier, I was actually relieved. It proved that I no longer remembered what Jesse Mandal looked like.
Then I see him, and it doesn’t matter if he’s wearing his hair longer. It doesn’t matter if his face has matured, soft cheeks hollowing, the last traces of baby fat gone. It doesn’t matter if this guy looks like he rolled out of bed in yesterday’s clothes while my Jesse was so perfectly groomed I used to tease him about ironing his T-shirts. Even his expression is unfamiliar. I remember a boy who was thoughtfully serious but ready to smile at any provocation. This guy shuffles in like math class is court-ordered and he’d be elsewhere if his parole officer wasn’t watching.
This boy is nothing like my Jesse. Yet he is unmistakably Jesse Mandal.
Jesse walks in. He sees me. He stops short. He looks around and realizes the only open chair is the one the girl vacated behind me.
“Well, hello, Jesse,” Ms. Distaff says. “Are you actually joining us today? Or just coming to see if anything’s changed since the last time you showed up?”
She must be kidding. My Jesse never skipped class. I did, if only a couple of times, curious to see if I could get away with it. Once, Jesse wanted to give it a try, and we planned to fake a sick call and go hiking, but at two a.m. I got a text, Jesse about to be genuinely sick with anxiety.
Yet today, Jesse just says, “My seat’s taken.”
“Which is what happens when you skip an entire week. There’s an empty seat behind our new student, Skye. I doubt she bites.”
My cheeks flame, and a girl titters behind me.
“I know who she is,” Jesse says.
“Lovely, then you can skip the formal greetings and put your butt in that chair so I can start.”
“I can’t sit there.”
“Put your —”
“He’s right,” says a guy in the back. “Her brother was Luka Gilchrist. The guy who killed Jesse’s brother. She shouldn’t even be in the same class as him. It’s disrespectful.”
Silence. Five long seconds as I pray for release. For someone to point out that Luka didn’t shoot Jamil Mandal, and maybe, yes, maybe, I hope that someone will be Jesse.
No one says a word.
“I – I can switch seats,” I say, getting to my feet.
“Or,” the boy in the back says, “you could just leave.”
Now Jesse will speak up. One thing we had in common was our sense of right and wrong, the first kids to be outraged by injustice.
Jesse silently walks to the back of the class, slides to the floor, and sits there, knees up, gaze fixed on the SMART Board.
The next thing I know, I’m running down the hall, and I don’t stop until I’m out the front doors.