“No idea what you’re talking about, man.”
Ethan takes a step closer to him, muscles coiled. “I know it was you who started those bullshit rumors. They all trace back to you. What kind of sick asshole does something like that? Dara was your friend too, remember?”
Travis’s expression turns stormy and he leans in closer until his face is inches from Ethan’s. “I’m sick? You’re the one who has a fucking hard-on for the girl who killed your sister.”
Ethan’s hand shoots out, connecting with Travis’s face. The sound of bones crunching echoes through the hallway. Somewhere behind me, a girl shrieks.
It feels like forever, but it’s probably only a minute or so later when two teachers arrive to break it up. One of them is Mr. Haggerty, my chemistry teacher. He gets ahold of Travis and pulls him away while the other teacher grabs Ethan.
“Both of you,” Haggarty wheezes, his fingers wrapped around Travis’s bicep. “To the office. Now.”
Travis jerks out of his grasp and spits on the floor. With his bloodied nose and fat lip, he definitely got the worst of it. Ethan’s face is untouched, but his right hand is scraped and bleeding and already starting to swell. I want to go to him, wrap my arms around him and make sure he’s okay, but I can’t make myself move. So I stay where I am, frozen by the lockers and trying to ignore the drops of blood everywhere, while he and Travis are ushered down the hall toward the office.
Once they’re gone, the small crowd disperses. I’m about to leave too when I remember the piece of paper. It’s still on the floor near Travis’s locker, half ripped and trampled. I snatch it up and smooth out the wrinkles until the images come into focus. It’s another stick figure me, but this time I’m wearing a Santa hat and standing—no, dancing—in front of a headstone. Aubrey’s headstone, which I’ve never actually seen in person. That same wide smile is on my face, like I’m delighted to be there, doing what I’m doing.
Beneath the sketch are some letters, big and bold and printed in red:
HAPPY HOLIDAYS, MURDERER!
My fingers stiffen on the paper. For a moment, I consider folding it up so I can place it in the green notebook with the obituary note, but then I notice a tiny spot of red on the upper-left corner. At first I think it’s marker, but when I run my fingertip over it, the spot smears. It’s blood.
Without even hesitating, I rip the paper into a dozen pieces and toss the scraps in the nearest trash can.
I spend the rest of the day and most of the night trying to contact Ethan, but he doesn’t answer any of my texts or calls. Payback, I guess, for doing the same to him all weekend.
It’s not until the next morning that I find out what happened to him after the fight. Before class, I search the halls for Noelle or Hunter and find them both at Noelle’s locker.
“I talked to him last night,” Hunter tells me before I can ask. “Three-day suspension. And he’s in major shit with his parents.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting them to see how red and watery they are. Noelle notices anyway and lays a hand on my arm.
“Everything will be okay,” she says, even though she has no idea what happened between Ethan and me or why he got into the fight in the first place. She’s just one of those people who believe things eventually work out. I used to be.
First period is a wasted effort. I can’t stop worrying about Ethan. Seeing that fight yesterday jump-started a new level of protectiveness in me, something much deeper than the little-sibling kind I used to feel for him. I know I won’t be able to rest until I make sure he’s all right.
On Tuesdays I have a free period right before lunch. Students are supposed to use their frees to study in the library, but seniors can leave school grounds if they sign out in the office first. So I scrawl my name on the sign-out sheet and make the short trek through the biting cold to Ethan’s house.
As I expected, neither of his parents’ cars is in the driveway. Ethan’s Saturn is there though, its windshield crusted with ice. I walk past it to the door, then hesitate before jabbing the doorbell with my numb finger.
He doesn’t answer. I wait another minute before ringing the bell again, accompanying it with a knock for good measure. Another minute passes. Just as I’m about to turn into a human icicle, the door swings open and there he is, wearing a T-shirt and shorts and rubbing his eye like he’s just woken up.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice thick and scratchy with sleep. So I did wake him up. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“I’m on my free.” I cross my arms over my chest and bounce on my toes a few times. “Can I come in? It’s freezing.”
“Oh,” he says, snapping out of his sleepy daze. “Yeah. Sorry.”
He opens the door wider and steps aside so I can enter. As I do, I notice the bruising and swelling on his hand. I think about yesterday, how it sounded when he punched Travis, that sickening crack of knuckles meeting bone. It’s all I’ve been hearing, and seeing, since it happened.
A burst of anger charges through me, hot and sharp and completely unexpected.
“What were you thinking?”
He blinks at my tone. “What?”
Frustrated, I push past him to the living room and sink down on the couch, my coat still zippered to my chin even though it’s really warm in here. I can’t stop shivering. Ethan follows and sits next to me, keeping plenty of space between us.
“I was thinking,” he says brusquely, “that ever since you told me Travis was probably the one who spread all those lies about you, I could hardly wait to get my hands on him. I was thinking how freaking good it would feel to punch him in the face. It did, by the way. Feel good.”
I glance at his battered hand again and wonder when, exactly, he became so consumed with hostility. What was his tipping point? Aubrey’s funeral, when he could no longer deny that she was never coming back? The aftermath, feeling the pressure of everyone’s stares and hearing the same empty words of comfort over and over? Or did it start the day she died, when he was faced with the kind of news that changes a person forever, destroying something inside them that can never be restored?
“You shouldn’t have hit him,” I say, my rage fizzling.
“Well, he deserved it. I did some digging over the weekend and talked to a few people. The rumors lead right back to Travis, like I said.”
Sighing, I unzip my coat and shrug it off. “But it doesn’t matter. The notes, Travis, the things people say about me . . . none of it matters. I told you why I came back here, remember?”
“Right,” he mutters. “Because you felt guilty for not thinking about Aubrey every second of the day and you wanted to punish yourself for it.”
I clench my teeth and look away. I don’t like way he says it, like it’s the dumbest reason he’s ever heard for anything. Like I’m crazy for believing I’m not worthy of peace.
“Is that what this is, then?”