I needed out of there.
Besides, Cass has her audition today. If I had stayed home, she would have insisted on staying with me.
“Weren’t she and Ava, like, a thing? Maybe she did it.”
Chlamydia.
“So weird that she came to school today.”
Human papillomavirus.
“I’d be way too upset.”
This morning, I made the mistake of turning on the news. Ava’s face was everywhere. Someone chose to use her yearbook picture. She’s cute, like always, but even Ava couldn’t take a school photo without looking awkward. There must be a million better pictures of her on social media. In her yearbook picture, she looks like any other high school girl, instead of Ava.
According to the news, the police think it’s a mugging. When they searched her belongings, her wallet was missing. Someone tried to rob her, then panicked.
That doesn’t explain why she sounded so scared when she called me. Why she was nervous in school on Friday. People don’t usually get advance notice before a robbery. But, just like everyone else, the police love easy explanations.
This was how it all started with Lucy. The cops made a show of looking into it, but weeks passed, and the only suspect was someone rich enough to be beyond consequences. The media moved on. The police shifted their attention to other cases. But I couldn’t forget the way Lucy looked when I found her. She was barely recognizable as a person, let alone a girl I knew from school. If no one else was going to get justice for her, I would.
But in the end, I failed her, too.
I don’t know if I have it in me this time. The numbness I’ve felt the last couple days is a shield, but I can feel it starting to slip. Watching the news made my hands shake with anger. I spilled hot coffee on my wrist. Still, that was only the barest flicker of the rage that usually powers me.
“What was Ava even doing?”
“Yeah, who goes wandering down some dark alleyway in Whitley at night? I mean, do you want to get shot?”
Herpes. Hepatitis.
I remember this part, too. Everyone was sad and shocked when Lucy’s murder first broke. But under that thin layer of horror was Where did she go wrong? The second the media figured out that Lucy hadn’t been some precious baby angel, everyone was ready to blame her for her own death. Because we’re all safer if it was Lucy’s fault, right? It could never happen to us.
A locker slams with a bang like a gun, and I jump.
Snickers. More whispers. They make my skin itch.
“Flora?” Mr. Kelly appears in the doorway to my English class. “Come on in. You don’t want to be late.”
A wave of weakness washes over me, and my legs nearly give out. What I want, more than anything, is total darkness and silence. A pause on the world.
Instead, I go to English class.
Cass is already in her seat. I take mine next to her as the bell rings.
The PA crackles to life, and Principal Adams says, “Good morning, students and faculty.” Long pause. “As you may have heard, we lost one of our own last week. Ava McQueen was a pillar of this community, and I’d like to take a moment of silence to honor our beloved student and peer.” She goes quiet. Uncomfortable fidgeting. What is it about a moment of silence that makes everyone suddenly want to dance and scream?
Adams continues. “I know this is a troubling time for us all. There are grief counselors available in the guidance office, if anyone needs support. A memorial service will be held Wednesday during sixth period, and all students and family members are welcome to attend. Take care of each other, please.”
That’s it. One moment of silence. Today will be weird. Every teacher will mention it in class. We’ll have the memorial, and then everything will go back to normal. It’s all so unbearably familiar.
“All right, folks,” Mr. Kelly says. “I know we were supposed to have a quiz on the first three chapters of Slaughterhouse-Five, but I’ll postpone that until tomorrow.”
Someone in the back hisses, “Yes!” It’s met with awkward giggles.
Mr. Kelly ignores it. “I thought it might be best if we took the day to remember our friend Ava.” He leans against the whiteboard. “You’re all young. You haven’t had much experience with death. I’ve found that it really helps to share stories about those who have passed.”
It’s a nice thought, but it annoys me for a reason I can’t name. Mr. Kelly is that teacher who wears band shirts under his button-downs. All the artsy girls have crushes on him. They eat lunch in his classroom and titter over stories about his Burning Man days.
He’s still talking. “Does anyone have a story they’d like to tell?”
Everyone shifts in their seats, avoiding eye contact.
“It doesn’t have to be anything monumental,” Mr. Kelly says. “Even a fleeting moment can be profound.”
Silence. The old-fashioned clock hands tick away, counting our breaths.
“I’ll go,” Maggie Quinn says. Everyone turns toward her. Maggie blushes and picks at her sweater. “Ava was in my drama class freshman year. She started this game. Whenever Mrs. Duneski wasn’t looking, you’d point a finger gun at someone, and they had to fall to the ground. Like, even if they were holding coffee or something. We never told anyone about it. It was like a code? Mrs. Duneski thought there was some kind of fainting spell going around.”
A nervous laugh rustles through the room.
“Good, that’s good,” Mr. Kelly encourages. He’s got that artificially soft voice that’s supposed to be comforting.
More people chime in. Ava argued with someone about reparations for slavery at a Diversity Club meeting. Ava sang about mitosis to the tune of a Beyoncé song for a presentation in bio. Ava’s band played an awesome Prince cover at Devon Miller’s house party.
I squeeze my eyes shut. These stories are so particular, each one a distinct image of the girl I knew: Ava bold. Ava generous. Ava funny. But they’re all so peripheral. Ava’s stuck in the shadows at the edges of all our lives. That’s all she’ll ever get to be now.
I have a lot of the same kinds of memories. Ava dressed up as the Bride of Frankenstein one Halloween. Freshman year, in that intense, often heated class about activism we took together, she’d throw out a one-liner that was so smart, so sharp, that the entire class and Mrs. Bennett would burst out laughing. I remember the Ava the outside world saw and loved.
But I also remember other things. Like the warmth of her mouth. Like the warmth of her blood on my hands.
The softest touch on my forearm forces my eyes open. Cass looks at me in a way that is both a question and an assurance: Are you all right? You are all right.
I nod, but who knows if I’m reassuring her or myself?
The classroom door opens, and a sophomore walks in with a yellow slip in his hand. He hands it to Mr. Kelly and leaves.
Mr. Kelly reads the paper, then looks at me with those gentle English teacher eyes. “Flora? They want to see you in the guidance office.”
I should have expected it. No way they’d let me get through this day without some counselor wanting to poke and prod inside my head.
Out in the hall, my feet carry me in the wrong direction, away from the front office. I should go see the counselor. If I don’t, they’ll call my house and it’ll be a whole thing.