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I go back to school finally on Monday. I expected to have a million make-up assignments, but by third period, I only have two, and all of my teachers are treating me with a little extra tenderness. I hate being here. I have to admit that part of my plan to dump school was because I’m a coward and don’t want to face all of these people again, especially Derrick Jessop. Thankfully he is not a person who is regularly in my daily rounds, so I am quite surprised when I see him standing by my locker between third and fourth period. I almost turn to go the other way and just forget about getting my text from my locker, but he sees me coming down the hall and stands up from his lean, holding my eyes. I quickly look down, hoping he will move on, but when I glance back, he is still there—actually, worse, he is moving toward me. A well of panic starts to rise, and I stop in the flow of kids and start to back away, starting to turn, going to run. He already hit me with his truck. Oh God, oh God, oh God.
“Wait,” he says, seeing the panic, I am sure, as it rises in my eyes, noticing I am backing away, noticing that I am preparing for flight. Somebody knocks into the back of me, and I skid to a stop against the lockers on the other side of the hall. I close my eyes as the hallway begins to spin, and I can’t catch my breath. “Gurl,” a voice says, and I shake my head. “Shhhh,” the voice says, and I try to place it in my rising panic but can’t.
The flow of kids past me has gone, and a hand is resting on my elbow. “You okay?” I open my eyes and Derrick Jessop stands there, his hand outstretched, tethering me. My eyes are suddenly blurred, and tears flood my vision. I bring my hand up to cover my mouth, lowering my face.
The image of Lydia Dollman and her young son Terry flash in my mind, her pretty, pretty face and her beautiful son. “I’m so sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry.” I am crying for real now, shuddering gasps, and Derrick is saying something that I can’t understand, and then he wraps his arms around me. I feel his own chest shudder, and I realize then that it is not only my sobs rocketing into the hallway but his as well. I wrap my arms around his waist. We are nothing to each other. We are not friends. We do not know each other. My mother killed his sister and his nephew, and he ran into me with his truck. We are nothing to each other but we are both, in this moment, completely broken by the tragedies of our lives.
The bell for fourth period rings, and the halls have emptied out. We are alone. Slowly my panic and shame come under some control, and I feel his shuddering stop. He still holds me, and I say again, “I’m so sorry,” and nearly break into tears again. I feel him nod, and I start to draw back, disengaging myself from him, him from me. I do not look in his face. I can’t.
“Hey.” His voice is quiet, almost hoarse.
“I’m so sorry.” I pause. “I didn’t know exactly what happened.” I knew. I knew she killed that young man’s somebody, his somebodies, but I hadn’t known that she was a somebody to other people, too.
“Not your fault.” I can tell he is straining to speak, to say these words. “I’m sorry, too. That I hit you, I mean. I was kind of crazy.”
I shake my head, refusing to accept that he owes me an apology. “No.”
“Hey, look at me.” I glance up but immediately drop my eyes again. I cannot face him. “Alison. You didn’t do this.” He puts his hands on both sides of my face, wiping the streaks of tears from my cheeks with his thumbs. It is a very gentle, kind touch, and I almost resume my crying but bite hard on my lip to keep myself together. “I’ve talked to the police. I know it really was an accident, just an accident. It wasn’t your mom’s fault. It was just a fucking horrible accident.” His voice quavers, and I bring my hands up to his.
“I don’t know that,” I say, and my chin puckers and I look away.
“It’s true,” he says. He squeezes my hands, and I just shake my head. She wasn’t sober. I know she wasn’t. She is never sober, never not high, never not impaired. I hate her so much. “Regardless. It was definitely not your fault.” I press my lips together, trying to wring myself out.
“I’m so sorry,” I say again, almost inaudible.
“I know. Me, too. But that’s not why I was waiting at your locker.” I nod, waiting to find out exactly why he was waiting for me at my locker. “So, I feel really bad about running into you. Are you okay from that?”
“I’m fine, Derrick. I’m fine.” Is he seriously asking me if I am okay? I’m still alive. “Not dead,” as he had said. Seems like that’s more than his sister and nephew can say. “Can I ask you something?” He nods. “Your brother-in-law, is he okay?”
His looks away from me, down the hall, and says, “I don’t know.”
“I saw him at the hospital that night.” I shudder. “I can’t stop seeing him.”
“He told me. He told me there was a girl there that night. I assumed it was you.” He is pulling himself together, and another thought seems to come into his head, “I saw your house burnt. What the hell?”
I puff out air. “Yeah, that was a really bad day.”
“It’s been a pretty bad week. Or two.”
“It’s been a pretty bad life.” I catch myself too late to bring the words back. “Sorry.” I draw in a long breath and start pulling all my bricks back into line, rebuilding my wall from where it lays scattered.
“No. I get it. I just wanted . . .” he runs his hand through is hair, “I don’t know. Damn. I just wanted to tell you I was sorry about hitting you and shit.” Then, he blurts, “I bought you a new bike.”
“What?” His words register, and I frown up at him. “What?”
“Yeah, well, I just felt like shit. I think I hit you on purpose, and I could have killed you like that. I mean I don’t know, or maybe not. I don’t know, man. I was just so fucking crazy right then. I don’t know. Maybe not, but then what I said to you after. That was shitty, too.” His face is red with embarrassment or frustration.
“You didn’t do anything. I wasn’t looking. I’m fine.” I start to reach down to gather my notebook and textbooks from the floor, but he reaches them first. He hands them to me, and I turn away. This is the last person on Earth from whom I would ever accept charity.
“Alison. I’m trying to make this right.” His voice is so quiet, so hurt.
I turn back to him and say from where I stand, “We can’t make this right, Derrick. I can never give you back your sister and her son. This can never be right. It may have been an accident, but she is still here and they are not. She gives nothing, nothing, to the world, and they did. She is here and they are not. We can never make that right. You don’t owe me anything, Derrick. It’s very nice that you think you do, but what my family took from yours can never be fixed.” I give him a sad, broken smile, turn, and jog down the hall.
I do not go to class. I step out into the warm spring day and leave school.