My wild flight from school is cut short by the sight of a security officer. The old Skye would have flown past, not caring about the tornado of consequences that would follow. Sure, I’d earn detention the next day. Sure, my parents would get a call. Sure, Luka would sigh and explain why I shouldn’t do things like that. But I’m upset, damn it, and I’m entitled to a little drama.

When I stop on seeing the guard, it isn’t maturity. It’s shame.

I slink back into the school and revisit my new bestie: the girls’ bathroom. I stand in the stall and take out my phone to text Mae.

You told me Jesse wouldn’t be here.

There’s a whine in my words, and I rewrite the text.

Jesse’s here. I thought he wouldn’t be.

That’s better. More mature. An implied request for information rather than an outright accusation. Yet I still don’t send it. I read the words, and I want to erase them and write Hey, Mae? You knew Jesse was here, didn’t you? You lied to force me to face him. You know what I have to say to that? Insert appropriate emoji.

I turn off my phone and stare at the screen and wish I could call someone. I think of Gran. I think of Mom, before her problems. I think of Luka, and I know I’m not supposed to, but sometimes I can’t help it. My defensive wall doesn’t fly up fast enough.

I think of Jesse, too. Because, once upon a time, that was him. It was only a blip—six months of my now sixteen years, but it was exactly the right time for a friend like Jesse. Mom was getting sick, and Luka was struggling to keep the household running, and Gran was so far away and, let’s face it, at thirteen, I didn’t want to complain to any of them. I wanted to text the guy who’d send back “That sucks” and “Wanna talk?” along with whatever cute animal gif he found to cheer me up. I remember that, and then I think of the guy I just saw in math class, and I want to cry. I just want to cry.

Instead, I sit on the toilet and do my physics homework. When anyone comes in, I stop, so they don’t hear my pen scratching against paper.

I hang out in the restroom until I hear the bell. As I walk, I mentally picture my route, like an invisible GPS display.

For the quickest route, turn left at the next intersection and continue fifty feet—

“Miss Gilchrist?”

I stop midstep and turn. My VP—Mr. Vaughn—is bearing down on me.

“A word, please, Miss Gilchrist,” he says.

Then he walks right past me. I could play dumb, but I know I’m meant to walk with him. Mr. Vaughn is well over six feet tall, with gangly giraffe legs, and I need to jog to keep up, my shoes slapping the linoleum. The sound echoes like a drum roll, and everything slows as kids turn to watch me being escorted by the VP.

I’m trying to look straight ahead, but the crash of something hitting a locker makes me jump. It’s just a guy goofing off. Behind him, though, I catch a glimpse of Jesse. He’s taking something out of his locker, but I know he’s seen me. He shuts the locker and turns the other way, careful to keep his back to me. He starts cutting through a cluster of kids.

“Mr. Mandal,” Mr. Vaughn calls.

Jesse keeps moving.

“Mr. Mandal,” Mr. Vaughn says, louder.

Jesse slowly pivots. Doesn’t say a word. Just turns.

“Would you like to join us, Mr. Mandal?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

A few kids snicker.

Mr. Vaughn’s color rises. “That wasn’t an invitation.”

Jesse shrugs, says, “Sounded like one.”

More kids snicker. Mr. Vaughn glowers, beckons Jesse over, and then resumes walking.

I want to tell Jesse that I’m sorry. Not about his brother. The time for that has passed. I’m sorry if I’ve gotten Jesse in trouble. I get the sense that’s nothing new, and I’m still trying to wrap my head around that. How could he have changed so much?

Well, it starts with having his brother murdered in a school shooting…

Jesse’s walking on the opposite side of Mr. Vaughn. Deliberately staying on the other side. I hope he’ll sneak a glance my way so I can mouth an apology. He doesn’t.

We pass the Wall of Fame outside the office—a corridor of photos and trophies. There’s a section for North Hampton, stuff moved here after the school shut down. Mr. Vaughn knuckle-taps the glass as we pass, and he says, “Fine boy. An all-around fine boy.” Jesse tenses, and the look that passes through his eyes is one I do recognize from my Jesse, and I know who Mr. Vaughn is referring to even before I glance over.

Inside the display is a photo of Jesse’s brother, Jamil, surrounded by athletic awards. A memory flashes. I’m walking past the park with Jesse, and Jamil’s shooting hoops. The ball slams into Jesse hard enough to knock him to one knee.

I grab the ball, and Jamil strolls over, saying, “Still can’t catch, bro?” Then he looks me up and down, in a way that makes me want to hug the ball to my chest. “Your friend here doesn’t have that problem. Maybe she could teach you, in exchange for helping her with her homework.”

Jesse says, “Skye doesn’t need homework help,” and Jamil smirks and says, “Then why’s she hanging out with you?” and I whip the ball back, knocking him off-balance when he catches it, but he only grins and winks at me as he saunters back to the court.

No, Jamil Mandal was not a fine boy. I shouldn’t say that about the dead, but it’s true.

I try again to catch Jesse’s eye, to offer some sympathy. Then I realize that’s entirely the wrong response from entirely the wrong person.

We get to the main office, and Mr. Vaughn waves me into a side room. It’s not much bigger than a broom closet, with a single chair, like a movie interrogation chamber, and as I sit, I expect him to follow and loom over me, saying, We have ways to make you talk.

Instead, he stays in the main office, leaving the door between us half open as he says, “I hear you refused to sit near Miss Gilchrist.”

“I asked to be allowed to sit elsewhere.”

It takes me a moment to realize it’s Jesse speaking. Until now, I’ve only heard a few words from him, more grunts than sentences. His voice is deep, unfamiliar.

“Ms. Distaff tells me it was a little more forceful than asking to be seated elsewhere. You disrupted the class. You caused Miss Gilchrist to run out, and now I need to discipline her for that.”

I’m at the doorway before I can stop myself. “It’s not Jesse’s fault. Ms. Distaff didn’t know our history. It was awkward, and I’ve had a long first day, and I overreacted. I take responsibility.”

“No one is asking you to, Miss Gilchrist. I am well aware of the history, as you put it, and my advice to Mr. Mandal?” He turns to Jesse. “Get over it. Miss Gilchrist had nothing to do with what happened to your brother, and by reacting the way you did, you give fodder to all those students who want to be outraged for no reason other than that they enjoy the adrenaline rush. I would like you to lead by example, Mr. Mandal. I know that isn’t your natural bent. Your brother was the leader.”

Jesse tenses.

Mr. Vaughn plows on. “But I am going to ask you to lead in this by not treating Miss Gilchrist like she was the one holding that gun.”

I cringe. I understand what Mr. Vaughn’s saying, but the way he says it…

I back up quickly, close the door and sit down to wait my turn.