The End or Something Like That Read Online Free PDF Page A

and right before I made contact, a chill ran through my body, a sharp, distinct chill. I took a breath and ran my finger over her cold dry lips.

• 17 •
    The day before she died, in earth science, Ms. Homeyer started crying.
    Me and Skeeter were sitting at our desks watching the Egypt video and doing word searches when it happened.
    And Ms. Homeyer was crying.
    Soft at first. Like a puppy.
    Then it got louder.
    Skeeter looked at me.
    I looked at him.
    â€œWhat should we do?” I whispered.
    â€œWe don’t do anything,” he said. Skeeter was smart like me. He stayed out of things.
    â€œWe don’t do anything?”
    â€œNo. What would we do?”
    We both looked at her.
    She had her head on her desk, and her shoulders were slumped.
    Everyone else in the class was texting or playing games on their phones or sleeping.
    â€œShe wouldn’t want us to do anything anyway,” he said.
    And I nodded. If I were mean and old and crying on my desk at school, I wouldn’t want someone like me to do something.
    I sat there and tried not to listen.
    Even when her crying turned to sobs, small hiccupy sobs, no one turned to look.
    I knew that something was wrong. Something was really wrong because Ms. Homeyer was not the type of lady to bawl at school. She usually just sat and watched soap operas on her computer.
    I didn’t want to do anything. I didn’t want to do anything at all, but I couldn’t not do anything.
    â€œI’m going to see if she’s okay,” I whispered.
    He looked up from his word search. If we did twenty word searches a week we got an A.
    â€œAre you serious?” Skeeter said.
    I swallowed. Was I serious? I turned and looked at her. I thought I was serious.
    â€œShe’s probably fine,” he said.
    I knew why he was saying it. I knew why I shouldn’t go over there.
    It was a bad idea.
    There are some teachers who you were supposed to talk to. Like Ms. Jensen, who has big boobs and used to be in Wicked in New York. Or Mr. Rencher, who brings pizza on Fridays and took his entire fifth period to Mission Impossible . There were teachers like that. Teachers I didn’t talk to but I should talk to.
    Then there were teachers like Ms. Homeyer.
    â€œI’ll just see,” I said.
    Skeeter nodded. “Okay.”
    The man on the video said, they put the brains and innards in small containers called blah blahs .
    Someone yelled, “What about the balls!”
    Everyone started laughing.
    Homeyer didn’t move, but the sobbing died down.
    Skeeter looked at me.
    I stood up. I had avoided things like talking to a teacher or getting out of my desk during class the entire year. I didn’t like people looking at me. Or hearing me. Or seeing me.
    But . . .
    I walked to her desk and stood there for a minute.
    She didn’t move.
    I looked at Skeeter. He shook his head.
    I turned back to her and whispered, “Ms. Homeyer?”
    She still didn’t move.
    I said it a little loud. “Ms. Homeyer?”
    Nothing.
    So I reached out, I reached out to touch her, even though I prefer not to touch anyone and especially not Ms. Homeyer. I reached out and poked her head.
    She jumped and yelled, “What?”
    The whole class turned.
    â€œWhat?” she said again. Why was I standing there? Why was I doing this?
    â€œUh,” I said. “Can I go to the bathroom?”
    She waved me off and put her head back on the desk.
    â€¢
    The next day she died.

• 18 •
    After I touched Ms. Dead Homeyer, the whole world was moving and everything went black and I saw angels and they gave me some lip gloss.
    Not really.
    What happened was we went into the chapel for the funeral.
    There were pews like at a church, but it felt different. The room was smaller and the walls were painted in the same mint color. And it was cramped. Like a mortuary dollhouse.
    There were two old men sitting in the back. A little old lady in the front