“Hey,” I greet him, stuffing my schedule back in my pocket.
“Hi.” He walks past me to the fridge and extracts a carton of chocolate milk. I watch him, my chest aching. I wish I could call him “Tobes” and ruffle his shaggy brown hair and ask him if he’s excited about starting fourth grade tomorrow. I wish I could pick him up and swing him around and then chase him through the house when he wiggles free and runs. But I’m not that person anymore, and we both know it.
I manage to hide out in my room until Dad gets home from work, then the four of us sit around the dining room table and eat dinner together. Like a family, the way we’ve been doing all week. Mom doesn’t mention our meeting today with Mr. Lind, but my dad knows about it. He doesn’t discuss it with me, though, or ask how I feel about starting school tomorrow. He hasn’t had much to say to me since I got home. Instead he’s been weird and distant, like he’s not sure how to relate to me anymore.
I manage to get down half a plate of my mom’s homemade mac and cheese before escaping to my room again. The food is an iron ball in my stomach, and I have the urge to shut my door, crawl into bed, stick in my earbuds, and block out everything. I don’t want to sit in here, pretending to read a novel but not absorbing anything. I don’t want to look at my schedule or plan my first-day-of-school outfit or wonder if I’ll be able to sleep tonight.
I especially don’t want to think about tomorrow, when I’ll have to walk into school and face the kids I’ve known for years, people who remember Aubrey and what happened between us on Fulham Road on that warm, sunny, almost-summer morning.
And even worse than that, I’ll have to face Ethan.
Ethan, who I haven’t seen since that day at the graveyard almost fifteen months ago, when a box containing his sister—and my best friend—was lowered into the cool, damp earth. He knew I was there, but didn’t look at me once. That suited me fine because I didn’t want him to have to look at me.
But now that I’m back, I no longer have any choice in the matter. And neither does he.
The iron ball in my stomach shifts and I sprint across the hall to the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. Then I lean over the toilet bowl and retch.
My first order of business the next morning is to check in with Mrs. Dover, my guidance counselor. More reentry cushioning.
I get to school early but not early enough, as there are several people hanging out in the lobby, talking and laughing and taking selfies with their phones. I slip by and head into the main office, where I tell the receptionist that Mrs. Dover is expecting me. She waves me through.
Mrs. Dover’s door is open and I stand silently at the threshold, waiting for her to glance up and notice me. When she does, she smiles. Unlike Mr. Lind, her dark eyes don’t flick away from mine. Mrs. Dover and I already know each other; she used to teach freshman English and I was in her class. But even if I hadn’t been, I’d still know her. Everyone does. It’s hard to miss someone who looks like a taller version of Halle Berry. Boys trip over themselves when Mrs. Dover passes by. Or at least they used to, back in freshman and sophomore year. I have no idea what changed around here while I was away.
“Dara.” She stands up from her desk and comes over to clasp my hand. “Welcome back.”
I mumble my thanks. I notice that my foot is tapping against the carpeted floor, so I shift my weight onto it, forcing it still.
“Nervous?” Mrs. Dover moves back behind her desk and motions me to the chair across from her.
I slip off my backpack and sit down. “Yeah.”
“That’s understandable,” she says, her eyes on me again. The warmth and directness in them makes me feel both uneasy and comforted. She knows what happened, has probably read the newspaper articles and heard all the gory details like everyone else, but I can sense she’s not going to judge me. I wonder why. Maybe she still remembers the girl I was, the plucky little ninth-grader who laughed openly and lived fearlessly and got into mischief with her best friend.
But that was then. Both those girls are gone now.
“It’ll take some getting used to,” Mrs. Dover goes on. “Being here without Aubrey.”
I swallow. My eyes, dry and swollen from lack of sleep, itch like crazy but I don’t rub them. Applying pressure might release the tears that have been hovering on the brink for days.
Mrs. Dover lowers her gaze to some papers on her desk, giving me a moment to collect myself. When she looks at me again, I’m steady. In control.
“It’s a very brave thing you’re doing, Dara,” she says in her soft, even voice. “Coming back here. Facing everyone. This has to be scary for you.”
I nod, unable to speak. My mother said the same thing when I told her I wanted to come home and do my senior year at Hadfield. That I’m brave. What I didn’t tell her then, and what I don’t tell Mrs. Dover now, is my decision has nothing to do with bravery. In therapy I learned about forgiveness, and that forgiving yourself means living in the present and letting go of blame. It means self-acceptance. A nice thought, but one that’s a lot easier in theory. I’m not ready to let go yet.
Mrs. Dover watches me quietly for another moment before adding, “If you ever need to talk, my door’s always open.”
The first bell rings, a warning that classes start in five minutes. I grab my backpack and meet Mrs. Dover’s eyes. “Thank you.”
She nods and stands up, squeezing my shoulder as she walks with me out to the reception area. “Have a good first day, Dara,” she says, and just like that, I’m on my own.
My first class is English, on the second floor. I join the mass of bodies heading toward the stairs, tucking in my elbows so I don’t accidentally jostle someone. No one even looks at me. Everyone is caught up in the first-day-of-school frenzy, comparing schedules and summers and tans. I float by unnoticed, my body tense as I wait for someone to recognize the tall girl with hair the color of butter who disappeared the summer before junior year and didn’t come back. Until today.
But no one does, and I’m just starting to wonder if I’m invisible when I turn a corner and almost collide with Paige Monteiro and Travis Rausch, who are walking hand in hand in the opposite direction. Their eyes pop at the sight of me. Travis hasn’t changed much—he might have gotten a bit taller. Paige isn’t as skinny as she was at the end of sophomore year, and her hair is shorter, but otherwise she’s the same too.
“Dara?”
She says my name like I’m an unwelcome surprise, here to ruin her day. My mind scrambles for something to say to them, but Travis takes Paige’s hand and leads her away from me before I can even open my mouth.