Aftermath(46)

Jesse leaves me here. He can watch my back better if he isn’t right beside me. He’s found another way into the school, and he’ll use that.

I step up to the front door. The street is empty, and while I know people live in the surrounding houses, the neighborhood feels as abandoned as the school.

I’ve already checked the front door, and I know it’s open, the lock forced. I could read that as an obvious trap, but it’s an empty building – I suspect kids have been sneaking in here for years.

I pull open the heavy door and —

I look down the cavernous, dimly lit hall. “God, this place is old.”

Luka smiles. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is. It stinks.”

“It’s called character, Skye.”

“No, it’s called mold.”

He shakes his head. “Go find a seat. Auditorium’s right down the hall. I need to get to costuming.” Before I go, he says, “If you’re lucky this place will be shut down before you go here.”

Tears prickle my eyes. You were right, Luka. But I’m not lucky. Not one little bit.

The smell brings every memory rushing back, from that first time I came to watch Luka in a play to the last time, on a school trip, seeing him down the hall as he hurries to class, and he waves at me, and I pretend not to notice, like I’m way too cool for that, and he jogs over to give me a hug, properly humiliating me for ignoring him, and Jesse laughs and —

I can’t do this. Barely two steps past the doorway, and I’m ready to flee. Then I look up and see…

I see what seems like trash blocking the hall. There’s only a bit of light coming in through boarded-up windows, and so all I can tell is that stuff has been piled in the corridor. As I walk closer, I see a stuffed animal. A worn bear. I slow. If someone is squatting here with a child, I shouldn’t go farther. Shouldn’t intrude.

Then I notice the flowers. Daisies. Real ones, with a vase and water. There are other flowers, too, some starting to wilt, but none dead. More flowers. More stuffed animals. A baseball helmet beside a picture frame. A football jersey off to the far side, hung up as if on display. A North Hampton High jersey, with the number 63, and a name I can’t quite read until I move closer and —

Mandal.

I stagger back as if slapped. I stare at the jersey, still streaked with dirt, as if Jamil had just come off the field and thrown it aside and…

This is a memorial. Like the ones people put at the roadside where a child has died, but this one… This one is massive. It’s been divided into quarters. Jamil’s jersey marks his place, and it’s surrounded by things left for him, objects that reminded people of him. There are other jerseys, folded neatly, from other players, as if his teammates left theirs in memory. There are photos in cheap frames. Jamil and his teammates, Jamil and his friends, Jamil and a girl, and as I bend in front of that last photo, I remember her.

“She’s nice,” I say to Jesse as Jamil leaves with her.

Jesse chuckles. “You seem shocked.”

“Uh, yes…”

“Yeah, me too. Weird thing is, he really seems to like her.”

“Pretty sure you should like the girls you date.”

“You know what I mean. He usually picks the ones who hang all over him, make him feel good, put up with his crap. Peyton doesn’t. Last week, I heard her call him out on something, tell him he’d been a jerk, and he actually agreed. Even apologized.”

There’s a note below the photo. A note from Peyton. Five words.

I miss you so much.

I stand quickly and turn my attention to the other memorials.

There are photos of Nella Landry with her little brother and sister. With friends. With family. There are awards, too, for her community service, her advocacy work. Copies of letters from politicians and activists, names I recognize, praising her accomplishments and offering condolences on the “violent end” to such a “bright future.”

Leanna Tsosie grins at me from photos shot on a trip to Paris, with classmates and friends. An even bigger grin as she holds up a scholarship offer, and yet those smiles are nothing compared to those of her parents, standing beside her. Two old science fair projects have been left, first-place ribbons still attached. And books. Her favorite ones, dog-eared and piled. I’ve read those books. All of them, and I look at Leanna’s memorial, and I wish I’d known her as I realize how much we had in common. Then I think of her under that desk, texting her mother.

I’m fine, Mom. Don’t worry.

For Brandon, there is art – sketches and portraits of his family. One is framed – including a drawing of his sleeping infant son. There are photos, too, of him with friends and family, and with his girlfriend and baby. People have added newer ones of his son, from baby to toddler to preschooler. In the last photo, his son celebrates his fourth birthday, blowing out candles, his mother beside him, her hand stroking his hair, a sad smile on her face, a distant look in her eyes.

I kneel by the flowers and touch a petal. Someone brings these. Every week someone must bring these. Three years have passed and still they come and lay fresh flowers. And notes, so many notes, some rolled or sealed, as if meant for the dead. Words left unsaid. No matter how many people have been through here – looking for a place to sleep or smoke up or make out – no one has opened those notes. They have respected the dead and the living, and left them alone.