In the hallway at school the next morning, Zoe gives me a kiss in front of everyone. “I have rehearsal after school so I can’t drive you home,” she says. “But don’t forget, I’m picking you up at seven for dinner.”
She kisses me again quickly, this time on the cheek, and heads off. I watch her walk away, and all I can do is think about the next time I get to see her.
“Where were you last night?”
I turn and find Alana.
“I texted you, like, fifty times,” she says, shaking her head. “Don’t worry, I handed out the postcards without you.”
“Oh shit, I forgot. I’m really sorry,” I say. “I must have put the wrong date in my phone.”
“What is your deal, Evan?”
I look around. I’d prefer to have this conversation in private.
“The fundraising deadline is a week from now,” Alana says, “and I feel like you are a thousand miles away. You haven’t made any new videos. You haven’t posted on the blog in, like, forever.”
“Well, I’ve been busy.”
“Busy with what?” Alana asks.
Living? Trying to?
“I was doing, you know, different things,” I say. “How much do we have left to raise?”
“Oh. Not much. Just seventeen thousand dollars.”
Seventeen. Thousand. Okay, that’s a lot of dollars. “Look, I’m sure we’ll get there. We just need to, you know, keep people engaged.”
“Exactly,” she says, relieved that I’m finally making sense. “That’s why I’m putting the emails between you and Connor online.”
“Wait. What? What do you mean?” Seawater rushes into my tank. “How do you know about the emails?”
“Mrs. Murphy sent them to me,” Alana says. “Just a few, but she said there are a ton more. That you, like, keep bringing her new ones.”
“You can’t do that.”
She throws her head back dramatically. “I can’t?”
“It’s just, those conversations, they’re private.”
“Um, not anymore. They belong to everyone now. I mean, that’s the whole point. And the more private they are, the better. That’s what people want to see. We have a responsibility to our community to show them everything, to tell them the truth.”
The truth? Which truth? I answer all their emails and tell them about my life. I even uploaded a selfie. Haven’t I shown enough? What more does “our community” want from me?
Her wristwatch beeps. “I have to run, but I’m going to be sending you a list of questions to answer. Some of the emails don’t make sense.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Well, for example, you said that the first time you went to the orchard was the day you broke your arm. But then, in other emails, you talk about going there together since, like, last November.”
That’s easy to clear up. You see, I’ve never actually been to the orchard. I am not who you think I am, Alana.
“Those are probably just typos,” I say. “I mean, they’re just emails. I think you’re reading into them, like, way too much.”
Her old smile returns in full force. “You can explain it all when I send you the questions. You know how much the community loves hearing from you.”
She walks away. I check my surroundings, trying to gauge what kind of scene we just made. Turns out, no one was paying attention. Everyone—walking, typing, locker-stuffing—is too consumed with their own lives to care about mine. They’ve got their own girlfriends and boyfriends and best friends and parents (two of them) and projects (without a capital P). Most of them have totally forgotten about Connor Murphy. They might have contributed a few dollars to our orchard campaign, but it’s not because they ever cared about keeping Connor’s memory alive. They were just doing what everyone else is doing. The same thing I’m trying to do: get through the day.
As I’m heading to homeroom, I text Jared.
Dude.
I was going to text you.
My parents are out of town this weekend.
The last time they used the liquor cabinet was Rosh Hashanah ’97.
We can drink whatever we want.
I can’t this weekend.
I have seventeen thousand dollars to raise.
Remember the Connor Project?
You’re supposed to be working on it?
Remember you told me you didn’t need my help?
I didn’t tell you to do nothing.
I know you think this is a joke, but it isn’t.
It’s important.
For Connor.
Yes, for Connor.
“It’s interesting you say that.”
I look up from my phone. It’s Jared, in the flesh.
“Because,” Jared says, pocketing his phone, “when you really stop and think about it, Connor being dead is pretty much the best thing that’s ever happened to you, isn’t it?”
Even for Jared, that’s a horrible thing to think, let alone speak aloud. “Why would you say that?”
“What’s poppin’, Evan?” says a passerby.
“Well, think about it,” Jared says. “People at school actually talk to you now. You’re almost popular, which is, like, miracle of miracles. If Connor hadn’t died, you think that guy just now would’ve known your name? He wouldn’t have. No one would.”
That’s true. I can’t deny it. But that’s not what this is about. It never has been. “I don’t care if people at school know who I am. I don’t care about any of that. All I ever wanted was to help the Murphys.”
“Help the Murphys,” Jared repeats, like it’s a company slogan. “You keep saying that.”
“Don’t be an asshole.”
“You don’t be an asshole,” he says, and storms off.
The bell rings, signaling the official start of the school day. It might as well be ending a boxing match. I feel like I’ve already gone twelve rounds.