and the familiarity was comforting, like the smell of my grams’s soap.
He smiled. “Peter, come in, please.”
I stood in front of his desk, still and silent, my backpack slung over my shoulder. I slid back my hoodie as a sign of respect, the most I’d do for a teacher I liked.
“Sit down.”
I didn’t want to, but I pulled one of the desks up and sat on the edge of the attached chair. “Do you have my essay?” I had my grades already. The school mailed them to my mother, but since my teachers liked me I just asked them. All A’s except a B in P.E. and a B+ in honors physics. I could live with that.
Mr. Doherty smiled. “You have a lot of talent, Peter.”
I shrugged. I liked writing. I was good at it. But that didn’t make me talented.
He slid the essay over, upside down. I took it, looked at the cover page. A+. I smiled. I knew I’d nailed the assignment, but the validation felt good.
“I’m a little concerned about the pessimism in your story.”
I shrugged.
“A couple other teachers have come to me and asked if they need to be concerned about you.”
Why’d anyone talk to Mr. Doherty about me? I was quiet and maybe antisocial, but I wasn’t a troublemaker. Didn’t these people have anything more important to worry about? Like the kid who brought a knife to school last month or the group who smoked pot on the roof nearly every Friday?
“I’m fine,” I said. Fine. I suppose I’d never be fine, but really, what else could I say? I showed up, I got good grades, and I didn’t bother anyone. What more did these people want?
“I know this year has been hard on you—”
“No shit,” I said. Then I thought of Grams and how much she hated swearing. “Sorry.”
“I told them not to be concerned; then I read your story. I could see you in your character Thomas. I was completely hooked by the story, the depth of character, your keen sense of description, the emotions you evoke in just a few words. Then Thomas kills himself. And the comments from your teachers made me concerned that I’m missing signs. I like you, Peter. You have a lot to offer.”
I thought a lot about death and dying. And maybe sometimes I thought about being dead. I wondered if Rachel could see me, wondered if there was a heaven and if she was happy. Or if there was nothing. That death was final; there was no more.
“It’s fiction, Mr. Doherty.”
He stared at me. I didn’t know what he saw, but he was worried. “I think I should talk to your mother.”
My heart skipped a beat, but it was only anger I felt. My mother had no right to know anything of how I felt.
I stood. “No.”
“If not your mother, maybe I can find someone for you to talk to.”
“I’m not going to kill myself. It’s a story. That was the assignment, right? A work of fiction?”
Mr. Doherty looked away, then changed the subject. “What are your plans this summer?”
Stay out of the house as much as I could. “My dad’s making me visit him for a month.”
“Maybe that would be good for you.”
I shrugged.
“People change, Peter. You should forgive them.”
I walked out.
I could forgive Benjamin John Kreig easier than I could forgive my parents. I thought Kreig should have gotten the death penalty for killing my sister. I think my parents should get worse.
But I couldn’t do anything about it. And I wouldn’t. I just wanted my mom and dad to disappear. I didn’t want to talk to them; I didn’t want to see them; I didn’t want to be reminded of what happened in our house.
I went to my locker to get the last of my things. I opened it and a vile smell assaulted me. I stared at the bloody mess in front of me, not knowing at first what it was. Then I saw. A dead cat. Flattened, like roadkill. Flies buzzed; bugs burrowed in its wounds. Tears came fast, for the poor animal, for me, for Rachel—I had never felt so alone. Not even when Grams died. Not even when I found Rachel’s empty bed.
I slammed my locker shut and ran to the bike cage, ignoring the stares of my peers. Go to Hell! I wanted to scream at all of them. Instead, I got on my bike and rode away fast. I didn’t want to go home, so biked south,