I get to school and it’s the same shit as the past few days, except seeing the photo of Jordan’s face hanging at the entrance isn’t as shocking. The memory of it is already there in my brain, a negative of a photo, just out of reach, taunting me. I force myself past the seven photos, the faces smiling down: reminders that we’re still here and they aren’t.
That I’m still here and he isn’t.
As I make my way down the hall, my heart is beating a thousand times a minute. For a brief moment, I consider calling Dr. McMillen’s office to see if she can squeeze me in after school, but I remind myself how pointless those appointments are and how they’re obviously not helping, and how Rose-Brady is forcing me to go, like I’m a child. Resentment boils in my belly. No one thinks I can handle anything on my own. I swallow hard. They’re wrong. I clench my fists and keep walking toward my locker, head down, pulling my phone from my bag.
Lucy’s been texting me all morning; she’s officially in the band. Her first show is coming up next Friday, which is, I guess, why they were so desperate for a drummer. She’s like May, I know it’s going to be hard, but if you don’t come I will kick your ass. The girl certainly talks a lot of shit, considering she’s gone all Mother Teresa on me over the past few days. I text her back as I walk, tell her I’ll consider it.
Maybe.
Probably not.
I don’t know.
I can barely concentrate on anything other than the deafening thrum of my heartbeat in my ears.
As I’m about to reach my locker, I’m jostled from behind. I whip around, heart still pounding, even faster now, and why don’t people get that they should STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME, and now I’m face to face with Lee Brothers, the guy who was the president of the vocal ensemble at our old school.
He reaches out to steady me. “Whoa, May. You okay? I guess you’re back.” He pushes his glasses up on his nose and gives me a strained smile. “I heard from Miles that you were.” He looks everywhere but at my eyes—down the hallway, at the posters on the wall beside us. We used to be friends. Used to go to the same parties. Now he can’t even look at me.
“Yup.” I dig my nails into the palms of my hands, try to get a fucking hold on myself, try to take those deep breaths that McMillen always goes on and on about—try to stop the fucking hammering of my heart—but nothing works, so instead I plaster a giant obnoxious smile on my face. Swallow the dread into my belly. Pretend to be okay. “I’m baaaaack. Lucky me, huh?” My voice sounds like nails scraping down a blackboard, high and piercing and raw.
“Yes.” He gives me a weak smile. I can tell he’s not sure I’m serious; he’s doing this bemused mouth-twitchy thing he used to do in meetings when he was nervous. That’s right: I attended those meetings, because I was the secretary. I thought maybe it would impress my parents, the fact that not only was I singing, I also held an office position in the ensemble. But of course, they barely noticed.
“Well….errr…it was good to run into you.” He’s about to walk away but then pauses and touches my arm, his voice oozing with sincerity. “By the way, I hope you saw the memorial? We worked hard with the student governments and administrations of all the local high schools to put them up….”
I go cold. This conversation was going so well too. “Yes.” My voice is flat as a pancake. “I saw it.”
“I’m so glad. When we all got transferred here, me and a few other choir and band members came up with the idea. We all miss them.” He clears his throat. “I’m sure you know this, but before…everything…Jordan and I had gotten to be pretty good friends. He wanted to play the guitar for one of the vocal ensembles, so we started talking. I miss him a lot….” He trails off. I