Aftermath(7)

“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.

Skye

My wild flight from school is cut short by the sight of a security officer. The old Skye would have flown past, not caring about the tornado of consequences that would follow. Sure, I’d earn detention the next day. Sure, my parents would get a call. Sure, Luka would sigh and explain why I shouldn’t do things like that. But I’m upset, damn it, and I’m entitled to a little drama.

When I stop on seeing the guard, it isn’t maturity. It’s shame.

I slink back into the school and revisit my new bestie: the girls’ bathroom. I stand in the stall and take out my phone to text Mae.

You told me Jesse wouldn’t be here.

There’s a whine in my words, and I rewrite the text.

Jesse’s here. I thought he wouldn’t be.

That’s better. More mature. An implied request for information rather than an outright accusation. Yet I still don’t send it. I read the words, and I want to erase them and write Hey, Mae? You knew Jesse was here, didn’t you? You lied to force me to face him. You know what I have to say to that? Insert appropriate emoji.

I turn off my phone and stare at the screen and wish I could call someone. I think of Gran. I think of Mom, before her problems. I think of Luka, and I know I’m not supposed to, but sometimes I can’t help it. My defensive wall doesn’t fly up fast enough.

I think of Jesse, too. Because, once upon a time, that was him. It was only a blip – six months of my now sixteen years, but it was exactly the right time for a friend like Jesse. Mom was getting sick, and Luka was struggling to keep the household running, and Gran was so far away and, let’s face it, at thirteen, I didn’t want to complain to any of them. I wanted to text the guy who’d send back “That sucks” and “Wanna talk?” along with whatever cute animal gif he found to cheer me up. I remember that, and then I think of the guy I just saw in math class, and I want to cry. I just want to cry.