She shrugged. “That’s just how I saw him. He took a lot of crap from people, but he always seemed so, I don’t know, stoic about it. I always thought he hadn’t let it get him down. Guess I was wrong, though.”
The thing was, she wasn’t. That had always been my take, too. I just hadn’t thought of that as bravery. It just seemed like he’d put up a wall so he wouldn’t have to deal with what was happening. And, of course, I hadn’t factored in that everyone has a breaking point.
“Did you buy that figurine?” Astrid asked. All these questions she was asking—I’d never had someone take such an interest in my life before. Certainly not a girl.
“Yes.” I was tempted to tell her about the other night, but I didn’t want her to think I was crazy. Not when it seemed like we were on the verge of actually being friends. “It was a good idea. Thanks.”
“No problem,” she said. “Glad to help out.”
I wondered again how she understood things so well, what she’d been through that made her seem to automatically get it. Or was that just her? I desperately wanted to know more. And though there was something that felt kind of disloyal in thinking so much about another person after I’d just lost my best friend, I had to think Hayden would have approved. He’d liked her too, after all. Though I wasn’t sure how much. Why hadn’t he introduced us?
The bell rang, signaling the start of fifth period. Astrid looked at the disgusting remains of my hot dog, post–condiment explosion. “I’m sorry I kept you from eating your lunch. And it looks so . . . appetizing.” Was I crazy, or did she seem not that sorry?
I picked up a damp, cold french fry and made a spectacle of chomping on it, glad to have the distraction. “What a waste of a delicious meal,” I said, then decided to be bold. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation finally getting to me, but the words came out of my mouth before I could overthink it. “Someday I’ll introduce you to the best french fries in Libertyville.” My face felt hot and I prayed I wouldn’t start sweating.
“You’re sure I haven’t met them yet? I consider myself something of a french fry expert.”
“Positive,” I said.
“Someday, then,” she said with a wink, and then she walked away.
USUALLY FIFTH PERIOD WAS MY English class, but I’d gotten a note in homeroom saying I needed to go meet with the school guidance counselor. I’d met Mr. Beaumont at some meetings the school made us have when we were freshmen, to get us thinking about what kinds of electives we’d want to take. I remembered him being a little guy, a lot shorter than me, dressed more casually than the other administrators, in jeans and a sweater. I figured he was trying to make students think he was cool, though it seemed like maybe he was trying too hard.
He was expecting me; the door was open when I got to his office and he was standing near it, hand outstretched. “Hi, Sam,” he said, and waited for me to shake. Weird to have a school official shaking hands, but whatever, so I did it. “Nice to see you again. Have a seat.”
His office didn’t look like any office at school I’d ever seen. There was a desk, but it was pushed over into the corner, and in the middle of the room were two big chairs that actually looked pretty comfortable, with a small coffee table between them, and a candy dish filled with M&M’s. I’d only eaten that one french fry and catastrophic bite of hot dog, so I was starving.
Mr. Beaumont must have seen me notice them. He sat down in one of the chairs and said, “Take as many as you want. Need some water?”
I sat in the chair across from him, stuffed a handful of M&M’s in my mouth, and shook my head. This had the added benefit of saving me from having to say anything right away, since I didn’t really see the point of me being here.
“I wanted to reach out to you, see how you’re doing,” he said. “You know, we’re all devastated by what happened, as I’m sure you are. It might make you feel better to talk about it.”
Not a chance. “I don’t see how,” I said.
“I’m sure it must seem that way right now. But can we just try? Maybe it’ll help, maybe it won’t, but either way, we’ll know.”
I shrugged. Obviously he wasn’t going to let me out of here until I said something.
“I understand you two were very close,” Mr. Beaumont said.
“That’s one way of putting it,” I said.
“What’s another way?”
I shrugged. How was I supposed to describe my relationship with Hayden? He was my best friend. My only friend. And I’d thought it might be time for that to change, and he hadn’t, and now he was gone. I wasn’t about to sit here for however long he made me stay and get into that.
“Can you describe your friendship to me at all?” he asked gently.
What did he expect me to say? That we were both socially awkward misfits? That we’d saved each other from loneliness for a really long time, and now that was over? “We were friends. What else am I supposed to say?” My knee was bouncing up and down, almost as if I had no control over it. I really didn’t want to be here.
“Was he your only friend?”
Now my knee was even more out of control. I willed it to stop shaking before Mr. Beaumont noticed. “I guess.”
“And you were his? Only friend?” His voice was getting quieter and quieter, as if he knew the questions would be hard to hear, no matter at what volume. But despite him trying to soften me up, I could feel myself getting angry, blood heating up my face. He must have seen it, too, because he didn’t wait for me to say anything. “Look, I know it’s going to be hard to talk about Hayden. I’ll give you some things to read for later on, when you feel like it.” He gave me a manila envelope; I didn’t bother opening it, just stuck it in my backpack. “I understand you’re probably sad and confused, and probably angry, too. I want you to know it’s okay to feel anything you’re feeling right now.”
Great, now I had permission. I was about to say something snarky, but that was still an invitation to talk, and I didn’t want to talk. Not to Mr. Beaumont, not to anyone.
Mr. Beaumont must have been some kind of mind reader, though. “I see that you’re not eager to talk to me about this, and that’s fine. I want to be a resource for you, but only if you want me to be. I do think it would help you to talk to someone, though, so maybe we could talk about who that might be?”
He knew how to find the soft spots. I couldn’t really talk to Mom; she was so busy at work with all those extra shifts, and no matter what I said she’d worry, and she was worried enough already. Rachel wouldn’t be any help, and though Astrid had the potential to be a new friend, I didn’t want to think about her as a confidante, not like this. There wasn’t really anyone else. I looked down at the floor. Mr. Beaumont had put a big Persian rug over the gray industrial carpeting. He was trying pretty hard. “There’s no one else,” I said finally.
“Well, if that’s the case, I hope you’ll at least consider me as an option,” he said. “Maybe we can talk a little less about Hayden and a little bit more about you, for now? I can stop trying to guess how you’re feeling if you just tell me.”
“I’ll try,” I said. But it was hard to narrow it down. There was the anger-guilt-missing cycle, with a whole bunch of other emotions thrown in there, which was kind of hard to describe. “It’s a big jumble, I guess. It doesn’t seem real. I keep thinking he’ll be here soon, and he won’t.” My knee was starting to bounce again, so I hooked my foot around the leg of the chair to make it stop.
Mr. Beaumont nodded. “I lost a friend when I was very young. And I remember thinking the same thing—I kept waiting for him in places I expected him to be, or getting extra cookies at lunch because I’d always pick some up for him. But it does get easier, with time.”