THERE WERE DECISIONS TO MAKE.
Green sweater? No, she’d worn that for her school picture.
Gray turtleneck? No, she’d borrowed it all the time. It probably even smelled like those mints she’d been obsessed with. I picked up the turtleneck and breathed in. Yes, mint. It was hard to put it down.
Today was going to be my first day back at school after four weeks away, and it was important, I thought, not to wear anything people might associate too closely with Anna. I’d made that mistake a few days after the funeral, when I’d worn a red sweater of hers and Mom immediately started crying when she saw it. I’d forgotten she’d knitted it for Anna—that they’d picked out the pattern and the wool together. There were land mines, I was discovering; land mines everywhere.
I ended up deciding on jeans, a black, long-sleeved T-shirt, and a navy hoodie. As far as I could remember, Anna had never borrowed them. They were absent of memories.
Which was good. Because today I didn’t want memories. Today I was going to talk to Lily. I was going to make her tell me what really happened. I had waited long enough.
ANNA AND I HAD BEEN packing our own lunches since we were nine, but this morning Mom insisted on packing one for me. She offered me a ride to school too, although I’d always taken the bus.
“It might be easier that way,” she said, her eyes searching mine. “And I can pick you up if you want? Leave work early?”
While I knew the offer was sincere, I couldn’t help feeling that it also served as a probe of my emotional state, like her and Dad’s suggestion that maybe I should speak with a counselor—an offer I’d politely and firmly declined. So I shook my head and told her I’d be fine.
I EXPERIENCED A PANG OF regret over my decision after climbing the steps of the bus. Standing beside the driver, I felt the weight of people looking at me, the weight of people not looking at me, pretending to be fascinated by something out their window or in their lap. I’d been naïve to think that what I wore might provide some shield, to think that my having the same face wouldn’t trump all other details.
I sank into the nearest empty seat I could find.
AT SCHOOL I KEPT MY head down as I navigated through the mass of bodies in the hallway. I’d almost reached my first class when I saw Anna’s locker.
Or, at least, the small amount of it visible behind a mountain of painted crosses, carnations, and stuffed animals in various shades of Pepto-Bismol piled in front of it.
I stopped and stared.
A sound rose from deep within my throat. A sound that was half sadness and half rage.
I reversed course.
ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, THE BATHROOM wasn’t a terrible place to spend the morning. The sterile white tile, the strong smell of cleaning products, the relative lack of people were all reassuring. It felt safe.
When lunchtime rolled around, I considered and then rejected heading to the cafeteria, largely because I had no idea where I’d sit once I got there. Anna and I had always eaten together—always had all our classes together too, until they’d enacted that moronic school policy last summer about siblings not being in the same classes together. I had always resented that policy, and now I truly hated it.
My hands began trembling at the thought of all the time we’d been forced apart. It took a while for my hands to steady enough to unwrap my sandwich and take a bite.
When I did, I almost spit it right back out again.
It had the right kind of bread, the right kind of mustard, and yet something was wrong. I tasted bread, mustard, lettuce, and…I peeled back the slices to check. Yes, bread, mustard, and lettuce. That was it. Mom had officially made me a mustard and lettuce sandwich.
If I hadn’t been so hungry, it might have been funny.
I DIDN’T LEAVE THE BATHROOM until calculus.
Just like last semester, Mr. Erickson had assigned seats, posting the list by the door. This time, Lily was slated to sit right in front of me. Perfect.
Yet when Mr. Erickson started class, Lily’s seat was still empty. For the entire period, I kept a steady eye on the door, expecting her to come in, mouthing a silent excuse to Mr. Erickson and flopping into her chair with a grand flourish. The door never opened. Lily never showed.
When the bell rang I slowly packed up my things, waiting for all the other kids to leave. Then I took a deep breath and went up to the front of the room, where Mr. Erickson was cleaning off the dry-erase board.
“Is Lily out sick?” I asked.
He turned, eraser in hand. His eyes went soft when he saw me. “Jess. I…I was so sorry to hear about—”
I cut him short. “Lily Stevens,” I said. “Is she out sick? Or did she drop this class?”
He opened his mouth and searched my face, like he was figuring out how to get the conversation back on track. Then he shook his head. “Neither,” he said. “I made the chart before I heard—Lily’s gone to live with her dad in Florida.”
“Florida?” I repeated, taken aback. Yet, Lily had always made a big deal out of her trips to Florida, like they were proof she was far more exotic and interesting than the rest of us. Given a chance to live there, it made sense that she’d jumped for it, even though it meant leaving her boyfriend and her friends behind.
“Yes,” Mr. Erickson said. “I guess her parents decided it would be better for her to go live with him for a while.”
I thought about Lily at the funeral, how she’d hung back in the group, how later she’d seen me coming and walked away. I’d thought she’d been overwhelmed, needed some time.
Apparently, I’d given her too much.