by Sara Kocek
“What?” A sloppy grin spread across Levi’s face. He thought I was joking.
I reached into my backpack, behind my math book, and pulled out the photocopied stack of letters. “What if we get here early tomorrow, before anyone else, and hang these up?”
“Whoa, what?” said Tim.
I shoved the pile toward him.
“Is that a letter?” Levi reached over and grabbed a copy. “Holy crap.”
I waited while they read the page from beginning to end; then the three of us sat there in silence. After a long time, I forced myself to look over at Levi, but his face was blank. “Wow,” he said at last. “I had no idea.”
“Something’s weird about this,” said Tim, looking over the letter. “She sounds angry, not depressed. And why would she blame Murphy more than anyone else? No offense.”
I felt my skin prickle.
“Come on,” said Levi. “She hated Murphy.”
“But he definitely didn’t have that kind of power over her.”
“How do you know?”
“Because she wasn’t ashamed of being gay.”
“Of course she was.” Levi frowned. “She was in the closet. If she was proud of being gay, she would have come out, like you did.”
Tim shrugged. “Not necessarily.”
I felt annoyance coupled with gnawing shame. “Are you saying I’m worse than Mr. Murphy?” I asked. “Because maybe I am, but I don’t think—”
“Don’t take it personally.” Tim cut me off. “You guys remember the Valentine’s party, right? How I got stuffed in the closet? Well, Olive and I talked for a minute while she helped me untie the tape. We talked about all the assholes in this school, Mr. Murphy included.”
“So?”
“She seemed pissed, not depressed. She had a fight in her.”
“Maybe this was it,” I said. “A really messed-up way to make a point.”
Tim sighed. “Maybe.”
“Either way, Murphy deserves to fry.” Levi flicked the digital recorder that was sitting in front of us on the library table. It spun around twice and pointed at me.
“Yeah.” I closed my eyes to stop the world from spinning. “No question about that.”
Once we shut down my computer, Tim and Levi headed to the cafeteria to scarf down lunch while I set off on a mission to visit Ms. Mahoney, my English teacher. Room 108 was on the ground floor of the school in the back wing. It overlooked the senior parking lot—a sight I knew well after spending so many hours staring out the window during class. And it was that same window—the one we propped open with a book back in September—that I needed now.
Ms. Mahoney was alone when I arrived, eating lunch at her desk. Resting on a rumpled brown bag was a half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a green apple, and a bottle of water—not too different from the stuff Dad used to pack me in elementary school. Only in Ms. Mahoney’s case, it seemed like sort of a pathetic excuse for lunch. With a deep breath, I stepped into the room and prepared myself to lie straight to her face.
“Hi, Reyna,” Ms. Mahoney said, looking up from her papers as I approached her desk. “How can I help you? Are you here to talk about your House on Mango Street essay?”
“I think I left my bracelet in here,” I said, gesturing toward the back wall of the classroom. “During second period. I was over by the window—I think the clasp might have broken.”
“Say no more.” Ms. Mahoney rose to her feet. “I’ll help you look for it.”
“No!” I said quickly. “Don’t get up—you’re eating.”
I headed toward the windowsill, where books were stacked on top of one another, but Ms. Mahoney persisted. “It’s really no trouble,” she said, wiping sandwich crumbs against her skirt as she crossed the room to join me. “What kind of bracelet is it? Silver?”
“Yeah, with charms,” I lied. “There’s a ballet charm and a little soccer ball and a tennis racket. It’s really important to me. My best friend from another school gave it to me.” I knew I was rambling, but I needed to distract her long enough to get to the window.
“Goodness,” she said. “How long have you had the bracelet?”
“Since I was ten,” I said, stepping up to the windowsill and pretending to look through the stacks of books. There were a bunch of Shakespeare plays, some Toni Morrison novels, a dozen copies of Fahrenheit 451, and a few other titles I didn’t recognize. As Ms. Mahoney moved one of the stacks to look for my bracelet, my eyes landed on the window latch. If I could just unlock it—if I could just open the window a crack and slide one of the paperback novels under it, then Tim, Levi, and I would have a way into the building without a key.
But Ms. Mahoney was the one rambling now—telling me about a charm bracelet her little sister bought for her when they were kids, and how she lost it one day on a field trip to the zoo. I couldn’t just lean over and flip open the latch. Instead, I reached out and knocked over the tallest pile of books on the windowsill. Two dozen copies of Fahrenheit 451 toppled over and scattered onto the floor. Startled, Ms. Mahoney jumped backward, squeaking, “Oh!”
“I’m so sorry!” I said, bending over immediately to gather the fallen books. “I’m so clumsy. It’s just that I don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t find the bracelet—”
“It’s OK,” said Ms. Mahoney. “I understand.”
As soon as she bent toward the floor, I reached behind the remaining books and unlatched the window. Ms. Mahoney lifted up a handful of books, set them on the windowsill, and bent over again. The minute she looked away, I leaned forward, grabbed the bottom of the window, and leveraged all my weight to pull it open. Too much. A draft blew through and made me shiver. Ms. Mahoney reached up to set a few books on the windowsill. I held my breath as she stayed crouched, reaching for a book that had slid all the way under a desk. I grabbed a copy of The House on Mango Street, shoved it under the open window, and pulled down—just in time. Ms. Mahoney stood up, a pile of Fahrenheit 451 stacked in her arms. “Here we go,” she said, setting them back on the windowsill. “No harm done.”
I looked at my handiwork. The window was open just barely a crack, the faint draft blocked by the stacks of books in front of it. It wasn’t the ideal way to break into the school, but it would have to do.
“I’m such an idiot!” I burst out. This part of the plan was Levi’s—his idea of a good excuse to leave the room. The more I thought about it, the more I felt he had lied to me on purpose when he told me he left his jacket in the library. “I just remembered I took off the bracelet to use the pottery wheel this morning,” I explained to Ms. Mahoney, my cheeks burning red. “I must have left it in Art. I’m so sorry for disturbing your lunch.”
“It’s no problem at all, Reyna,” she said, wiping dust off her knees. “I hope you find it. I never did find my sister’s bracelet all those years ago. Such a shame…”
I nodded while she rambled more about her sister and the bracelet she lost at the zoo. I didn’t think it was possible, but I’d finally found someone at Belltown High more desperate than I for a lunchtime companion. Unfortunately for Ms. Mahoney, I had something more important to do.
Friday, 5:01 a.m.
I knocked three times.
Lucy answered in her bathrobe, not a shred of makeup on her face. Through the doorway, I could see Dad sitting up in bed, unshaven and scruffy. The alarm clock was playing quietly on the nightstand as though trying to coax them out of bed.
“Can somebody drive me to school?” I asked. No preamble. If I’d wanted to give them time to think about it, I would have asked them the night before.
Lucy and Dad turned simultaneously toward the clock, as though they’d overslept or missed daylight savings. But they hadn’t. It was five o’clock in the morning, and the sky outside the window was dark.
“Now?” Lucy said.
“In a few minutes.” I adjusted the weight of my backpack. “Whenever you’re ready.”
They both stared at me. Finally Dad asked, “Why? What�
�s going on?”
“History project,” I answered vaguely.
“But we just woke up,” Lucy said, turning to Dad. “I haven’t even showered yet.”
“Dad?” I said. “Can you?” I preferred his company anyway. Even though Lucy and I had reached a truce on the car ride home from Olive’s house, she still tiptoed around me like I might suddenly bite off her head.
“Reyna…” He sighed and swung his legs over the side of the bed. I could see his bare feet, little tufts of black hair on the toes. “You need to tell us about this kind of thing ahead of time.”
“I didn’t know until now,” I lied. “My group just texted me, and they said we have to finish our filming while the teachers’ parking lot is still empty.”
“I would drive her if I could,” whispered Lucy, facing Dad. “But I need to get in the shower if I’m to drive to the reception site by eight.”
“What reception site?” I asked just as Dad said, “I’ll drive her then.”
“The wedding reception,” answered Lucy. She looked uncomfortable, like she didn’t want to discuss the details in my presence. “It’s all the way in New York, and I have an appointment this morning with the florist.”
Mom would never have approved of a flashy wedding in New York City—her wedding with Dad was a simple affair with a small reception at the local church. But I didn’t feel up for a fight this early in the morning, so I forced my face into a neutral mask and said, “oh.”
Dad got to his feet. “Come on. Both of you.”
Neither of us said anything. Lucy looked like she wanted to cry.
“Sorry,” I said, when the silence got awkward. “I’ll let you get dressed.” It bothered me how easily I could lie to Dad. He always said Mom was a terrible liar, and I would have rather inherited that trait than not.
“I’ll meet you in the car,” said Dad. “Give us a minute alone.”
I left and shut the door behind me, heading straight for the garage. Sitting by myself in the car with my backpack at my feet, waiting, I wondered why Olive had picked a train to kill her. Why not a car in a closed garage? Why not pills? Why the pain?
When Dad came out, he barely limped at all coming down the two steps that led into the garage. He hadn’t worn his neck brace in weeks, and the bruises on his face were gone. Even the right side of his mouth, which had looked lopsided for months from the twenty-two stitches, had healed beautifully. There were almost no traces left of the accident, and for some reason, that bothered me. I should have been glad. But I wasn’t.
As he turned the ignition and backed out of the garage, Dad rubbed the long creases between his eyebrows and sighed. It was drizzling outside and I kept my eyes focused on the driveway. At the edges of my vision, blurry hexagons of color crowded each other.
“Rey,” he said as he turned out of the driveway, moving his right hand from the steering wheel to my shoulder. I shrugged it off, and we sat in silence all the way down Hickory Ridge Road. On the dark, oil-slicked street, the traffic lights reflected red, green, and white. “I hope you’ll forgive me,” he said at last. “For marrying her.”
He looked so sad from the side. His eyes were droopy, his shoulders stooped, and suddenly I remembered how, back in elementary school, he used to wear the same expression whenever I told him I missed Mom. I wondered if that was how I looked sometimes too; if Olive had taken pity on me that day in the cafeteria and spoken to me more out of kindness than curiosity. Maybe the world was backward and nothing was what I thought; or maybe I was the backward one.
“Dad, it’s OK.” I wished I hadn’t shrugged away the hand he’d placed on my shoulder. “I’m not mad at you.”
“I know she’s not your mom,” he said quickly. “And she never will be—”
“It’s OK,” I repeated. “I know.”
“I want you to be happy,” said Dad. “I am.”
That was the problem. I was left behind. But I didn’t say anything. Ever since Mom died, the bond I shared with Dad was a sadness so deep it transcended love or laughter or fun. I thought he felt the same way; I thought that sadness would tie us together for the rest of our lives, soothing us even while it made us lonely. But now he was moving on.
“It’s OK,” I said, trying to comfort myself as much as him. “I don’t hate Lucy as much as you think. Or as much as she thinks.”
“You don’t?” Dad glanced at me. “Since when?”
“Since Saturday,” I said. “When she drove me to Olive’s house.” I didn’t know whether I was lying or telling the truth. I wanted it to be the truth, but I wasn’t sure.
Dad looked surprised. “She told me you were still mad at her about the accident.”
“I guess it was never really the accident I was mad about.” I looked down at my fingernails, which was easier than looking Dad in the eye. “I guess I was mad that you were ready to move on from Mom.”
“Reyna—”
“No, it’s OK.” I forced myself to face him. Abby and Olive had been right—there was no reason to begrudge Lucy a car accident she didn’t mean to cause, especially when Dad was OK. And there was no reason to think anyone could replace my mom just by moving around a few pieces of furniture. “I’m happy for you,” I said, trying as hard as I could to feel it, not just say it. “Lucy is a nice person, and she deserves someone as nice as you.”
Dad’s face broke out in a huge smile. “Reyna, I’m so glad you feel that way.”
“Me too,” I said, smiling a little. “You can tell her I said so.”
“How about you tell her yourself?” Dad gestured at his cell phone sitting in the cup holder between our seats. “She probably hasn’t gotten in the shower yet.”
I glanced over at him, ready to shake my head no, but then I saw the line of his shoulders, straighter than before, and love thundered through me like a stampede. It flattened me to the back of my seat and took my breath away. It squeezed the air out of my lungs and the voice out of my throat. It crushed like shattered glass every hurtful thing I might have said.
“Are you OK?” asked Dad, still smiling. “What is it?”
I reached for the phone.
“You don’t have to call her if you don’t want,” he said. “I don’t want to make you do anything you wouldn’t want to do.”
I dialed.
“Reyna, did you hear me?”
I brought the phone to my ear.
Friday, 5:22 a.m.
Tim and Levi were waiting for me under the overhang by the main entrance when Dad dropped me off. The sun was coming up over the parking lot, and the sky was a deep, fleecy shade of gray. It was still drizzling, but just barely. There were puddles on the ground, showing the clouds what they looked like.
Before we could sneak around to the back of the school, before we could pry open the window to room 108, before I could even say hello to Levi and Tim, I noticed the door. Dead center, Protestant Reformation style, hung a single piece of paper rippling in the wind. Olive’s letter. “Did you guys do that?” I called, running up to them as Dad pulled away. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”
“We didn’t do it,” said Levi. “Somebody beat us to it.”
“What?” I stared at him.
“It was there when we got here.” He glanced over at Tim. “But nobody’s around. We checked all over.”
“Grace,” I breathed.
“What’s going on?” Tim folded his arms. “What haven’t you told us?”
“Nothing,” I said automatically. “I told you everything.” But of course, that wasn’t true. I hadn’t told them about Grace. I hadn’t even begun to describe the weirdness surrounding her.
“Something’s not right,” said Tim. “You’re lying.”
“Look.” I began leading them around the side of the building, toward the senior parking lot. “The only thing I might have forgotten to mention is that someone else knows about the letter.”
“You might have forgotten to mention it?”
“Her name is Grace,
” I said. “You met her at the Valentine’s party.”
Comprehension dawned in Tim’s eyes.
“I think Olive gave her a mission to hang the letter all over school,” I told him as we crossed the senior parking lot and headed for Ms. Mahoney’s window. “That’s why she pulled the fire alarm on Tuesday, only she got caught before she could tape anything up.”
“The shy girl pulled the fire alarm?” asked Levi.
“Yeah, that makes sense,” said Tim. For a second I thought he was being sarcastic, but then he added, “She could have been trying to fulfill Olive’s dying wish.”
“Exactly.” When we reached the back edge of the building, we stared at a row of windows. There were easily a dozen, and they were all identical.
“Which one’s room 108?” asked Levi, stepping up to the closest window and pressing his forehead against the glass. “I can’t see anything inside. It’s too dark.”
“I don’t know,” I said, moving closer. “Which one is open a crack?”
“This one,” said Tim, farther along in the row. “At least I think so.” He stepped forward, slid his fingers under the narrow opening, and pulled up. The window barely budged.
“Let me try,” I said. Positioning myself in front of the window, I wrapped my fingers around the bottom of the glass and heaved my whole weight upward. It worked—just barely. I did it again and again, until finally the opening was wide enough to slide through. Levi hoisted me up and I slid through on my belly, bruising my shoulders against the window frame. Inside, the books stacked along the windowsill tumbled over and scattered onto the floor.
I headed toward the door to search for a light switch while Tim shimmied in next, followed by Levi. When we were all safely inside, we closed the window, restacked the books, and hurried out of the room through the dark hallway. None of us knew what time the principal or janitors would get to school, but our plan was to hang the fliers as quickly as possible and then hide out until 6:45, when the doors would officially open.