“You look like crap.”

I sat down at the computer next to Denny’s, not even looking at him as I typed in my school password and asked, “How would you know?”

“I don’t. But it seems like a safe guess.”

It was the day after the anniversary—the day after I found out about the McHales’ book—and Denny and I had a study period. Some seniors preferred to spend the hour in the library, but most of us flocked to the computer lab, where we didn’t so much study as play games on the handful of websites the school hadn’t managed to block from the server yet.

This is the new computer lab. After the shooting, the old computer lab was emptied out and turned into an overly large storage room, where no one but the occasional unlucky faculty member would have to venture. There was a big fundraiser and a new computer lab was built, tacked somewhat awkwardly onto the opposite side of the building. It was nice, though. There’d been enough donations that the school was even able to buy thirty new computers. That was a big deal in a small, rural high school like ours. The ones we’d had before were ancient, slow, and prone to randomly shutting down without warning.

Denny, in particular, was a fan. The new computers were compatible with updated, better screen-reader software, which made getting work done—or, as often was the case, playing games—much easier.

“Let’s be honest,” I said. “The only one here looking good is Glitter.”

The Labrador looked up when I said her name. She was lying next to Denny’s chair, her leash tethered to the leg of his desk. She gave a couple of quick tail wags before lowering her head back to the carpet.

“Yeah, well.” Denny pulled a set of earbuds from his pocket and began untangling them. “Unlike you and me, she slept like a baby last night. And snored. Did I tell you she snores? Loudly?”

“Maybe it just sounds loud to you because you’re blind and have better hearing than the rest of us,” I said, knowing it was the kind of thing that would get under his skin. Over the past couple years, Denny has told me dozens of stories about ridiculous things people said to him or believed about blind people. The idea that he had superhero-like hearing seems to be the most common misconception.

“Ha-ha,” he said. “You want to be an actress, right? Stick with drama. Comedy isn’t your thing. Speaking of that, though.” He’d just gotten the earbuds untangled and was plugging them into his computer so he could use the screen reader. “I have a favor to ask.”

“A favor that involves me being an actress?”

“Not that. About me being blind. And … the anniversary. I was going to ask you yesterday, but it just …” He shrugged. He had one earbud in now, while the other dangled in midair. His fingers zoomed across the keyboard, though the monitor was blank. He always turned it off so our classmates wouldn’t look over his shoulder while he worked. I didn’t blame him. Our classmates were nosy, and neither of us liked when people stood too close behind us.

“What’s up?” I asked, already wary. I was trying really hard not to think about the McHales or Sarah or the book. I wanted to keep my head down, pretend none of this was happening, and make it to graduation, when I could get out of this town, move across the country, and make a living being someone else. Talking about yesterday’s anniversary wasn’t going to help with that.

I know I was being selfish. I was also lying to myself. If the McHales really published that book about Sarah, there would be no escape. For me or anyone else.

I wondered if Denny had heard the news. He didn’t know the truth about Sarah and Kellie. No one did, except me, but I imagined he probably wasn’t keen on the shooting being all over the media again. And God forbid a movie actually got made …

“I’m applying for scholarships,” he said, snapping me out of my thought spiral. “This one I’m working on requires a letter, explaining to the committee why I deserve the money. I talked to Mr. Halpern in the guidance office, and he thinks I should write about—”

“The shooting.”

“Ding ding.”

“Well …” I sighed. “He’s not wrong. Being a VCHS survivor would definitely get the committee’s attention.” I’d done it on a couple of scholarships myself, and I knew exactly why Denny seemed hesitant.

“Yeah, and I’d be a fool not to use it.” He grimaced. “I feel gross even saying that. But anyway. I wrote the letter and it … went in an unexpected direction.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“I think it’s good, actually,” he said. “It’s not what they’ll be expecting, but I think it’s something I needed to write. I don’t know. I sound ridiculous. But I was going to see if you’d read it over to make sure it’s not too … accusatory?”

“You’re worried that your letter to a scholarship committee is accusatory?”

“You’ll see what I mean when you read it,” he said. “If you will. And I hope you will because Miles isn’t exactly my top choice for a proofreader.”

“Hey, now,” I said. “He’s going to pass Senior English this semester with at least a C.”

“Only took him two tries.”

We ignored the real reason Denny wasn’t asking Miles to read the letter. Miles has never liked talking about the shooting. I mean, it’s not as if the rest of us are eager to chat about it over snacks or something, but it has always been different with him. Any mention of the details of that day and he just shut down completely. And we didn’t push it.

“Deanne said she’d read it, too, but I’d really like the perspective of … you know. One of us.”

Deanne is Denny’s older sister. She was a senior when the shooting happened, the same age as Ashley. She’d been in a classroom under lockdown, on the other side of the school, so I understood what Denny meant. Deanne was great. She’d give good feedback. But she wasn’t really there. She wasn’t one of us.

“All right,” I said, trying not to let the reluctance leak through my words. “Email it to me. I’ll read it tonight.”

“Thank you, Lee. You’re the best.” He popped in the other earbud and went back to typing. “Maybe I should’ve led with that instead of telling you that you looked like crap, huh?”

“Maybe.”

A minute later, the letter was in my inbox. I went ahead and opened the document since I had nothing better to do and, no offense to Denny, I wanted to get this over with. It was … not what I expected.

Denny’s letter changed everything for me. It was the catalyst. The thing that made me do all of this. You can decide whether that’s a good thing or not.