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them.
    It’s going to be a long semester.

9. A Way of Making Things Happen
     
    I need to look on the bright side. It’s the end of the day, and I haven’t been bullied by Gus. I haven’t been suspended. Poe hasn’t yelled at me anymore (though we haven’t spoken either). The only notable thing is the absence of the other member of the threesome that came up to me on the first day of school last October: Rachel. I figure she’s just taking an extra day or so coming back from vacationing in Colorado.
    I’m waiting by my locker, a little nervous that Newt forgot what he said at lunch, when I see him coming down the hallway.
    “Ready?” he asks as he doesn’t slow down.
    I follow him outside, where it’s now brutally cold. The snow hasn’t gone anywhere. It seems to have settled in, determined and suffocating.
    “Where’re we going?” I ask.
    “Come on,” he says.
    I know that, like me, he doesn’t have a license. Only one of us is sixteen, however.
    Loser.
    Maybe there’s a car waiting for us. Maybe it’s Jared. This will be our first meeting of the secret underground something-or-other. We’ll meet at Jared’s cabin and come up with crazy theories and eat lots of really bad food and maybe play some video games.
    Instead, we walk up to a station wagon waiting for us. Or, as it turns out, waiting for Newt. The man behind the wheel looks way too old to be Newt’s father.
    “Come on, get in,” Newt says.
    When I’m in the backseat, he introduces me to the driver. “Grandpa, this is one of my buddies. Sam.”
    For a second, I wonder if his grandfather is called Sam. But then the driver calls out my name, or what he thinks is my name, with a cordial Southern accent.
    “Where are you from, Sam?”
    Newt glances back at me just to give me some bit of a heads-up.
    “Oh, I’m, uh, from up north. But now I live just outside of town.”
    “That right? Whereabouts up north?”
    “New York,” I say. It’s just the first thing out of my mouth. I know I don’t sound like I’m from New York. I’m trying to think of more of the story when Newt’s grandfather starts talking to him about his day.
    “Sometimes Grandpa picks me up when my parents can’t,” Newt tells me.
    The more I listen to his grandfather, the more he sounds like any ordinary old guy. Slower and more reflective, without much of a care in the world.
    Soon I find myself in Newt’s basement, just like the other time I went over to his house to try and learn a few things. His grandfather is somewhere upstairs, babysitting or maybe just sticking around to see what he can find in the pantry.
    “Do you know what happened to her?”
    Newt shakes his head. The door to the basement is closed, and he must know that nobody is around. He’s finally not telling me to hush.
    “I know what happened,” I say.
    I’m like a convict who wants to confess to the judge and jury and get the crime off his chest.
    “Chris.”
    “What?”
    “Just—just listen. The less you tell me, the less I know.”
    I don’t quite get that logic. “What’s that mean?”
    “You need to tell people who can do something about it.”
    “But—why’d you bring me here?”
    “I know that Jocelyn is gone. That she moved.”
    “Newt, she died!”
    He doesn’t give me a white-faced, shocked glance. He knows.
    This whole freaking town knows.
    “She died. I saw her die. She died right in front of me. You don’t get it. You don’t understand.”
    I take a deep breath and wait.
    “The official word is that Jocelyn and her aunt moved.”
    “She didn’t move,” I say.
    “I’m just telling you this so you know.”
    I guess if you’ve been living in the insanity that is Solitary for so long, you’d be able to appear as nonchalant as Newt.
    “The stuff that happened with Wade—people believe that her aunt had enough and disappeared.”
    “People really believe that?”
    “Not everybody knows the truth, Chris. Not everybody around here is—”
    “Crazy?” I