Page 50 of Goodbye Days

“Hey.” I wipe my eyes. “We need to drop this prescription off to be filled.”

“You’re brave for getting help.”

I blow out the breath I’m holding. “I’m not. I obsess about going to jail. I feel scared and shitty and sad and guilty nonstop.”

“I know. But you’ll improve. Do what Dr. Mendez says. Be honest with him. Take your meds.”

I hope she’s right. Maybe Dr. Mendez can help with the grief, but what about the guilt? Unless he has a time machine. And he sure can’t keep me out of jail.

Georgia drives me home after dropping off my prescription at Walgreens. I steel myself for my second first day—half day, I guess—of my senior year.

Even when we arrive home, it hasn’t started to storm. The sky feels like a hammer hanging above the earth on a frayed cord.

Blake, Mars, Eli, and I sat in the last couple of rows of Mr. McCullough’s History of Western Civilization class. It was the only class all four of us ever had at once. And whoever let us all be together in the same class should have had his or her ass fired. Mr. McCullough, bless his heart, was so utterly well-meaning, sincere, and humorless. He would endeavor to honestly answer any question, no matter how obviously frivolous. So we had been alternating asking a series of increasingly absurd, smartass questions, trying to break him, waste class time, and stay awake.

Did the Mesopotamians ever have tickle fights?

Was Alexander the Great named Alexander the Fine and Alexander the Pretty Awesome until he had some more victories under his belt? (And did he wear belts?)

Did the Mongols give wedgies to people they conquered?

Would Napoleon have been into motorcycles?

Etc., etc.

So Mars and I are next to each other and Blake and Eli have the two seats directly in front of us. They’re turned around, whispering while Mr. McCullough drones on about the Vikings.

“It’s your turn, Blade,” Eli says.

“Are you sure? I thought it was Mars’s turn.”

“No, remember? I asked if the pyramids had bathrooms.”

“Yeah, he’s right,” Blake says. “Your turn, Blade.”

“Okay, hang on. Gimme a sec.”

“The secret is not to overthink,” Blake says.

A few moments pass. “Okay, I got it,” I whisper.

I raise my hand.

Mr. McCullough peers over his glasses. “Carver?”

“Would the Vikings have been into jean shorts?”

Blake, Mars, and Eli soundlessly erupt. They have their heads down on their desks, their shoulders shaking, and their ribs heaving.

Mr. McCullough clears his throat. “Well, ah, now that’s an interesting question. It’s, ah, always intriguing to speculate about how ancient peoples would have adopted modern technologies. The, ah, Vikings would make clothing from linen and flax, and because of the scarcity of resources and difficulty in making clothing…” He goes on and on. The conclusion is yes, the Vikings probably would have been into jean shorts, at least in the summer, inasmuch as they were functional, durable pieces of clothing that allowed them freedom of movement to farm, sail, and fight.

But I’m not listening. I’m basking in watching my friends laugh. There doesn’t seem to be any consequence to anything we do.

It’s asking for trouble to indulge memory this way before I make my second attempt to enter NAA. At least I don’t stand and contemplate before entering. I put my head down and walk forward, ignoring the smiling faces of Blake, Eli, and Mars imploring me—all of us—to remember them. The few people I pass in the halls on the way to the cafeteria nod and smile awkwardly but mostly avoid eye contact.

Then I see Adair exiting the restroom, alone.

In fact, there’s no one in the hallway but us. Adair’s being alone is an exceedingly uncommon occurrence, so maybe I shouldn’t beat myself up for making the idiotic move of calling out her name on impulse, to take advantage of the moment, before thinking carefully about what I’m going to say. I don’t know where this impulse came from. Maybe I’m feeling up to doing some good listening after my visit with Dr. Mendez.