I RODE MY DEAD BROTHER’S bike down the concrete path that split the main lawn of Shadwell High. I felt like I was being watched by the stone lions on either side of the front steps. The cement was uneven beneath my tires, and every time I hit a bump the gun in my waistband jabbed my lower back.

I cut off the path and followed the grass to the bleachers, my legs still sore from the beating P.J. had given me. Pedaling on the lawn was harder than on the concrete, but I kept going.

I settled on the lowest bench, spreading my backpack open. Everything I touched was full of memory and regret: a sketch of my friend Daniel being crushed by a desk, some half-finished pencil drawings of Koryn, a root beer can with a bullet hole, and a trophy with WORLD’S GREATEST BROTHER stamped on a cheap metal plaque. But I reached past those things and found a folded-up piece of paper that said LIST OF PEOPLE WHO NEED TO BE SHOT.

I ran my fingers across the names that filled the soft, worn paper and tore it up into tiny pieces, sprinkling them in the grass. Guess I should’ve put my name on there first, I thought, and reached under my shirt for the Beretta.

I slid my fingers around the grip and put the barrel in my mouth. There was a lump in my throat as big as a bowling ball and a kick in my chest like the back legs of a mule. I shut my eyes and flexed my finger in the trigger guard, clamping my teeth so hard my gums ached. This was it, the moment I’d been waiting for, the chance to be just like Richie.

I imagined my brother in this same spot six years earlier. My hand shook and a tear squeezed out of my eye. Pain blossomed inside my head and I knew there was only one way to cut it out.

Pull the trigger.

But I couldn’t. I felt hopeless and useless, which was how I always ended up. But this time there was more. I felt angry and determined too, and I could do something about it, because I had all the power in the world clenched right between my fingers.

With a growing sense of purpose, I spit out the taste of gun-metal and slid the Beretta into my bag. I walked toward the school, holding my backpack so close that I felt my heart racing. As I reached for the front door and glanced back at the bleachers, I saw Richie’s bike on the grass with its front tire sticking up.

I went inside, knowing I’d never ride the bike again.