I'm a bad person.
"You'll just go on until the next party," Evan says.
"Fuck you."
I'd rather be in school. I turn around and open the door, but I can't go in.
"It wouldn't have made a difference."
The handle slips from my grasp and the door clicks closed.
"What?"
I face him slowly because I'm afraid of what he said. What I think he said.
"I run it through my head every single fucking day, trying to figure it out--and there was a..." He pauses. "There was a group of college guys; they crashed it. And Jessie was all over them to get back at me. And I... I was there when Chris carried you out of the woods, after you must've... after you saw it happen and you were... you--"
He shakes his head and squints up at me.
"You couldn't have changed anything."
"You don't know that."
He makes a face like he wants to hit something or scream. And then it disappears and he's just tired looking, old. But I still don't believe him.
"They're pretty sure she was dead before the night was out." He clenches his hands. "And I wish it was your fault. If I could make it your fault, I would."
"It is. If she hadn't known about you--and I let everyone think she ran away--" "You should've told," he agrees. "But it wouldn't have made a difference."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because last night I was thinking about it and I just knew--" And then he starts crying. God, he's always crying. "That she wanted me to."
I bring a shaking hand to my eyes.
"You can't know that," I tell him. "You're wrong."
This strange and horrible feeling takes up residence in the middle of my chest and spreads through the rest of my body. Something insides me caves and I'm afraid this is going to be the panic attack that kills me.
The one where my heart beats so fast it disintegrates.
I pull open the door and stumble into the school and I think he calls me back, Evan, but I don't care. I walk past the doors to the auditorium; I'm walking blind and everything hurts. I want to cry, it hurts so bad, but I promised myself I wouldn't cry because I don't deserve to cry over her. And I want to believe what he's saying is true, but no one can say it's true and it doesn't matter because it doesn't change anything because she's dead and she's never coming back and it's my fault and I miss her, I miss her so much. I can't breathe. I can't. I reach out for the wall and force myself to keep moving because I hear voices coming from the auditorium. It's over. The service is over.
So I have to get away.
Walk, Parker; just keep walking. Just keep--
"Parker?"
I blink.
I'm looking into a sparrow's dead eyes.
And then I look at my hands. I'm sitting on the floor and there's a crowd. And then I spot Bailey in the back and he's staring and he looks sad, but I don't--
"Parker?" the sparrow says gently. "Parker, can you hear me?"
I don't want to do this anymore, but I don't know what else to do.
I've never done it any other way.
TWENTY-SEVEN
"Clearing out, huh?"
Chris and Becky walk up to me, holding hands. If the events of the last few weeks have done anything, they've made them a stronger couple. So strong, in fact, it doesn't really matter they have nothing in common because they're really, really serious about each other now. I wasn't there when it happened, but I think it means he's over me.
I reach into my locker, pull out all of my books and set them on the floor next to the garbage bag beside me. I don't know how such a small rectangle of space could hold so much crap, but there it is.
"Yep," I say. Wedged in the very back of the top shelf is a T-shirt I thought I'd lost ages ago. I toss it into the garbage bag.
"Will you have to repeat the year?" Becky asks.
"Would that make you happy?"
"I just wondered."
"Grey and Henley are working something out. I'll be graduating; I just won't be..." I toss a few crumpled pieces of paper into the garbage. "I just won't be here."
"I'll miss you," Chris says.
My locker is empty. They didn't want me to come back and empty it, but I insisted. I didn't want anyone else touching my things. I tie up the garbage bag and brush my hands on my jeans.
"It's not like I won't still live two streets away," I tell him.
"Yeah, I know," he says. "I just thought it was worth saying."
So this is it. These things happen fast, I guess. From the moment in the hall to telling Grey the truth to her creaming herself and telling my parents to them crying to the news slowly traveling through the school and not everyone thinks it's my fault, but no one can say anything for sure. And I'm supposed to know what to do with that. Just like that. The Jessica Wellington murder is all over the local news and sometimes I make myself watch it for hours. They're calling it a kind of nervous breakdown. I don't know. I've had a couple appointments with that shrink. It was okay.
"Big game against St. Anthony's next weekend," Becky says tensely, changing the subject. There's something validating about the fact she still sees me as a threat, even like this.
"Decide on the cheer?" I ask.
"Not yet."
"Do the `win, lose, it's all the same' one."
Her eyes light up. "You think?"
I nod. "I think."
She studies me. "You're not serious."
"I am," I insist. "I'd even come to the game just to watch everyone laugh at you."
She turns pink.
"Maybe you should see if they can't do something about your personality when they're fixing your brain," she snaps.
"Anyway," Chris says quickly. He gives me a hug. "We've got to go. We're meeting Evan for lunch. You need a ride or anything?"
"My mom's picking me up." I give him a small squeeze back. "But you can do me a favor and toss the garbage in the Dumpster outside." "Sure." He hesitates, like he wants to say something else but doesn't know how to say it. Then he brings his mouth close to my ear and murmurs quietly enough so Becky can't hear, "I love you."
But it's different now.
"I'm sorry," I say.
"I know. I knew it before you did."
He leans back and smiles at me while Becky scratches her head, oblivious to the whole exchange. And she's going to live out the rest of her life like that, but good for her. Chris picks up the garbage bag and swings it over his shoulder.
"Jake's around here somewhere," he says.
"How about that."
I bend down, gather my books and shove them into my bag.
"See you, Parker," Becky says.
"You can call anytime," Chris says over his shoulder. Becky holds out her hand and he takes it. "If you want."
I wait until they're gone before I heave my book bag onto my shoulders and straighten up, the bones in my arms and legs crackling in protest. I make the slow trek down the hall. The lunch bell rang twenty minutes ago and it's mostly quiet but for the distant sounds of talking and laughter coming from the cafeteria.
I run into Jake outside of art. He's leaning against the door, his arms crossed.
"Hey... hey, you--girl," he says.
It almost makes me smile, but I can't. "Hey... hey, you--New Kid."
"You're really leaving?"
I nod and adjust my book bag.
"Yeah. I'm going to get my head screwed on straight and everything. Figure out what's..." Even now, I hate saying it. "What's been wrong with me."
"Good," he says. "Is this what you want?"
"I think so."
He lets his arms fall to his sides. "I'm glad."
"I hear admitting you have a problem is half the battle."
He stares at me expectantly. I should apologize to him.
"Are you going to be around this summer?" I ask instead.
"Nope," he says.
"Why?" I hope it wasn't me. I know it was me. "I mean, it's none of my business. But I bet whatever you're doing can't be more exciting than the therapy sessions I'll be stuck in."
"Probably not," Jake agrees. "I'll be at my mom's."
My mouth drops open and he nods.
"Yeah, I know." He gives me a lopsided grin. "She doesn't want me to come, but I'm coming. Dad figures she'll let me in if I show up on her doorstep and if not, he'll foot the plane ticket back here. We'll see what happens."
"Wow."
"It was you," he says. "I wouldn't have done it, but after we..." It hangs in the air between us. I swallow.
"And after summer it's straight to college, right?"
"Taking the year off, actually," Jake says.
"Oh," I say, surprised. "And then you're coming back here?"
"Yep."
"And I'll be here." As soon as it's off my lips I'm sorry I've said it. I'm just pushing my luck and I don't even know why. There's nothing to push. It's over. I clear my throat. "Anyway, good luck with your mom."
"Good luck to you, too," he says.
That's my cue to go, but my feet are cemented to the floor. He waits for me to move and I can't because I want everything taken care of before I can start taking care of everything. I know that's not the way life happens. There are no tidy resolutions. Ask me if I think it was my fault, if I think this heaviness will ever go away.
"I'm scared," I admit.
"That's because it's scary," he says. "But it'll be better this way."
If he says so, it must be true.