entire year, the shit that got me kicked out of school. The fury that leaked into my body that day is rising in me. How dare this freak bribe me into visiting him? He doesn’t deserve to have Jordan’s final words; they should be mine.
Zach whispers, “Are you okay?” and I know I can’t sit here any longer, wordlessly screaming into the black void of my own head.
I need to get a grip if I’m ever going to make it out of the car and into the jail. The minutes are ticking by, and we’re getting closer to my appointment time. I need to go.
I switch myself to autopilot, like I did in the days after the shooting, after they carried me out of that tiny closet that had become my home, past abandoned bags holding buzzing cell phones. That was the worst thing: the cell phones I could hear buzzing as news of the shooting spread and parents started calling.
“Yes. I’m okay.” I reach over and open the car door. Step out into the dark parking lot. Force a smile in Zach’s direction. Close the door. As I walk away, I hear him say that he’ll be here when I’m done, but I can’t turn back to acknowledge it. If I do, I’ll never make it out of this garage.
Everything is a blur once I leave him. My body takes over and my mind shuts down.
I fumble trying to open the door to the visitors’ intake building because my hands are shaking so bad. Finally, a uniformed woman takes pity on me and swings it open from the inside.
I am going to throw up.
Somehow, I make it to the front desk and slip my ID through a tiny hole in the bulletproof glass.
Bulletproof glass.
The gruff man behind the counter shoves a clipboard in my direction and motions for me to sign it. I scribble something that looks vaguely like my signature, and then he barks at me to go sit down and wait. Go sit down and wait. Like this is just a normal day, a normal place.
Like I’m a normal person.
I drag myself over to the bench, limbs heavy, like they’re made of concrete. Collapse on the bench next to a sobbing woman. My eyes are dry now.
As I wait, a thousand thoughts pummel my mind.
What did Jordan say before he died? Why couldn’t David just tell me in one of his fucking letters? Why did he have to force me to come here?
I think back to that night—the night of the party—but it’s this blank space in my brain that I can’t penetrate. I remember getting to the party, drinking with Chim, glaring at Miles from across the room, and then…nothing. Whatever memory used to be there was obliterated by a black hole of alcohol-induced amnesia.
The room starts to tilt. I drop my head in my hands. I can’t do this. I need to get up and go. What was I thinking coming here? Lucy was right.
And then the decision is made for me. They’re calling us, all the people in the waiting room, telling us to put our phones in the lockers that line the far wall, to form a line by the opposite one; it’s time.
* * *
—
help.
I sit on a cold metal stool in front of a thick Plexiglas window and a black phone.
I shiver.
* * *
—
A loud alarm sounds, and on the other side of the window, men start to shuffle in.
Even if they weren’t handcuffed, there’d be no mistaking them for anything but prisoners. Their gait, the dead look in their eyes, the unhealthy tinge of their skin—all those things give it away.
* * *
—
And then I see him.
* * *
—
And then he sees me.
* * *
—
And then he smiles.
* * *
—
Tears prick at the corner of my eyes, but I cannot—I WILL NOT—let