I DIDN’T EVEN PRETEND TO pay attention in any of my classes the next day. I didn’t pretend to take notes, didn’t look toward the front of the room.

I waited until the end of the day to confront Mr. Matthews, hoping to catch him alone, before track. When I arrived at his classroom, though, a girl was still there talking to him. She looked annoyed and Mr. Matthews looked frustrated. They both kept pointing to the same piece of paper.

I stayed outside until the girl left, her expression dark. Then I went in, closing the door quietly behind me.

He was walking around to the back of his desk, shaking his head.

“Mr. Matthews?”

His head jerked up, his face irritated, and then he saw me. For once he looked relieved to see me—he probably expected it to be that girl again, coming back for round two.

“Oh, hi,” he said, sinking into his chair. “I’m sorry—I didn’t hear you come in. I guess I’m a bit off-balance—it’s amazing how hard people will fight for the grade they want, even if it isn’t the grade they deserve. Makes you wish they put that same amount of energy and passion into writing the paper to begin with.”

I stood rooted in front of his desk. He turned a little pink.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that—it wasn’t very professional. What I can help you with?”

I took a deep breath and cleared my throat. His casual chatting had thrown me off. I’d expected to be able to get right to the point.

Another breath. I could do this.

“I know it was you Anna was going to see that night.”

He stared at me blankly, like he didn’t know what I meant. It was almost convincing.

I continued. “I know you were involved with her.”

His eyes widened and he straightened up in his chair. “Wait,” he said. “What?”

I shook my head. I couldn’t backtrack—I needed to get through this, and I’d begun to shake. “I want to know if she was with you that night. I want to know if—”

“Involved? Are you serious?”

I nodded forcefully. “I don’t want to get you in any trouble. I don’t care about that.” I clamped my hand on my arm to try to stop the shaking.

He began to stammer. “Jesus Christ, I would never— I can’t believe you’d actually think—”

“Stop it,” I said. “Stop. I know you were. I know. I heard you.”

“What are you talking about? You heard what?”

“I heard you say it. At your house. On the phone. How you didn’t want anyone to know, how they wouldn’t understand—”

He was shaking his head, standing up behind his desk. I kept going.

“—how her death changed everything. I heard it. I know.”

“Oh, Jesus. It’s not…” He didn’t seem to know what to say. The effort of even those few words seemed to push the air out of him, force him back into his chair. He looked dazed.

“I just want to know,” I said. “I want you to admit it. I need to know the truth. I need you to tell me what happened that night. Did she come over? Did she get drunk? What happened?”

He held his head in his hands and didn’t respond.

I hadn’t expected this. I’d expected denial, maybe anger, but not this retreat. I began to get desperate.

“Please. Tell me.” My voice was getting louder. I needed him to say something. To look at me and tell me something. Anything.

He shook his head, his eyes focused on the papers on his desk.

“Did you love her?” I didn’t know I was going to ask that. But once I had, it seemed like the only real question there was. The only thing that could give any meaning to what had happened.

“Jess—”

The second time I almost screamed it. “Did you love her?”

He looked up. In his eyes, I saw horror and sadness. Also pity.

You have no right to pity me, I thought. No right. I’m fine. You’re the one who— You’re the one…

I tried to say something else, anything else, to regain control. What came out was a huge, broken sob.

And then I fled.