Aftermath(47)

I want to leave my own note. Tear out a sheet of paper and write four times, “I am so sorry.” Roll them up. Lay one in each quarter. But that feels self-indulgent and wrongheaded. These were left by the grieving, and my pain has no place here.

I straighten and look around. My phone vibrates.

Jesse: ok?

I force my finger to the emojis and poise it over the thumbs-up. But I can’t do it. Just can’t. I reply with OK. Then I take a deep breath and continue down the hall.

As the hall gets darker, I use my flashlight app. When I spot something written on the wall, I nod. There will be more memorials. I need to be prepared for that.

I continue down the hall, and I want to ignore that writing, but that feels like ignoring this summons.

This is what the shooters did, damn it, and you will stop and look.

You will respect the dead.

So I glance at the wall and see the words: Rot in hell, you sick son of a bitch.

Below that, written in marker, there is an arrow. An arrow pointing to the floor with RIH. Luka Gilchrist.

I look down…

Blood. There is blood on the floor.

I stumble back so fast I fall, and then I’m on the floor, staring at a wash of dark red, as if someone made a haphazard attempt to clean up…

To clean up…

I squeeze my eyes shut. Fake. This must be fake.

Then I lift my gaze… and see the boys’ bathroom.

Skye

No. No, no, no.

This is not the place. It cannot be the place. It… It…

I know now why I’m here. To face this. To picture it. Luka walks out of that bathroom — “Geez, Luka, I thought you were going to take up residence in there.”

He laughs. “Sorry. Just trying to get the rest of this makeup off. I swear, if I have to do another hundred-year-old musical…” He makes gagging noises. “You need to write me a part, Skye. One that I can…” A theatrical wave. “Truly inhabit.”

“Annoying geeky older brother?”

“No, annoying geeky older brother superhero.” He slings his arm over my shoulders as we head for the exit. “Like Spider-Man, except without the costume. Just a regular-guy superhero.”

“Uh-huh, you need a tragic backstory for that.”

“I have one. Forced to live with an annoying geeky little sister.” He grins. “You asked for that.”

I sigh.

He squeezes my shoulder. “Write me a story, Skye. Make me a hero.”

I see us walking out, his arm still draped over my shoulder as the lights extinguish behind us.

Make me a hero, Skye.

I can’t, Luka. I want to. I want to so badly and I… I can’t.

My gaze falls to the red wash on the floor, and I see him again. I see him lying in a pool of blood. His eyelids flutter open, and he sees me, and he winks, like it’s a scene in one of his plays.

That’s all, Skye.

Just a play.

It’s not real.

He reaches up, and I drop to my knees.

And then he’s gone.

Luka is gone.

My brother is gone, and he is never coming back, and I failed him. Somehow I failed him.

My fingers touch the faint streaks of blood, and I see the truth. I see him lying in a pool of blood, and there’s a gun by his side.

I touch the blood, and I hear him coming out of the bathroom again, like a tape on replay.

“… just trying to get the rest of this makeup off…”

A sob doubles me over. I want to grab that memory, grab it as hard as I can and forget this, forget the blood on the floor and the truth – the truth that my brother was as far from a hero as anyone can get, and this is his memorial: these words on the wall.

Rot in hell.

Sobs rip through me, and I cry harder than I have ever cried for my brother. Harder than I have ever been able to cry for him.

When I hear running footsteps, I look up sharply, and I almost expect to see Luka race around the corner.

What’s wrong, Skye?

It’s okay, Skye. Mom’s getting better. I know she is. Dad’ll be home soon, and she’s always better when he’s here. Everything will be fine. We just need to hold on a bit longer.

It isn’t Luka, of course. These are actual footsteps. From a flesh-and-blood person who has heard me crying and come running to see what’s wrong.

I text a quick I’m okay, and the steps halt.

Jesse: i think we should leave.

Me: Soon.

A pause; then, from Jesse:

i heard something.

Me: I scared myself. Yelped. Ugh.

Jesse: no one’s here. I’m coming to you.

Me: Let me get to the exact coordinates. I’m close.

Jesse: five minutes.

I pull up the GPS. I’m not sure if those coordinates will lead anywhere at all – I’m starting to think they really were just rough ones intended to get me to the school. Like Jesse says, there’s no sign of anyone here. Nothing I’ve seen so far has been planted or staged, and the message seems simple.

Face what your brother did.

Face how your brother died.

I suspect whoever brought me here isn’t even the same person who’s done the rest. That’s why the number was blocked instead of faked. This is just a student who knew about the fire, knew suspicions had fallen on me and knew about my GPS game with Jesse, which hadn’t been a secret back in middle school.