Aftermath(17)

I dream of Leanna Tsosie. I dream of her under that desk, hitting Send on the text to her mother, then hearing a noise, and turning to see Luka in the classroom doorway. I dream that she’s begging for her life, and he just keeps bearing down on her. I dream that he shoots her in the head. And then I dream that it isn’t Luka holding the gun.

It’s me.

I wake, as I lie there, shaking, I want to go home. I just want to go home.

Except I don’t know where that is anymore.

Riverside was the only place I ever really considered home, and now it’s not. It can never be again.

This is where I grew up. Where I had a family and friends and a future. Now it’s a place where people hate me enough to send me videos of dead girls.

Go away, Skye Gilchrist.

Go, and don’t ever come back.

There is, of course, no newspaper meeting before school. But since I told Mae there was, I have to go in early, so I hang out in my office – the girls’ bathroom – waiting for the bell. Maybe I’ll talk to Tiffany later and join the paper. I can edit or something. I still know the difference between there, their and they’re, and that sadly gives me an advantage over most high school kids.

Speaking of English, I see Chris Landry in class. There’s an empty seat beside him, and I wouldn’t have taken it – I don’t want to give the wrong impression – but he waves me to it, so I kinda have to. He’s being nice; therefore, I cannot be rude. He talks to me before class and again after, and he walks out with me, and then we go our separate ways. All cool.

Gran has texted. I missed my morning call. Missed last night’s too. I just couldn’t manage it. I send back a Sorry! School stuff. Call tonight? and she replies with a thumbs-up emoji, one that makes me smile and makes me hurt, too, wishing I could be there, with her and Mom.

I eat lunch in the girls’ bathroom. I plan to talk to Tiffany in physics but don’t get the chance. Jesse doesn’t show up for math. I’m making my beeline for the side exit when I hear “Skye Gilchrist to the office. Skye Gilchrist to the office.”

I slow as every eye in the hall turns my way. Then I pick up speed, as if I misheard, until someone says, “The office is that way, Gilchrist.”

I arrive to find Mr. Vaughn waiting. He waves me into his office and closes the door behind me. Then he takes a piece of paper from his desk and holds it against his chest, like it’s the answer to a scholarship-winning quiz.

“I understand it isn’t easy being here, Skye. It’s high school. Hormones and stress lead to harassment and bullying.”

“Uh, okay.”

“The problem is that, when kids have gone through years of bullying and harassing, they can develop a sensitivity to it. They see insult where none is intended. They can get a little…” His lips purse.

“Paranoid?”

He makes a face. “I was looking for another word.”

“Okay.” Is there a point here?

“I’ve seen your record from other schools. You’ve had a difficult time. Coming here, you expect things to be even worse. How will you be treated by kids who knew your brother? Who were affected by his actions? How many kids at this school have some connection to that day?”

Yeah, thanks for pointing that out. Because, you know, I hadn’t considered it until now.

“The point, Skye, is that I understand your sensitivity. But this doesn’t help matters.” He sets the paper on his desk. It’s an email. An anonymous one reporting Lana Brighton for circulating a petition to get me kicked out of RivCol.

He continues, “The person who sent this was careful to use a dummy email account and a school computer. But to access those computers, you need to log in. This email was sent from a terminal logged into your account.”

“My account?”

He looks at me like I’ve donated brain cells recently. “Your school account. Used to access the school computers.”

I wave my backpack. “I have a laptop. I didn’t even know I had an account here, so I’ve never logged into it.”

He eyes me, saddened by my pathetic attempts to defend myself.

“I’m sure I can prove I didn’t use that terminal,” I say. “When was it accessed? And where? I —”

He drops the page into a file folder. “It’s fine, Skye.”

“No, it’s not. I want to straighten this out. Either it’s a mistake or someone intentionally sent it from my account.”

“Yes, maybe you’re right,” he says, in a tone that makes it clear he doesn’t want to continue this conversation. “There is no petition, by the way. I questioned Lana yesterday.”

“Uh, yeah, there is. I overheard kids talking about signing it.”

“We also searched her locker today. Normally, I wouldn’t have gone that far, but I understand how difficult this must be, and I wanted to be thorough. There is no petition.”

“Are you accusing me of lying?”

“Lana may have made an angry offhand comment, saying someone should start a petition. Others may have taken that to mean she was. But there is no petition. Lana knows that would be pointless. You have as much right to be here as anyone.”

He says it as if I need to be reassured that I’m welcome. As if I’d been charged in the shooting and found not guilty.