And we were here to mourn her.
“As many of you know,” she said, her usually strong voice a little weaker, a little shakier, “we lost one of our own last night. A senior, Ms. Mandy Rivers, took her life. This is a dark time for us. Islington is a community, and we here are dedicated to supporting each and every one of you. In light of this, we will have a guidance counselor at hand twenty-four hours a day, should you need to chat. About anything. I myself will have open office hours should you wish to speak with me. We are here for you. For all of you. You are our family, and we grieve as a whole when one of our flock is taken.”
She paused and swallowed.
“I now wish to open the floor to you. I know your hearts are burdened, so let us be here to share that heaviness. If you wish to speak, please stand. It may be about Mandy, fond memories or words you remember, or it may be your own questions for me. Remember: Healing may only occur when one is open to the pain. We are ready. We support you.”
She went silent then and I had a terrible image of no one standing up. Of Ms. Kenton standing there in the dim spotlight, watching us, waiting for someone to share their heart like she shared hers. Then a girl—Laura, another ceramicist—stood in the front row.
“Mandy was my friend,” she said. “She was always so happy, even when she was bogged down with work.” Laura sniffed, and it sounded like a laugh. “I remember, this one time right before finals, she dragged me out of my room to go make snow angels. I nearly got frostbite but she got me hot chocolate from the caf. She always did nice things like that—little notes saying hi, or a flower she found, or a painting she loved. She was so full of love. I just . . . I don’t know why. . . .”
Laura broke down. Ms. Kenton was there in a moment, wrapping her in a hug. Other girls stood from the front row and joined the embrace.
For the next half hour, classmates I knew as friends or acquaintances bared their souls to the rest of the room. It seemed like Mandy had touched everyone, somehow, whether it was a smile in the hall or sitting beside a loner at lunch. I’d never realized how much of a saint she was before this.
I didn’t stand and speak my part. Maybe I should have. Maybe it was a dishonor not to share my experiences of a girl I considered an acquaintance. I couldn’t do it. Not out of fear of speaking, but because I knew it wouldn’t be honest. I should have known the signs. I should have tried to help her. But all I’d done in our last interaction was bitch about how stressed I was over my own thesis, rather than tell her how amazing hers would be.
It made me feel guilty. Munin had warned me something bad was coming. And just like last time, I hadn’t listened.
Unlike last time, though, it was someone else who’d been hurt.
And you know what that means, Brad whispered. You should have known better. You should have tried to stop it. Since you didn’t, you as good as killed her.
? ? ?
There was a deep silence when the memorial was over. Ms. Kenton stayed onstage, talking one-on-one to students and staff. No one made for the door. Not at first. No one wanted to break the bubble of this place. We all knew that once that door opened, life would push forward again. Yes, we had two days off for mourning and no, nothing would ever be the same, but the spirit of Islington, the drive to create and strive, never stopped. No one wanted to be the first to let the outside world back in. It was almost like, in being here, we’d somehow managed to capture Mandy’s ghost, to bring it back to life through story and tears. Leaving meant letting her go once more. For the final time.
I, however, was suffocating. Not literally, but emotion was thick in the room, sticking to my throat and filling my lungs with despair. Chris put a tentative hand on my shoulder.
“Are you okay?” he asked. I glanced to him, probably harsher than I meant, because he withdrew his hand immediately. He looked down to his feet. “You just looked like you could use some air.”
I nodded.
“Yeah,” I said, standing. “Yeah, I could.”