“Just a sec,” I tell her as the second bell rings. We have three minutes to be in our seats, but my subconscious is telling me to play this out. I look back at Declan, but I can already see his expression shifting, shutting down. “What did you want to ask me?”
He looks down at the two of us. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” He moves away, sliding into the throng of students making their way to the door.
“Wait!” I call after him, but he’s already gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
From: Cemetery Girl <[email protected]>
To: The Dark <[email protected]>
Date: Monday, October 7 09:12:53 AM
Subject: Rage-y thoughts
I’ve been thinking about your email since I woke up.
We’ve spent a lot of time talking about guilt and blame and intersecting paths and single defining moments, but right now I want to punch someone. It’s obvious you feel responsible for what happened to your sister, and that makes me so angry. I want to find your parents and beat them senseless. I hope you don’t hate me for saying this, but I’m glad your father is in jail. I think your mother should be, too. Who lets a thirteen-year-old kid drive around town to protect a drunk? WHO DOES THAT?
I just snapped at a teacher who told me to put my phone away. I’m so angry I’m going to end up in detention.
I can’t believe your parents put you in this position.
I can’t believe your mother let it go on.
I can’t believe I don’t know who you are, because right now I want to wander the halls of this school until I find you, so I can grab you and shake you and tell you THIS IS NOT YOUR FAULT. Do you understand me? THIS IS NOT YOUR FAULT.
Does anyone else know about this?
You do know who I am. Find me. Grab me. Shake me. Please.
I want to type the words so badly. I’m practically shaking myself. Not even Rev knows the whole truth, and now I’ve dumped it all on a girl who might still think the real me is a worthless waste of space. I almost told her this morning, but now I’m glad I didn’t. Would she still feel this way if she knew it was me?
Her hurt for my alter ego pours off the screen, though, and my chest swells from the pressure. I can’t remember the last time someone other than Rev spoke in my defense. Emotion gathers steam in my head, and my eyes feel hot.
Yeah, I need to shut this down. I close the app and shove the phone deep in my backpack.
I immediately want to pull it back out and read her words again.
I know my parents were wrong to let me keep driving. I know it.
But I had alternatives, too. I could have told someone. I could have called a cab that first time. I never had to volunteer in the first place.
I could have driven the car on the day Kerry died. I was selfish and stupid, and I could have stopped it.
I was stupid and selfish last May, too, when I drove my father’s car into that building. No one made me do that, either.
I wonder how Cemetery Girl would feel if she put those two events together.
“Declan, would you mind reading the first two lines?”
The air is heavy with expectation. I look up and realize everyone else has textbooks open, notebooks and pens ready. I’m still sitting here with a closed book, and no pen or paper anywhere.
Mrs. Hillard is watching me. Her voice doesn’t change, and I don’t detect an ounce of impatience. “Page seventy-four. The first two lines.”
I could heave and sigh and act like this is a huge imposition, but she’s not hassling me, so I can return the favor. I flip the cover and find the page, then read without really caring about the words. My mind is still trapped in that email, in Juliet’s hot temper on my behalf.
“‘There’s not a joy the world can give like that it takes away, when the glow of early thought declines in feeling’s dull decay.’”
The words click in my head, as if my brain was waiting for them. Paper rustles somewhere behind me, but otherwise the room is quiet.
“What do you think that means?” asks Mrs. Hillard.
The words of the poem echo in my head, over and over again, though now it’s a memory. I’m remembering this same poem read on a different day. My head buzzes with the sound of my mother’s voice, reading that exact verse.
Mrs. Hillard is studying me, waiting to hear what I have to say. “Read it again to yourself,” she suggests. “Everyone, read it again. Give it a moment. Let it sink in.”
My eyes read the line again as if they’re pulled to the ink on the page.
Time stops, just for a heartbeat. My brain is too tangled up in death and guilt, and I can’t read another word of this poem. My chest is going to explode, or maybe my head. Blood roars in my ears, deafening me.
I slam the book closed and shove it in my backpack. I’ve never walked out of class before, but I’m walking now.
Mrs. Hillard comes after me. “Declan!”
“I’ll go to the office.” My voice is rough and broken, and I don’t even care.
“Stop. Tell me what just happened.”
“I hate this!” I’m loud and furious, and I round on her in the hallway. “Would you leave me alone?”
She doesn’t react to my anger, and she doesn’t try to calm me down. “Why?”
A door farther down the hallway opens, and another teacher pokes his head out. He sees me in the hallway, fists clenched and shoulders up, and he looks back at Mrs. Hillard.
“Do you want me to call security?” he says. Of course.
“No. No one needs security.” Mrs. Hillard takes a step away from her doorway, until she’s right in front of me. The other teacher doesn’t move, but she ignores him. “Go to the office,” she says to me. “Will you wait there for me?”
My body feels ready to rattle apart, held together by nothing more than the way my fingers are biting into my palms, but I manage to nod.
“Good,” she says. “I’ll be down after class.”