That was when he decided to be an even bigger prick than I thought he could ever be. His eyes narrowed and he said that I was an idiot. That I had done so much worse. That he’d seen me talking to David Ecchles at Adam Neilson’s party the weekend before the shooting. He claimed we were sitting out by the pool, David’s head leaned toward mine like we were deep in a serious conversation.
I was so wasted that night I barely remember anything between getting to Adam’s house with Miles and waking up in my bed the next morning. I do remember that when we got to the party, Miles ran off with some of his soccer friends, leaving me alone. I remember that I found Chim in the kitchen doing shots and joined in. After that, my memory is beyond blurry—it’s a black hole. And I know that if you get too close to the edge of a black hole, it’ll pull you in and you’ll never escape.
Somehow, I allegedly made my way outside and was sitting by the pool when David found me. At least, that’s the Gospel According to Miles. But I don’t believe him. I would never have talked to David Ecchles. And Miles never bothered to mention it until that night, after I broke up with him. There’s no way David Ecchles would have been at any party—especially one at Adam’s house. Adam had always teased him mercilessly—basically made his life a living hell. David Ecchles didn’t go to parties. He didn’t get invited. There were always all these rumors about him—about the creepy poem he wrote in English class, about his home life, about the tattoo of a gun he had on his stomach. Sometimes I’d catch him starting at me in the halls. Something in his eyes always creeped me out—they had this flat, empty look in them, like he was part zombie.
In front of me, Miles has an expression on his face that’s something akin to pity. “Jesus, May. Relax. I’m just surprised to see you. I knew you were back, but…” He’s so uncomfortable. Good. I want nothing to do with him or with any of this. My hands ball into fists.
Over his shoulder, a security guard watches us. I force my hands to relax.
“Okay. Good talk.” This time I’m ready. I push past him into the crowd and let the flow of people take me farther and farther away.
* * *
—
It’s finally lunchtime, and all I want is to grab on to Lucy like the life raft she’s become and never let go. I walk through the swinging doors into the cafeteria to find her, but before I can get more than a couple steps inside, I’m hit by a cacophony of noises. There are people everywhere. Most I don’t recognize; they must be the original QA students. The ones who belong here. The ones who fit.
A person brushes by me and I find myself looking into the eyes of one of Jordan’s best friends, Brian Ramirez. Brian was in jazz band, too, but wasn’t a section leader. Wasn’t in practice that day.
Which is why he’s here, in front of me, instead of…not.
Brian and I lock eyes for a second and I freeze. My stomach turns as he opens his mouth to say something and I just can’t…I can’t…I can’t…and before he can get out any words, I duck behind a group of people who are coming in through the door and bolt across the room to the other side and don’t look back.
I need Lucy. Now.
I dig through my bag and find my phone at the very bottom.
I text her furiously, WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU with at least seventeen exclamation points and several I CANNOT DEAL WITH THIS SHIT–type emojis. Then I slump against yet another wall to wait.
Across the room, I see Steve Irmen. His girlfriend, Britta, died that day. She played the clarinet.
Steve is laughing, his arm around another girl.
“Girl, what’re you doing hanging out by the trash cans?” Chim saves me from total loserdom/a complete emotional