still going to school. Everything’s the same as always here, just not for me. The school office rearranged Caitlin’s schedule so she seems like a figment of my imagination: no classes together, barely passing in the hallway. God, I miss her. I try sometimes to see her, making it look accidental. Like today. I go down where my locker was B.C. (Before Caitlin), on the first floor by the Fruitopia machine. She’s there with all my ex-friends, laughing with Tom and Saint O’Connor, her blond hair barely visible between their massive forms. Saint is Key’s star quarterback and also Tom’s new best friend. What could he have said to make Caitlin laugh?
When I walk by, she stops laughing. Her eyes meet mine, but she makes the type of sound you’d get seeing a palmetto bug or some other vermin.
Tom sees me too. His eyes are the same as always, and for a second, I think he’ll smile, say hello. Like, maybe things will just get back to normal. No way. Tom slips a hand onto Caitlin’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Cat. Saint and I—we won’t let him hurt you.” The three of them glide as one toward the science wing.
I walk the other way, through the throng of what used to be my friends. They ignore me. After everything happened with Caitlin, me hitting her, the restraining order, everyone took Caitlin’s side. It didn’t surprise me, except for Tom. Tom, who knew me better than anyone, who should have stood by me. I glance at Tom’s back as they walk away, his fingers still on Caitlin’s shoulder. How could he just toss a ten-year friendship over this? He wouldn’t even talk about it. I guess it’s like they say: When the going gets tough … your best friend flakes on you. So, who needs him? I should be glad he’s not around.
I walk into English class. Heads turn. It’s a small group, all honor students, and usually they’re too busy yakking about the next Brain Bowl or Debate Team bagel sale to notice much. Today, silence. Every eye turns, in synch, from my face to the blackboard. I look, too, then turn away. Someone’s written:
GO NICK! BEAT YOUR GIRLFRIEND!
I walk, seconds multiplying like amoebas, to my desk. Elsa, Caitlin’s best friend, glares at me from under her beret—she has the nerve to wear that and look down on me ? The rest just stare. Amy Patterson, who’s had a crush on me since fifth grade, pretends to be fascinated with her grammar book. Trust me, she’s faking it. But that’s the closest anyone comes to taking my side.
The desks in here are arranged in a U shape so Miss Higgins won’t have to navigate rows in her motorized wheelchair. My seat faces the board. I shove my backpack under the chair, grip my desk sides, and stare at the green board until the letters blur and it’s all black. I hear a voice.
“I wrote it, Nick. Why don’t you hit me?” It’s Elsa.
And another girl, a new girl whose name I don’t know:
“I wrote it, Nick. Teach me a lesson.”
Derek Wayne, from across the room:
“I wrote it. Or do you only hit women?”
I want to bolt. Last week, Mario said if you think you’re about to lose it, take a walk. I can’t. I hold my desk like a life raft. If I go ballistic, they’ll think they’re right. Be cool . Mario’s deep-breathing exercises and his rules rise, unbidden, in my mind. Cool . I think of icebergs, of ski trips with Tom’s family when I’d refused to wear long underwear. I think of Leo. I think of breathing underwater. Finally, through the blur of thoughts and anger, I see Miss Higgins wheel through the doorway. A second later, she notices the blackboard. She sees, but it’s too high for her to erase. She faces us.
“Who wrote this?” She scrutinizes us, acknowledging me before moving on. I keep breathing. Higgins tries again.
“Will the creative writer please identify him- or herself.”
No one. Her eyes scan the room and finally land on Elsa. “Please erase it, Elsa.”
Elsa hesitates, starts to speak.
I say, “Leave