There are twenty-eight of us in Journalism this year and we’re pretty self-sufficient; people mostly trust a bunch of kids stocking their transcripts with a UC-approved elective course. Our advisor, Mr. Renato, primarily teaches AP English and has a never-ending stack of essays to grade in his classroom next door and is in there at least 50 percent of the time, including today. We put out one paper a month and it’s mostly Regina running everything, assigning stories and cajoling local tutoring companies and restaurants into buying ad space, badgering everyone not to write stories directly in InDesign and to remember hairline framing around photos.
Today is story assignment day. Most people always want to write, like, profiles of their friends or movie reviews, but Regina likes big, demanding stories: refugee crises and hate crimes and police brutality, all the deep fissures in the world. I’ve always thought they give her energy and purpose, and—paradoxically, I guess—a place to rest.
She seems a little nervous perched in front of the room—her voice is pitched higher and she keeps running out of breath. She’s wearing a striped blazer with the sleeves rolled up, tight jeans and heels, and she looks professional and adult, and she makes me wish everyone else here cared as much as she did. In here I can imagine a whole future around her—a life where she got out of Cupertino and built something else for herself, where I can turn on my TV each night and watch her distill all the chaos of the world into measured, narrated segments.
“As we know, we’re coming up on the anniversary of Sandra Chang’s death in March,” she says, holding her hands still in her lap, “And I know that’s still a little while out, but I wanted to see what everyone thought of doing a tribute to her in that month’s issue.”
Twenty-seven people go quiet. This is the first time since Sandra died that I’ve heard Regina bring her up in public voluntarily.
Here’s the thing. When someone at your school dies by suicide it consumes you, not just you as an individual but corporately, the whole campus. Theories swirl and everyone looks for a reason, for something or someone to pin the unthinkable to. (Was she bullied? Too stressed out? Was she abused?) Parents start to flood school board meetings and the teachers panic, pulling you aside to ask if you’re all right every time you’re quiet or tired in class. The administration calls in experts and you take anonymous surveys about whether you’ve ever been depressed and psychologists come talk to your second-period advisory classes about calls for help and about healthy ways to deal with stress, and they don’t let you all wear her favorite color on the same day or dedicate anything to her. You aren’t allowed to post pictures or notes on the person’s locker or have any kind of memorial service, and the family’s funeral is private. And the places you once believed were safe—your school, your world—feel hostile and fragile and uncertain.
“What kind of tribute?” Advaith Jagtap, our news editor, says cautiously. After Regina, Advaith’s probably the most invested in the paper; he’s the guy you go to when you want to talk politics or current affairs, because he always knows what’s going on and always has opinions and has probably already written a thirty-part tweetstorm on the topic. He hangs out with a group of mostly robotics-club-type guys and wasn’t friends with Sandra.
“That’s a great question,” Regina says brightly. “Any ideas? I was thinking maybe we could interview different people so they could share memories, or—what does everyone think?”
Harry’s sitting very straight, looking around the room protectively like a hawk, like he’s just waiting for someone to say something out-of-bounds so he can pounce on it. Esther leans over and whispers something to Lori and Maureen, and Harry’s eyes hover over Esther. She’s crocheting something, a ball of bright blue yarn getting tugged around on the tabletop.
“That’s a nice idea,” Advaith says. Harry whips his head around to watch him. “I think what I’m wondering is—there’s no way Renato will approve it, so like how would we—”
“Well, we don’t run all our story ideas by him anyway,” Regina says. “So this would fall under that same category.”
Another silence. We all know how to rebel in standard, practiced ways: how to take Pepcid to hide Asian glow when we drink and how to lie to parents about having a boyfriend, who to ask to take the SAT for us or Photoshop a report card. But that’s a different thing than blatant, public rebellion. The last time I cut class it was literally to go with Harry to the library so we could research our AP Lit projects, and even that made him nervous.
“Could it cause problems?” Esther says, not looking up from her yarn. Harry goes on high alert. Esther’s crochet hook flashes back and forth. “I don’t think we should do anything too risky.”
“It’s not risky,” Regina says smoothly. “I mean, that’s a really good question, but you don’t have to worry—it won’t have everyone’s name on it. I’ll be responsible.”
“What if we just put it on the website?” Lori says. “Then we can take it down if we have to. Putting it in the paper is so permanent. Some people save every issue of the paper.”
That startles Regina; she laughs. “Do they? Who? Even I don’t do that.”
“You totally do,” Marvin Chu says, grinning. “Admit it. You probably have a special filing cabinet and everything.”
“A special filing cabinet? You don’t know me at all. Obviously I have them all framed on my walls.” Everyone laughs. I’ve always both admired and worried about the breeziness she exudes in front of other people even when we’re circling around everything that happened. “But the point is that it’s permanent. Also, no one looks at our website.”
“It’s true,” Advaith says. “I think there was a month when we got thirteen hits. Thirteen. And probably twelve of them were me.”
Lori raises her eyebrows at Esther’s cascade of yarn. “Well, I’m just saying.”
“No, those are really great points, Lori, thanks. But, yes, everyone should know it’s not really a question of risk to anyone. I just want to make sure, you know, everyone’s on board with whatever we decide to do as our center spread.”
“Technically,” Advaith kind of mumbles, as nicely as possible, “according to that lawyer you made us go listen to, school papers don’t have First Amendment rights. So I wouldn’t say there’s no risk. Just, for what it’s worth.”
“I just think,” Regina says carefully, “that we have these resources here, and we have these voices, and we could just use them to write yet another profile of the boys’ soccer team, or we could also use them to write things that would actually affect people in a meaningful way.”
“Right,” Advaith says. “Well, yeah, that’s a separate issue, then. That’s what we decide is morally right.”
Esther sits back in her chair and taps her crochet hook on the tabletop. The door swings open, and we all kind of freeze, but it’s just Francesca Deeths walking in late, not Mr. Renato. Esther puts her crochet hook down and folds her hands on the table.
I stay quiet. There’s a cold dread spilling into me, that same feeling I get when I sit down to draw and start panicking or when I imagine my dad just never finding another job, and I don’t know why. I don’t know why I want everyone (or even someone, even just Esther) to say we shouldn’t do it. Maybe it’s that I’m not sure what Regina wants from this. Or I’m not sure it will fix anything or do anything, and when you think you want something, and you do it, and then it turns out it wasn’t what you wanted—where does that leave you?
“What about her family?” Advaith says. “Will this violate their privacy?”
“It won’t be anything new,” Regina says tightly. “This isn’t, like—reporting. It’s a tribute. It’s not really about privacy. Should we vote on it?” She looks at Harry uncertainly. “Or—”
“I don’t think we need to vote,” Harry says, looking around the room to dare anyone to argue. After he says that, of course, no one will. Everyone knows Regina was Sandra’s best friend.
“Regina, it’s admirable that you’re taking a stand on this,” Harry says. “It really is.”
Something twists in me, watching him say that, and almost immediately I’m ashamed of myself. Because, what—do I not want them to be happy? They’re my best friends.
Maybe I’m just not convinced by his performance. Harry loves rules, the safety of them around him, context to operate within or—rarely—against. And why shouldn’t he? Rules have always been kind to him.
Regina says, “What do you think, Danny?”
I sit up straighter, my heart lurching against my chest. I didn’t expect to be directly asked.
“Ah—” I say. “I think, um—” I imagine Sandra unimpressed, tainted by the cheapness of our gesture. Regina would mean it, of course, with all her heart. But there are definitely people in here who wouldn’t. Kathryn Liu, I mean—did she ever talk to Sandra in her life? But you can’t say that, definitely not to the whole class. I of all people can’t say it.
“I think yeah, definitely,” I lie. “If that’s what you think we should do, then yeah.”
“Will you draw a portrait of her?”
I blanch. Regina’s gazing at me evenly, her expression carefully constructed, and I can’t read enough in it to know whether this is supposed to be some kind of punishment or some kind of test.
But, again, how can I say I won’t do it? There’s only one answer here. Regina knows that, too. She could’ve asked me in private, she could’ve not asked me at all, but she chose this.
“Yeah, sure,” I say quietly. The muscles in my back bunch together, a slow sort of cramp. “Just tell me whatever you want.”