“Lana,” I say, hoping my voice isn’t shaking. “Good to see —”
“Just walk through the damned metal detector, Skye,” she says. “In fact, I think you should walk through it twice, to be sure we’re all safe.” She turns to the kids waiting. “For those who don’t know, this is Skye Gilchrist. Luka Gilchrist’s sister.”
Blood pounds in my ears and my vision clouds, and I stand there, unable to move, until Lana gives me a push, saying, “Go or get out of the way.”
I’m turning to walk through, and I catch a glimpse of a boy rounding the corner. For a split second, my brain sees Jesse and screams no, it can’t be, that Mae swore he went to Southfield.
The last time I saw Jesse was the night after the shooting. I’d been in my room, sitting on the floor, shaking so hard, unable to cry. I heard stones at my window and looked down to see Jesse below.
I still remember the relief I felt seeing him – the one person I could talk to, maybe even cry with. Then I saw his face, the anger, the rage, and I remembered what had happened, that his brother was dead and mine was to blame. One look at his face, and I shut that blind as fast as I could and curled up on the floor, and cried, finally cried.
Now, as I catch a glimpse of this boy, I think it’s Jesse. But then he’s gone, and I realize I was mistaken. This boy is tall; Jesse was an inch shorter than me. This boy has wild, curly dark hair; Jesse always kept his short and neat. Even the face isn’t right, too angular, too hard for the boy I knew. I’m left with the feeling that the only reason I even jumped to that conclusion was that the boy has brown skin and Jesse’s grandparents came from Bangladesh, and that just makes me feel worse, that I jumped to such a stereotyped conclusion.
I push through the metal detector and hurry to find the office.
Jesse
Skye Gilchrist.
Jesse leans against the wall, out of sight of the school doors. When he spotted her, he backpedaled so fast he nearly fell on his ass.
It isn’t Skye. Cannot be Skye. She left three years ago and never looked back. Never reached out. Never contacted him. Never even said goodbye.
The last time he saw her, he was standing under her window. He escaped the hell of that day and went to the only person he could talk to. He ran all the way to Skye’s house and stood under her window, seeing the light on, knowing she was in there, tossing pebbles at her window, getting no response, and growing more and more frustrated, the stones getting larger until finally she looked down. Looked down… and shut the blind.
It took him a day to calm down. A day for the turmoil in his head and in his home to settle, just a bit, and let him realize, well, he’d kinda been an ass. Skye had lost her brother, too, and he’d only been thinking of himself, his anguish, his confusion.
Skye had been hurting, and she just hadn’t felt like talking. He needed to understand that. So a few days later, he went to try again… and she was gone. Left Riverside without a goodbye, and that hurt – hurt like hell – but he told himself it was temporary. She knew where to find him. She would text. She’d email. She’d do something.
She did nothing.
Three years of silence.
He thought they were friends. Good friends. Maybe even becoming more. He liked her. No, let’s be honest, he fell for Skye the way only a thirteen-year-old kid can fall. The first girl he couldn’t stop thinking about, couldn’t wait to see again, to talk to again.
Now, at sixteen, he looks back and wants to roll his eyes at that. Silly kid stuff. Only it didn’t feel like silly kid stuff. And when he caught a glimpse today of someone who looked like her, what he felt…
One spark of heart-in-throat joy, followed by a gut-twisting crash, the pain of her rejection and her betrayal coming fast and hard.
Not kid stuff. Damn it. Not kid stuff at all.
But it isn’t her. Can’t be. Jesse takes a few deep breaths. Then he heads back to the door and walks inside, and there she is, up ahead, turning down a side hall. He sees her, and there is no question. Absolutely no question that this is Skye Gilchrist.
He backs up fast, bumping into a kid who mutters, “Watch it!” Then he breaks into a jog and gets out of the school as fast as he can.
He makes it two blocks before a silver minivan pulls over. It’s his chem teacher, Ms. Blake.
“Going the wrong way, aren’t you, Jasser?” she says.
He tenses at the name. It’s his, and he’s fine with it, but no one uses it at school, not since first grade, when a kid called him Jesse by mistake, and he declared that was what he wanted to be called. He feels silly about that now, being so eager to jump at a name that made him fit in better, but by sixteen, he is Jesse, and no one outside his family uses Jasser… except Ms. Blake, when she’s annoyed with him.
“I forgot something at home,” he says.
“Well, you’d better hop in, and I’ll drive you. You have that makeup quiz with me this morning, and I’m not rescheduling if you skip it, too.”
“I was home sick Friday. My dad called in.”
“Your dad. That’s right. He’s phoned in sick for you a few times this term… and it’s only October. I’ve started to wonder if we should follow up with your mom. I know she’s a doctor, and I’m sure she’s concerned about your health.”
Jesse wants to shrug and say whatever and continue walking home. If he does, though, his parents will get a call, and they don’t deserve it.
“Climb in,” she says. “Let’s go pick up what you left at home.”
He mutters that it’s not important and jogs back to school.
Skye
I eat lunch in a bathroom stall. I’ve been in there awhile and the initial rush has passed, and I think I’m alone. Then I hear two girls talking.
“What’s she even doing back here? Isn’t there a law against that?”
“There should be.”
“Lana Brighton started a petition, saying it’s disrespectful to the families and friends of the dead kids to have her here.”
“Where is it? I’ll sign.”
I should confront them. Three years ago, I would have done exactly that. Walk out, chin up, and say, “Oh, hey, I heard you talking about a petition. Tell me more.” That’s the old Skye. The new one stays in the bathroom stall, stuffs her half-eaten sandwich into her bag and waits for the bell.
I have survived my first day at school. Well, almost. One period to go. I’m feeling okay. I’ve had looks in the hall. Whispers trail after me. But I’ve had kindness, too, particularly in my second-to-last class – senior physics – and maybe it’s because the kids are older, college-bound and focused on their studies. Instead of glares, I get sympathetic smiles. Instead of whispers, I get the same questions every new kid gets, like asking where I moved from. At the end, a girl who looks familiar offers to walk me to my next class.
“You probably don’t remember me,” she says. “I’m Tiffany Gold.”
I stiffen. I don’t mean to, but I remember her now. Isaac’s girlfriend. Isaac Wickham, ringleader of the North Hampton shooting.
“Yep,” she says with a wry smile. “That Tiffany Gold.”
Shame floods me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean —”
“No, it’s okay. It’s got to be a shock, seeing me here. I should be in college.”
“You were younger than…” I trail off.
“I was a year younger than Isaac and Luka. I’m doing a victory lap this term. Which means I’m the only student at RivCol who was there that day, and you don’t need to worry about bumping into others. If that helps.”
“It does, thanks.” I take another step. “How are you doing?”
“Fine. People have pretty much forgotten my connection by now. Even in the beginning, they cut me slack. I was just the poor girl who got mixed up with the wrong guy.” She makes a face. “I’m not handling this very well. I wanted to say hello.”
“Thank you.”
She smiles and relaxes. “Anytime you want to talk, I’m here. If you’d rather not, I get that, too. No hard feelings.”