Eric Marin listened to all this speculation but remained silent. Though he was maintaining an A minus average, he did not speak in Mr. Linklater’s freshman social studies class unless explicitly called on and never joined in on the conversations that dominated pre- and postclass. Not that anyone ever tried to bring him in.
Eric had joined Ashby Middle School in the seventh grade following the death of his father and his mother’s decision to move their family to the middle of nowhere. By seventh grade, friendships had already been established, cliques hardened into concrete. There was no room for a “random” like Eric Marin. That’s what kids like him were called—randoms—since they joined the school at random times, usually due to unstable family lives: divorces, relocation, abuse. Even prison, like Tony Vargas’s father. Eric had enrolled at Ashby alone, and for the most part, he’d remained that way.
He was friendly with Penny Wallace, but they weren’t quite friends. Penny was the stepdaughter of Leslie Tally, John Serrano’s partner on the Ashby police force. Since Eric’s mom had begun . . . seeing . . . Detective John Serrano, Penny’s and Eric’s families had become friendly. Tally’s wife, Claire Wallace, had a husband and three kids before she married Tally. Eric’s mom had a husband before she met John Serrano. Both families had been blown up: one by divorce, the other by tragedy. Eric couldn’t stand their loud, boisterous family dinners. He felt like a shard from a broken glass being glued together with other pieces that didn’t fit.
But Penny . . . Penny was always kind to him. Even when he didn’t return that kindness. There was a reason he couldn’t allow himself to get close to her. He could never tell her the truth.
“I know what you’ve been through,” she’d said to him once. “I can’t say I know what it’s like to lose a parent like you did, but if you ever want to talk, I’m a pretty good listener.”
Eric had thanked her. And he’d meant it. But never took her up on it. He had to keep a distance between them. For her own good.
John Serrano wasn’t a bad guy. Eric’s mom was happy around him, he liked fantasy and science fiction, and he could keep up with Eric when they talked about books and movies. Since Eric’s father had died, his mom had mostly kept to herself. And Eric knew why. She didn’t trust anyone. Couldn’t trust anyone. Sometimes Eric wondered if his mom wanted John Serrano around because she genuinely cared for him or if she just liked having another gun in the house.
The classroom door opened, and the gossip stopped. Eric could feel his pulse thumping in his temples. Principal Tamara Alvi entered, talking softly on a cell phone. Her eyes were red, and mascara ran in rivulets down her cheeks.
Principal Alvi put her phone in the pocket of her gray blazer, took a deep breath, and faced the classroom. She was about five two with short legs and deep-set eyes. She was in her early fifties, usually well put together, but looked like she’d aged ten years that morning.
“Where’s Mr. Linklater?” came a voice from the back of the room.
Principal Alvi nodded, as though acknowledging the question but unsure how to answer it.
“At this point,” Ms. Alvi said, “you are all young adults, and many of you have dealt with tremendously difficult situations in your lives. These days, information spreads as fast as a text message. It’s important you hear this from me and not on social media. Mr. Linklater is both friend and family to our school, its faculty, and its students. Today I have the terrible responsibility to inform you that Mr. Linklater has passed away.”
Several students audibly gasped. A few began to cry. Eric felt a lump rise in his throat. Passed away? he thought. Healthy-looking fortysomethings don’t just pass away. He knew Alvi was either lying or withholding the truth.
“We have informed your parents and guardians about this terrible tragedy,” Ms. Alvi said, her voice shaking. “We will have grief counselors on hand for any student who would like to speak with them. No doubt you will hear more about Mr. Linklater’s passing. All I ask is that you treat him with the same respect he treated all of you.”
“How did he die?” Cory Stuber shouted. Cory was an asshole. Everyone knew it, but because he had an enormous summer home right on Lake Springfield and a key to his parents’ liquor cabinet, nobody wanted to piss him off. Eric hated Cory’s asshole voice, his asshole wavy blond hair, and the way that even though he was an asshole, girls still smiled at him.
Alvi shook her head. “His death was . . . unnatural. That’s all I can say right now. You may see members of the Ashby Police Department around school over the next few days. If any of them try to speak with you, please let me or your parents or guardians know before talking to them. We will have a schoolwide assembly tomorrow morning.”
“Oh, so he was definitely killed,” Cory Stuber said.
“You’re a soulless shithead,” Adaline Wylie chided.
“Don’t be so naive,” Cory snapped back. “Do you think cops would be here if he choked on a chicken bone? So how did Linklater kick the bucket?”
Eric felt flames rise up through his gut and into his shoulders. He clenched his fists and said, “Shut the hell up, Cory.”
“Why?” Cory said with a smug laugh. “Did you kill him?”
“Enough, Cory,” Penny yelled.
“Why? Are you gonna call one of your two moms on me?”
“That’s enough, Mr. Stuber,” Alvi said. The anger that always bubbled in Eric’s gut was now inching up his neck, roiling inside of him. “There is no room right now for hate or anger. We all loved Mr. Linklater, and we will get through this. Together.”
Principal Alvi left the classroom. Once she was gone, the students slowly got up and filed out. Eric listened to the whispers, the theories, the gossip. He went to his locker and removed his copy of Discovering Our Past: A History of the United States from his backpack. The spine was new, barely cracked. Most students were forced to buy used copies of the curriculum textbooks, but Eric’s mother always made sure his were brand new. New books. New clothes. New everything. He felt embarrassed reading from his pristine copy when his classmates read from books with pages falling out. He never asked his mother where the money came from.
Back when his father was alive, his parents had rarely argued. But when they did, it was always about money. And the walls were so thin he could hear every word. How they could ever afford college for two. If they’d be stuck in the same house forever. One morning Eric had asked them about it. “If you love each other,” he’d said, “why do you yell at each other?”
They’d both kissed him and hugged him, and his father had said, “Parents fight. Your mom and I fight because we care about you and about our family. But I love her more than I did yesterday.” And Eric knew he meant it.
But after their father died, the Marin family had never wanted for anything. New computers. New textbooks. New clothes every season. Things they’d never had before. Eric wondered how they suddenly had money, but he never asked. He had a feeling the answer would make him angry.
As he put his books into his backpack, Eric knew Penny Wallace had come up behind him. He could always smell her before he saw her. Her deodorant had a sweet scent, like too much sugar poured into too little lemon juice. He liked that he could tell when she was close; it made him feel like a detective or an FBI agent. He closed his locker, spun the lock, and turned around to see Penny there.