When school gets out,
I seem to be unable to rise up
off my chair.
Shock?
Rachel saunters by me, then says,
“You look awful!”
“Because I’m guilty! It’s my fault!
I didn’t ask him enough questions.
I thought he and his father were getting along.
My mother’s right about me,”
I moan.
Rachel takes my elbow, helps me up.
“Your job wasn’t to save him.
You can barely save yourself.”
I’m wobbly.
My stomach gurgles loudly.
“Jeez! You should probably come with me
and Gino,” she says, so softly and kindly
that the region of my heart comes alive.
“And, anyway, Mr. O’Neill might recover,”
she adds. “He might be fine.”
In a daze me and my wretched self
follow Rachel out the door.