Shades of Simon Gray Read Online Free PDF Page A

hand on Simon’s shoulder, looking as friendly as the local Good Humor man. “Loosen up,” Kyle said. “I doubt Gray’s doing a whole lot of talking right now.”
    Danny glanced away, bothered by the look in Kyle’s eyes. There was nothing Danny could say. He noddedagain and slipped through the door into the classroom. But the weight of Kyle’s hand on his shoulder would stay with him for the rest of the morning.

    In homeroom Liz Shapiro was frantically trying to finish the last few problems of her math homework when Principal Schroder’s voice crackled through the static over the PA system. It filled the room. The voice announced that Simon Gray had been in a car accident, was in a coma, would need their prayers.
    Liz wanted to stand up and scream right back at the speaker above the door that it was a big lie. Simon Gray lived two doors down from her. He was her closest friend. She knew him. He was a
good
driver. A
careful
driver. A
responsible
person. Instead, she stared, silent and unmoving, at the back of Kevin Zimmerman’s head, at his girlfriend’s initials, S.C., cleanly shaved into his partial buzz cut, the tips of the letters slightly hidden by the longer hair growing on top of his head. She had seen this sight every morning for most of her junior year and couldn’t have cared less if Kevin Zimmerman let Sara Cohen shave her initials on his head three times a week. But today it seemed important to understand why.
    If Simon let her, would she put her initials on him, like personal property? Like sewing a name tag on gym shorts, or on clothes you took to camp? That was pure fantasy and she knew it. Simon was her best friend, had been since they were both in Pampers. She could not recall a time when he hadn’t been a part of her life.
    Liz’s face grew damp with sweat as she realized too late she was about to vomit. She lunged for the door, ignoring Mr. Prendergast’s protests from the front of the room, making it halfway down the hall before she threw up. The locker felt icy cold against her sweaty clothes as she slid to the floor. Her cheek rested against the cool metal. The pool of vomit was only inches from the tips of her fingers. Her head throbbed as her mind screamed over and over, Please, God, not Simon.
    Saturday afternoon—only two days before—they had been sitting on the dark green couch in her family room, watching a rented video of
Forbidden Planet
. The two of them were crazy about old movies. And this was one of Simon’s favorites. It had been the first day of the April heat wave and the air in the room was stifling, although every window in the house was open.
    Liz was supposed to be working on a project her history teacher, Mrs. Rosen, had assigned the second day of the marking period, back in February. Everyone in the class had to select an event in American history—either local, regional, or national—and find evidence to show discrepancies or distortions in present-day accounts, evidence that, when shared with the class—everyone had to present their findings in both a written and an oral report—might change their perception of the event. “History,” Mrs. Rosen had explained as she gazed out at them over the tops of her half-moon glasses, “is subjective. But there is a central truth at the core of every event. I want you to come as close to finding that truth as possible.” And that, she had told the class, was their goal.
    The paper was due at the end of the marking period, less than two weeks away, and would make up a third of their grades. Liz had chosen the hanging of Jessup Wildemere as her topic. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Local legend. A bloody murder. Intriguing subject. She’d spent a few weeks on it but had become discouraged when she couldn’t find much that was new or interesting.
    Even though the paper loomed in the back of her mind like a dark shadow, Liz tried not to think about it. She was in a silly mood and couldn’t resist making