I don’t like either of those options. I turn around.
Mr. Gerardi is in his doorway. I wonder if he was about to follow me—or if he was about to give up. I can’t read his expression. It’s some mix of disappointment and hopefulness.
It mirrors the way I’m feeling about myself. My fingers fiddle with the strap of my backpack. My voice is thready. “Just an hour?”
He nods like our conversation about photographs for the Fall Festival happened minutes ago instead of yesterday. He’s not going to make me spell it out.
I have to clear my throat. “And I can use your Leica?”
“I have it charging right now.”
I nod, then bite the inside of my cheek. The pain helps center me. “I’ll be back after the final bell.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
From: Cemetery Girl <[email protected]> To: The Dark <[email protected]>
Date: Thursday, October 3 8:23:05 AM
Subject: Choosing new paths
I didn’t mean to upset you this morning. You come across as having it all together, and I’m coming across like a complete freak who can barely tie her shoes in the morning.
But you’re right. Guilt isn’t a competition. I didn’t mean to make it sound that way at all. I meant that I wonder if this guilt would feel cleaner if I’d been a more active participant—but then I’m not sure how that would play out. It’s not like I would have pushed her in front of a car. It’s not like that’s what happened to your sister, either, right?
If I hurt you, I’m sorry.
I did want to tell you that your comments about fate inspired me. I did something unexpected. Not just unexpected to the people around me—I think showing up for school is unexpected at this point—but unexpected for myself. Everyone else is going to see this as some kind of turning point, I’m sure. Oh look, she’s back to herself.
What they don’t know is that I’m terrified.
That must mean I’m veering away from fate, right? Making my own way? Because the other path was a heck of a lot less frightening.
Mrs. Hillard is asking for volunteers to read their assignment from Tuesday. Each person has a paragraph interpreting the Dylan Thomas poem. It’s about darkness. It’s about nighttime. It’s about Alzheimer’s.
It’s about time for these people to get a clue.
I doodle on my notebook and tune them out.
Your comments about fate inspired me.
The words light a little glow in my chest.
“Declan, would you like to share your thoughts?”
I ignore her and keep doodling. Mrs. Hillard is looking at me expectantly; I can see her in my peripheral vision.
“Declan?” she says again. There’s no warning in her voice. She’s giving me the benefit of the doubt, acting like there’s some possible way I didn’t hear her.
It makes me answer her. “I didn’t do the assignment.” My voice is low and rough. She’s the first teacher to call on me all morning.
“Maybe you can answer my question from Tuesday on the fly, then. Why is Dylan Thomas desperate?”
Her tone is challenging, and it draws my eyes up. It reminds me of Alan because she’s daring me. My pencil stops on the paper. Her expression is even, and her eyes hold mine.
I don’t say anything. I can play this game all day.
The room falls silent as others pick up on the tension.
After a full minute, I realize she can play this game, too. Fine with me. We can all sit in silence. Like anyone is going to suffer because we won’t get to hear Andy Sachs tell us that Dylan Thomas was lamenting over blind people who couldn’t see lightning.
Over to my left, someone gives an aggravated sigh. It’s a guy, but I can’t tell who it is. Somewhere to my right, a girl shifts in her seat uncomfortably, then sighs, too.
People are beginning to glare. The tension in the room is dissolving into hostility.
Toward me.
Like that’s anything new.
Mrs. Hillard turns to her desk and picks up a pad of Post-its. She writes a quick note, then walks to my desk and sticks it over my doodle.
It says, Why don’t you give them something new to think about you?
I stare at it, and my pulse jumps. I think about the paths we choose. Cemetery Girl is right. This is terrifying.
I can’t look at Mrs. Hillard anymore. I peel the note off my notebook and crumple it into a tiny ball in my fist. I can’t make myself throw it away, however. I pick at the pointed edges. My chest feels like it’s been tied in knots. My tongue refuses to work.
After a moment, Mrs. Hillard returns to the front of the room. She gives a small sigh and sets her planner on top of her desk. She’s not looking at me anymore, and the room is still silent, waiting for one of us to break.
It’s going to be her. I can feel it.
“He’s afraid.” My voice almost cracks. I keep my fist clenched around that tiny ball of paper and my eyes locked on my notebook. “He’s afraid. That’s why he’s desperate.”
She doesn’t whip around. She simply turns, and her voice is as even as it was when she asked the question. “What is he afraid of?”
“He’s afraid of losing his father.” My hands are sweating, and I keep my eyes on that doodle. “He doesn’t want his father to die. He wants—”
She gives me a breath of time, then quietly says, “What does he want?”
“He wants him to fight it.”
“Does he feel his father’s death is inevitable or preventable?”
I finally look at her. My hands are shaking, but her expression is so steady that it’s like a lifeline. We could be the only people in the room.
“Inevitable.” I hesitate.
She waits, but I’m not sure what I was going to say after that.
The bell rings, and I explode from my seat. I barely pause to shove my notebook into my backpack.
Mrs. Hillard calls my name before I make it through the door, but my nerves are shot. I let the flow of students carry me into the hall, pulling me back to a familiar path.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
From: The Dark <[email protected]>
To: Cemetery Girl <[email protected]> Date: Thursday, October 3 2:38:17PM