Gone, Gone, Gone(31)

She’s okay. She’s okay. It wasn’t her. I still can’t breathe. “Holy shit, Michelle. Holy . . . Oh, God, God, f*ck.”

She mews. “Th-they’re going to make me hang up in a second, we’re on lockdown.”

“Okay. Okay. You called Dad, right?”

I can hear her brush against the speaker of the phone a few times. She’s nodding. “He’s o-on his way.”

“You’re safe. You’re safe? There are adults with you?”

“Yes.” She sniffles.

“Okay. You . . . don’t do anything stupid, okay? Stay safe until Dad gets there. Stay safe after Dad gets there!”

I let her hang up first.

I should call Dad. I want to. But he doesn’t need to worry about me right now. All my sisters are probably attacking him with calls, or they will as soon as they recognize the name of Michelle’s school. Maybe I should call Veronica, my middle sister? She’s six years older than me, but she always reads my papers before I turn them in, and she’s good at softball, and boys like her. Would she be good at this?

He told us our children were safe at school.

My lungs are tightening up.

He told us they were safe.

My teacher sticks his head into the hallway and says, “Lio.”

I’m standing here holding my phone. He could give me detention. I expect him to at least take my phone away.

He says, “Back to class, now, okay?”

My tongue feels too heavy for my mouth. I nod and follow him back inside the classroom, but I don’t know if I’m going to stay or if I’m going to get my things and run.

They’ve rolled out the TV, and everyone’s crowded around watching the news. There’s the outside of my sister’s school. There’s a reporter, and her hair is perfect. There’s the police chief, and he’s crying.

He’s crying.

He’s our police chief, and he’s crying.

I need to get out of here. I need to get to my sister.

I’m fully willing to fake an entire string of sneezes to get out of this class, but the bell goes off as I’m gathering my stuff. Everyone mills around, mumbling to each other. Thirteen years old. How did this happen?

How the f*ck do they think it happened? Exactly the same as the ones who weren’t thirteen. Why do we care so much more when it’s a kid who dies?

Michelle is fine. She’s fine.

I want to go to Craig. I don’t know if I can go to Craig. I don’t know if we’re talking.

So I find Jasper. “We have to go get Michelle.”

For a minute I’m terrified no one’s told her, and I’m going to have to do it. She’ll start to cry. I don’t know if I can handle that.

But she puts her arms around me and holds me.

Jasper and I don’t touch very much. I hug Michelle a lot more, though I get along more easily with Jasper. But the way we get along tends to be quiet and snarky.

Everyone can see her. A senior hugging a sophomore. I want to bury my head in the shoulder of her puffy jacket and fall asleep.

She says, “Dad’s with her, baby. Dad has her.”

I know that she’s right. But it doesn’t feel like enough. I say, “Can we go get the house ready for her?”

She shoves her hair out of her eyes. Her makeup is all smudged. Was she crying? Why haven’t I cried? “This isn’t a surprise party, Lio.”

I pull back from her.

She sighs.

“Give me your keys,” I say.

She says, “I know you want to be there for her right now. But what Dad needs to know is that we’re safe and that we’re where we’re supposed to be. He doesn’t need us in his hair right now.”

“Keys.”

“And I have a test.”

“Jasper, give me your f*cking goddamn keys!”

She takes them out of her pocket but doesn’t hand them to me. “What are you going to do with them? You can’t drive. You are not driving my car.”

I say, “I just need the house key.” I’m lying.

“How are you getting home?”

“I’ll figure it out!” I run off before she can say anything. I’m faster than she is. But she’s not following. Hugging in the halls is one thing, but she isn’t going to be seen chasing after me.

I bring her keys to Craig. He’s at his locker, fondling the pictures of his animals. Like they’re scratch-and-sniff pictures, and they will feel closer to real if he touches them enough.

I say, “Can you drive?”

Craig looks at me for a second. “Are we talking?”

“Please?”

“You’re talking.” He looks at me, down his nose, like he’s doing it to remind me how short I am. How does he do that? How does he make me care? I’m used to being this height. How does he make me feel so small?

He says, “Why are you talking to me? Jesus, what do you want, Lio? I already feel like shit.”

I guess I thought . . . the emails . . . I guess I thought we were okay.

He says, “I’m sorry I assumed New York was some kind of haven of personal growth and identity and community wellness or something. Because . . . well, clearly you came from there, so I guess it has to be at least a little—”