Of Poseidon Read Online Free PDF Page B

way the town’s only funeral home smelled the same at his service as it did for hers.
    I wonder how many empty place settings a person can look at before they begin to crack.
    Across the table, Mom slides a key toward my plate, hiding her expression behind her coffee cup. “Feeling up to driving today?”
    I’m surprised she doesn’t wrap it up with “hint, hint.” Or maybe a banner that reads, YOU NEED TO START DOING NORMAL THINGS, LIKE DRIVING YOURSELF AROUND.
    I nod. Chew. Stare at the key. Chew some more. Grab the key, shove it in my pocket. Take another bite. My mouth should be on fire, but I taste nothing. The milk should be cold, but it’s like tap water. The only thing that burns is the key in my pocket, daring me to touch it. I set the dishes in the sink, grab my backpack, and head for the garage. Alone.
    * * *
    As long as no one hugs me, I will be fine. I walk down a hall of Middle Point High School, nodding at the kids I’ve known since elementary school. Most of them have enough sense to just throw a sympathetic glance in my direction. Some talk to me anyway, but nothing too dangerous, just neutral things like “Good morning” and “I think we have third period together.” Even Mark Baker, Middle Point’s quarterback-slash-deity, gives me a supportive smile through the school-colored war paint smeared on his face. Any other day, I’d be texting Chloe to inform her that the Mark Baker acknowledged my existence. But the whole reason I don’t is the same reason he acknowledged me in the first place: Chloe is dead.
    They all lost their track star. Their bragging rights. In a few weeks, they won’t even realize something’s missing. They’ll just move on. Forget about Chloe.
    I shake my head but know it’s true. A few years ago, a freshman riding on the back of her older brother’s motorcycle died when he ran a stop sign and careened into a car. Flowers and cards were taped to her locker, the student body held a candlelit vigil in the football stadium, and the class president spoke at a special memorial the school arranged for her. Today, I can’t for the life of me remember her name. She was in a few of the same clubs as me, some classes, too. I can see her face clearly. But I can’t remember her name.
    I test the combo to my new locker. It opens, third try. I stare into it, feeling as hollow as it looks. The hall takes awhile to clear out, but I wait until it does. When it is quiet, when the classroom doors ease closed, when the hall stops smelling like perfume and cologne, I slam the locker shut as hard as I can. And it feels good.
    Because I am late to class, I’m forced to sit up front. The back row is ideal for spacing out or for texting, but I have no one to text. Today, I could space out on a roller coaster, so the front row is as good a seat as any. I glance around the room as Mr. Pinner passes out a class-rule sheet. Model airplanes hang by strings from the ceiling, timelines stripe the walls, and black-and-white pictures of the Egyptian pyramids adorn a nearby information board. History used to be my favorite class, but in view of my new vendetta against time, I’m just not feeling it.
    Mr. Pinner is on Rule No. 3 when he looks up and to the back of the class. “Can I help you? Surely you’re not already violating Rule Numero Uno! Anybody remember that one?”
    “Arrive on time,” chimes in a do-gooder from the back.
    “Is this world history?” the presumable violator asks. His voice is even, confident, nothing like it should be, given that he’s violated Numero Uno. I hear a few people shuffle in their chairs, probably to get a look at him.
    “The one and only,” says Mr. Pinner. “Unless, of course, you mean the one down the hall.” He chuckles at his joke.
    “Is this, or is this not, world history?” the student asks again.
    A rash of whispers breaks out, and I smile at the timeline I’m looking at. Mr. Pinner clears his throat. “Didn’t you hear me the first time?