“When are you going to get your license?” my father asks me once we’re on the road.
I shrug. I could’ve learned to drive last year while I was staying with Aunt Lydia and Uncle Jared—they even offered to enroll me in driver’s ed—but every time I pictured it, me controlling a vehicle while people crossed in front of me and strolled down the sidewalk beside me, my heart would start galloping. What if I hit one of them? What if I killed one of them?
It’s not worth the risk.
“Soon,” I say.
Dad nods and focuses on the rain-slicked road. I study him for a moment, take in the increasing thinness of his wavy brown hair and the new lines around his mouth. Has he lost weight? Mom has. So have I.
Tobias says something in the backseat, but his words are drowned out by the sudden roaring in my ears as Dad turns the truck onto Fulham Road.
I close my eyes as the memories flood in, vivid and strong:
The sickly-sweet smell of garbage baking in the sun.
The small pink foot with the blue-painted nails that looked so out of place against the filthy curb.
The bright red blood, seeping across the hot asphalt.
So much blood.
“Dara, honey. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m sorry.”
I open my eyes and see my father’s ashen face. We’re parked on the side of the road, windshield wipers working overtime against the downpour. The spot where Aubrey took her last breath is several yards behind us. I can’t see it anymore. I can’t smell it anymore. All that’s in my nose is the scent of the coconut air freshener hanging off the mirror and my father’s aftershave.
“I’m okay,” I say, and I’m surprised my voice still sounds like my voice. I glance back at Tobias. He’s pale as the white fabric of his T-shirt. “I’m okay,” I tell him.
“You couldn’t breathe,” he says in a small voice. “We got scared.”
My father’s hand trembles as he shifts the truck into drive and merges back into traffic. “I can take you back home, if you want,” he says.
“No.” I run my hand over my face and it comes back damp. Sweat or tears or both, I have no idea. “I need to go to school. I’ll be fine.”
He looks at me, uncertain. I take a deep breath to prove my lungs work, and force my body to remain still. Dad sighs and drives me the rest of the way in silence.
“Check your phone at lunch,” he says as I get out of the truck. “I’m sure your mother will be texting you.”
I consider asking him not to tell her what happened, but I know even if he doesn’t tell, Tobias will. So I just nod and shut the door.
As soon as I get inside, I head directly to the bathroom and lock myself in a stall.
Clearly I’m not ready to face Fulham Road. It’s been fifteen months since Aubrey was killed, but being there made me feel like it just happened yesterday. Am I ever going to be able to drive or walk there again without crying and hyperventilating? Baby steps, Dara, my therapist liked to remind me during every session. Be patient with yourself. Grief is a process.
What about guilt? I wanted to ask. Is that a process too? But the words never came. Next Monday after school, I’m starting back up with my old therapist, the guy I saw before going to stay with my aunt and uncle last year. Continuing with my weekly therapy was the one condition my parents had when they found out I wanted to come home. Maybe I’ll ask Dr. Lemke about guilt.
I flush the toilet for no reason at all and exit the stall. Chloe Stockton stands at a sink, brushing her hair. We’ve never been close friends, but we were assignment partners a couple of times in sophomore biology and got along well. She’s one of the nicest girls in our grade.
“Hi,” I say, turning on the tap. Our eyes meet in the mirror, and I see the expression of dawning horror some people get when they look at me now. Oh my God, it’s her. This look was all over the place yesterday, on students, teachers . . . even the damn janitor side-eyed me as he passed by with his mop. By lunchtime, the entire school knew I was back.
Or so I assume. I still haven’t seen Ethan. Maybe his parents ordered him to stay away from me. That wouldn’t surprise me; I’m pretty sure they still hate my guts. Or maybe he’s avoiding me all on his own because he hates me just as much. Last week, my parents sat me down and told me it would probably be best if I gave the McCraes some space for now. Seeing me again after all this time might bring everything back to the surface, Mom said, and they’ll need time to process it.
“Um, hi,” Chloe mumbles, quickly stuffing her brush in her purse. She turns and leaves before I can say anything else.
I take deep breaths as I dry my hands. It’s fine, I tell myself. I knew what I was getting myself into when I decided to come back. Of course people aren’t going to act delighted to see me. Of course they’re going to stare and whisper and avoid me when they don’t know what to say. I expected this.
I don’t want to be treated like nothing happened. I don’t want to forget.
First-bell rings as I’m leaving the bathroom. I glance around to see if Chloe is nearby, whispering to friends about how she’d just run into that freak Dara Shepard in the bathroom, but all I see are strangers. Young kids, mostly. This year’s new freshmen, hanging out near their lockers. No one notices me as I walk down the hall toward the stairs. My locker and my first class are both on the second floor.
My brain is still foggy from the flashback in Dad’s truck, so it takes me a few moments to realize I’m approaching the music room. I wait for the heart-pounding, head-roaring, can’t-breathe feeling I get whenever I’m confronted with an Aubrey memory, but all I feel is a slight tingling in my stomach. Maybe because the music room is a good memory.
By the time I met Aubrey, in sixth grade, she’d already been playing violin for seven years. It was a no-brainer that she’d play in our middle school orchestra. Even back then she was all business, with ramrod straight posture and a serious face that rarely curved into a smile. I knew we’d be friends about a week into the school year, when I accidentally poked Gavin Kilroy in the back of the head with my cello bow and Aubrey burst into uncharacteristic giggles. From then on, I made it my personal mission to bring some laughter into her life. Even if her talent did intimidate me at times.
Our orchestra teacher, Ms. Valdez, lit up like a sparkler the first time she heard Aubrey perform. I was much less impressive on the cello, but that was okay because we had Aubrey. Then, a year later, we had Ethan, who also played the violin ridiculously well. By the time they both got to high school, they were known as the orchestra’s two majorly talented stars.
I wasn’t a star. I gave up the cello at the end of freshman year and joined the volleyball team instead. Aubrey was disappointed.