So I’d lie. I’d tell her that a photograph of mine was up for an award from the city council. Or I’d tell her I’d written a piece for the school paper that launched an investigation of some sort. Anything to get her attention.
She’d say the right things, but I could read between the lines.
It was all meaningless.
It’s even more meaningless now, looking back. They weren’t even interesting lies.
I wish I’d just told her the truth.
I wish I’d told her in real time, instead of in written letters that would take weeks to arrive.
I wish I’d told her how I felt, and how much I missed her, and how her being home, just a little bit, would have meant more to me than all the Pulitzer Prizes in the world.
I think that’s why I wrote her so many letters after she died.
I’d give anything to tell her one true thing, any true thing, right now.
So. Talk to your mother. Tell her how you feel.
Report back.
I wish I could. Mom was still in the hospital when I left for school.
I had to spend the night at Rev’s. Not like it was a hardship, but I’m seventeen years old. I could have spent the night alone. I don’t need to crash on his couch because no one trusts me to stay away from the matches.
Then again, considering my mental state when we left the hospital, maybe staying with Rev was a good thing.
Sleep kept its distance last night, for various reasons.
Texting with Juliet—worth it.
Plotting with a sleepy Rev about how I want to disconnect Alan’s fuel line—worth it.
Listening to Babydoll scream at 4 a.m.—not worth it.
Worrying about how my mother is re-creating a family without me—not worth it.
I’m practically crawling between classes this morning.
When I get to English, Mrs. Hillard is taking papers from students as they walk through the door. I didn’t do the class assignment, because I wasn’t there to get it—but I didn’t look at the other poem she gave me in the conference room, either.
I move past without looking at her and drop into my seat.
“Declan,” she says, “what did you think of ‘Invictus’?”
I don’t need this hassle. I don’t need it.
I stab my pencil at my notebook. “I didn’t read it.”
Students continue filing past her, and she keeps taking their papers, but her eyes are locked on me.
“Why not?”
Because I’m extraneous. I don’t need to be here.
I can’t say that. I can’t say any of it.
I look down at my notebook and begin doodling a line in the margin. The motion is casual, but tension begins coiling in my belly, and I know it’s only a matter of time before it snaps, sending me careening into the hall, leaving rage in my wake.
She slaps a blank Post-it onto my notebook, and I jump. I didn’t see her walk over.
“Tell me why,” she says.
I pick up my pencil, but I stop with the point against the paper.
I can’t tell her. I could barely tell Juliet, and that was without being stared at in the middle of a crowded classroom.
Mrs. Hillard doesn’t move.
I wish she’d leave me alone. Like a stupid poem is going to make a bit of difference in my life.
She still hasn’t said a word, but I can feel her waiting. Hell, at this point, the whole class is waiting.
She asked me to give her a chance. What would this cost me?
I scribble quickly, fold it in half, and hand it to her.
Panic grips me for an instant because I didn’t consider that she might read it out loud.
But she doesn’t. She reads what I wrote—My mom was in the hospital last night—and taps her fingers on my notebook. “I understand. Thank you. We’re going to move on to a new poem in class, but I think I’d like for you to complete last night’s assignment independently, if that’s all right with you.”
The coil of tension unspools a little, leaving me off balance. I have to clear my throat. “Sure.”
“Good,” she says. Then she moves away and calls the class to order.
I pull the photocopied sheet out of my bag. “Invictus.” It’s a little crumpled around the edges, but I can still read the poem.
I heave a sigh. I can come up with two paragraphs, easy. At least it’s short.
Ten minutes later, I’ve read it three times.
I feel like I can’t stop reading it. The words feel as though they were written just for me. One line in particular keeps drawing my eye.
“Under the bludgeonings of chance, my head is bloody but unbowed.”
In other words, life has a solid right hook, but it’s not going to take me down.
The final lines are what really get me, though.
“I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.”
I can’t remember the last time I felt like the master of my own fate.
Yes, I do. Last May, when I got behind the wheel of Dad’s truck. When that bottle of whiskey burned a path down my throat.
I have never really cared about an assignment before, but all of a sudden, I need to write.
I dig in my bag and find a pen. I start writing, and it’s like writing to Juliet. Thoughts pour out of me.
I end up with a lot more than two paragraphs.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
From: The Dark <[email protected]>
To: Cemetery Girl <[email protected]> Date: Tuesday, October 8 11:42:44 AM
Subject: RE: Mothers
I think your relationship with your mother is a lot different from mine.
But I’ll think about it.
I read his email on the way to lunch, and it’s so short that I’m not sure what the vibe is here. Is he pissed? Genuinely contemplative? Frustrated? Closed off?
I wonder how much I can tell Rowan about this. I need another girl’s analysis.
My phone pings, and it’s her.
RF: Need to skip lunch. Meeting with teacher for Hon French project. You OK?
Well, there goes that. I text back that I’m fine.
Lunch is grilled cheese, green beans, and Tater Tots. I can already feel my pores clogging, but I didn’t bring anything, and the alternative is ice cream on a stick.
I head toward the back of the cafeteria, intending to go outside to sit on the quad and obsess over The Dark’s emails, but I spot Rev and Declan sitting at a table in the corner. Well, I assume it’s Rev. It could be some other broad-shouldered guy in a hoodie, but I doubt it.