Page 114 of Goodbye Days

At school, a few people nod as we pass in the halls. Their expressions convey a sort of: I’m not sure how to congratulate you for not being prosecuted, but I’m more comfortable acknowledging you now that you’re not legally a murderer.

My AP English lit teacher pulls me aside after class and tells me how glad she is for my news. My school’s been fairly hands-off throughout this whole thing—pretty much just telling me when the cops were there to seize my phone and laptop. I guess they were afraid to tell me to go talk to the school counselor lest I involve him in a murder investigation.

Somehow all this makes me even more depressed. So I’m already in a bad state by my solitary lunchtime. As the lunch hour ends, I realize I’ve allowed myself the glowing ember of hope that Jesmyn would break down and come find me and at least tell me she was glad I wasn’t going to prison.

But maybe she’s not glad. Maybe that’s the depth of her hatred for me now.

I go to my locker to grab my books for my next class. I open it and a fine plume of gray-black ash assaults my face as it’s sucked out by the door opening. I sneeze and blink it from my watering eyes.

I’m pretty sure it’s not Eli. This smells spicy and woodsy. The sort of wood that would be burned in a fireplace in a fancy home.

The Bauers have a fireplace.

The inside of my locker is covered in ash. The ingenuity to pull this off—someone must have blown it in through the door vents somehow.

I see a small, cream-colored card lying on the floor of the locker. I pick it up and ash falls from it. It’s not some crappy notecard. It has an expensive heft to it. In a clean, elegant typeface, it says: MURDERER.

I can sense Adair’s eyes, and the eyes of others, scorching my back. I’m staring into my begrimed locker like it contains the answer to a question, holding the card, and fantasizing about climbing in and shutting the door behind me. Waiting there until I can leave without seeing her.

“Dude, what happened?” someone asks. I ignore him and carefully, deliberately place the card in my shirt pocket. Over my heart. I hope she saw me do it.

With my eyes on the floor, I walk out of the building into the parking lot, jump into my car, and leave. I’ve never ditched before. You don’t go to the trouble of getting into NAA only to skip class.

There comes a point when you realize that you can never make someone like you, or even stop hating you, and the only defense you have left is the ultimate one—not giving a shit anymore. But that requires the not giving of a shit, and I’m not there yet. So I’m defenseless.

When I get home, I go to the bathroom and look in the mirror.

There is still ash in my hair.

There is still ash on my face.

“So, since we last spoke, I’ve found myself thinking about the hapless Jiminy Turdsworth and the cat restaurant he started with the proceeds of the safety device he stole from the trailer of Billy Scruggs’s truck.” Dr. Mendez has a mischievous glint in his eyes from behind his steel frames.

“Sorry about the name. I was mad,” I mumble. I’m suddenly embarrassed about my outburst in our last session.

Dr. Mendez waves it off. “It had a certain, say, scatological elegance. You don’t think my being an adult man with a psychiatry degree means I don’t find poop funny anymore?”

“No.”

“How have you been?”

“Really bad.”

Waiting.

I sigh. “I, um.” I study the floor. “Messed things up with Jesmyn. Maybe permanently.”

“Want to tell me what happened?”

“Not especially.”

That even, temperate gaze from Dr. Mendez.

“…But you’re going to just sit there not saying anything until I do.”

He shrugs. Probably.

“Well. We went to a concert together. She and Eli were supposed to go. Everything was fine. She played me some of her music on the way. It was amazing. She looked so beautiful. I was wearing some new clothes my sister helped me pick out. And then…I started getting jealous, I guess. Of how she loves musicians. Of Eli. Of…who knows. At the end of the night—”