“That was just an excuse. I heard she’s being a bitch to you.” We start walking and she says, “But we would love to have you on the paper. I remember Luka used to brag about your stories.”
I tense at that, and she says, “Sorry. I wasn’t sure…” She pushes her hands into her pockets. “I wasn’t sure how you are about that. Remembering him. So, uh, the newspaper?”
“I don’t write these days. But thank you for the invitation.”
“Well, it’s an open one, so keep it in mind. Oh, and did I see you walking with Neville?”
“Neville?”
“Chris Landry. Neville’s a nickname, and not one most people use to his face, though I’m sure he’s heard it. Did you see the Harry Potter movies?”
I nod.
“Then you might remember the guy who played Neville. In the first films, he’s what my gram would call unfortunate-looking. By the last ones, though? Totally hot. Amazing what contacts, braces and overcoming puberty can do for a guy. But, uh, a word of warning…” She lowers her voice. “Chris is a player.”
“Okay.”
“I know you guys went to school together. I’d like to think he’d never take advantage of that, but I don’t know him by much more than his rep.”
“Got it. Thanks. I appreciate the warning.”
“Anytime.”
She seems ready to go when I blurt, “What can you tell me about Jesse?”
Tiffany slows, glancing around.
“Sorry, I —” I begin.
“No, it’s cool. I’m just… I don’t mind being overheard talking about Chris. He’s earned his rep. Jesse? Jesse’s…” She exhales. “Most times, when I meet the survivors – the families of the victims – I feel sorry for their loss. That’s all I owe them. Jesse?”
She adjusts her load of books. “I feel bad about Jesse. I feel guilty, like I had something to do with what happened. He’s just… he’s a mess, Skye. I remember him being at your house when I was there with Isaac, and I thought you two were so cute together, and he was such a sweet kid.”
She adjusts the books again. “I remember thinking I wished I’d known a boy like that when I was your age. A really nice guy. A little nerdy, but that’s not a bad thing. After his brother died, though, he just… changed. Rumor is that he got kicked out of Southfield for fighting.”
“Jesse?”
“Don’t quote me on that. I just know he’s not the boy with his nose in a book anymore. He barely comes to class. The only reason RivCol doesn’t suspend him is because they need him on the track team.”
“Jesse?” I say again, in equal disbelief.
“I know his brother was quite the jock, and Jesse seems to have taken up the mantle.”
The Jesse I knew hated sports. Well, not really hated them – we’d goof around with a ball, but he avoided organized games. He immersed himself in academics instead, where he could shine as brightly as his brother without competing with him.
When we were on Owen’s softball team together, there was a running joke that Jesse got hit by the ball more than he hit it. While he could run fast, that wasn’t much use when he never left the plate.
“But that’s good, right?” Tiffany says. “It’s not like he’s started robbing gas stations or shooting up on the street corner. He’s a track star. It’s just… not what it used to be.”
No, it isn’t. Not at all.
I’m stepping out the school door when my phone chirps with an incoming message. I called Gran earlier, but the nurse was over, so I said I’d phone after school. I presume this is her and take out my phone. Instead, I see a message from a number I don’t recognize. The text reads, Hey Skye, gr8 seeing u @ RivCol! Welcome home! There’s a video clip attached, with a still shot of a kitten midleap.
I see that, and think of Jesse, and all the times he sent animal gifs to cheer me up and, yes, that message doesn’t sound like him, but maybe like Mae said, we’re both struggling here, trying to find a path through the quicksand. Even if it’s not Jesse, someone is being kind to me. An old friend reaching out.
I hit Play.
The kitten leaps… and the screen flickers. I’m checking my connection when I hear a scream, and I jump, looking around. But it’s coming from my phone. A girl screaming, and a boy saying, “Oh my God, oh my God,” and then the screen clears, and the camera is zooming everywhere, and I can’t make out what I’m seeing —
A desk. There’s a desk. A girl cowers under it, and she’s got one arm over her head, and she’s typing frantically on her cell phone, and I hear screaming. Then the camera zooms away again as the screen goes black.
Words scroll across the dark screen.
Leanna Tsosie.
She was texting to tell her mother there was a shooter in the school, but she was fine.
It was the last thing she ever wrote.
The screen fills with another image. The girl, under her desk, sprawled, and there’s blood…
I jab the Stop button. Leanna lies there, frozen, her dead eyes staring.
A girl jostles me from behind, and I turn fast, but she only mutters, “If you’re texting, move out of the damned doorway first.”
I step aside. My back to the wall, I stare at the final image of Leanna.
I remember you.
I remember Leanna came over to work on a project with Luka, and after she left, I said, I think she likes you and She seems nice and You should ask her out, and Luka turned bright red and shook his head and said I got it all wrong, that Leanna was nice, and she was just being nice to him, nothing more.
“Skye?”
It’s a deep male voice and, again – I can’t help myself – I think of Jesse.
Are you okay, Skye?
No, I’m not. I’m really not.
It’s Mr. Mueller, my English teacher.
“Are you okay, Skye?” he asks, the exact words I imagined from Jesse.
Tears spring to my eyes. I blink them back fast as I nod, and then I take off.
Jesse
Jesse sees Skye running for the bus stop, and his first thought is She’s upset.
His second thought? I should do something.
At dinner last night, his parents were asking him about track, and he struggled to answer their questions before blurting, “Skye Gilchrist is back. She’s at RivCol. Living with her aunt, someone said.”
His mom and dad looked at each other. Then his mom laid down her fork and said, “I hope you’ve reached out to her, Jesse. It won’t be easy being here again, but you can set the tone. If you’re kind to her, others will have no reason not to be.”
He muttered something, and his mom started to pursue it, but his dad made this noise, the one that suggested they give Jesse a few days before they pushed. They were so careful with him. Their delicate, troubled boy.
It’s a phase.
He’ll grow out of it.
At least he has track.
Yes, at least there’s that.
Now he sees Skye jogging for the bus stop, and he feels that initial surge of worry, and then realizes he’s being ridiculous. She’s running for a bus stop. To make sure she catches the bus. She’s fine.
But still… He remembers what those seniors said yesterday. Skye is new here, and she’s vulnerable, and therefore Jesse must keep an eye on her.
To do what? Defend her against guys who think she’s hot? If they try that crap, she’ll tell them where to go. That’s the Skye he knows. One who doesn’t need his help.
Following Skye like this is dangerously close to stalking.
He should speak to her.
Today, in math, she took the empty seat he refused yesterday. When he noticed the vacant desk in front of her, he sat there. As if the last three years hadn’t happened, and he was walking into middle school math class and sitting in front of Skye, as he always did. And then he wrote notes to her.
Sorry about yesterday.
How’re you holding up?
Can we talk?
That seemed to be the way to do it. A note. A little bit nostalgic. A little bit lighthearted.
Hey, remember when we used to do this? See, nothing’s changed.
Except it has.
Everything has.
He still has those notes, balled in his pocket, heavy as rocks.
The bus rolls to the curb, and Jesse’s leg muscles tense, ready to kick it up to a run. Run and swing on the bus and sit beside her and say, “Hey.”
Just that.
Hey.
The bus stops. Skye gets on. The doors close, and the bus rolls away.
Skye