After a few minutes, he stood up, stretching his arms above his head as if to break some tension there. “I should probably head back to class before someone puts out an APB,” he said. “See you later, Jess.”
“See you later,” I echoed.
—
I WENT BACK TO ENGLISH a few minutes before the bell rang. I didn’t explain myself, didn’t mouth an apology to Ms. Wristel; I simply sat down at my desk and started taking notes. Not very good notes, not the kind of thorough, verbatim ones I used to take. Because in truth, I wasn’t paying close attention. I was thinking about Nick, about him sitting with Brian and Charlie at the funeral. About how before, I hadn’t understood why he’d come.
—
WHEN I GOT HOME, MOM was leaning against the kitchen wall, one hand holding her phone, the other gently pressed to her temple.
“Thank you,” I heard her say into the phone. “I appreciate that.”
She nodded and pressed her hand to her head a fraction harder, like she was trying to forestall a headache.
“Okay,” she said. “Well, I guess that’s what we expected. I guess it makes sense.”
I dropped my backpack on the couch and headed into the kitchen to get some water. Mom started when I walked in. “Hi, sweetheart,” she said, covering the receiver. “I’ll take this upstairs. Back in a minute.”
I shrugged and grabbed a glass from the cupboard.
“Yes, I’m still here,” I heard her say as she headed up the stairs.
The water came out of the tap incredibly cold, just how I liked it—the cold giving it almost a mineral flavor, the way I imagined granite might taste. Anna once wrote a story after I told her that, a story about a girl who turned to rock and ice after drinking from a mysterious well. I’d asked her if the girl was supposed to be me. She’d said no. She’d paused first.
I was reading in the living room when Mom came back downstairs. “Sorry about that,” she said.
“It’s fine,” I said as I flipped the page. “Who was it?”
“Hmmm?” she said, opening the fridge door and starting to poke around inside. “Oh, that was Stan’s Furniture. There was an issue with the table I picked out, so it’s going to take a bit longer than we expected.”
“That’s too bad,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “It is.” Her voice held more emotion than I’d expected, given that we were talking about a kitchen table. Maybe, I thought, I wasn’t the only one who should be taking part in structured activities.
ON THE FIRST DAY OF track, I was horrified to discover there were a number of girls on the team who were extremely comfortable changing around other people. They were unselfconscious to a degree I simply could not understand—pausing, shirt off, bra off, to expound on nonurgent topics like their plans for the evening, or what fast-food places they were applying for work at. I held my bag of clothes tight to my chest and selected a locker as close as possible to the lone private changing room.
The curtain of the changing room was drawn, and a pair of bare feet was visible underneath, so I sat and waited on the bench in front of my locker. As I waited, I put my bag on my lap and pretended to search through it in order to avoid looking at my half-naked peers. My track uniform hadn’t arrived yet, so my bag contained a pair of sweatpants and a loose T-shirt—a vastly superior outfit to the actual uniform, a sleeveless shirt and track shorts that ended a scant two inches below the crotch. Given how cold it still was outside, the tininess of the uniform seemed both indecent and inhumane.
I only looked up from my bag when I heard the clatter of the changing-room curtain being pulled back. Lauren stepped out and started when she saw me.
“What are you doing here?” she asked as I stood up. Her tone indicated that the surprise wasn’t a pleasant one. Then she glanced down, took in my bag. Something shifted in her face. “Oh, are those Anna’s things? I’d wondered when someone was going to come get them.”
“No, these are my things,” I told her. “I joined track.” I paused. “Who would I ask about getting access to Anna’s locker? Mr. Matthews?”
“No way, none of the male teachers are allowed in here—that’d be lawsuit city.”
“Okay, who, then?”
“Find one of the female coaches—they’ll be able to pull the locker codes and open it for you. If you want to do it after practice, then someone’s usually still around doing grading in their office.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Do you know which locker was hers?”
Lauren sighed, as if she’d felt she’d already been more helpful than necessary. Then she relented and pointed. “That one,” she said. I followed her finger, and there it was—the locker right next to the one I’d chosen.
—
OUTSIDE, THE WEATHER WAS OVERCAST and cold. It had rained earlier in the day, and the red track glistened against the wet grass, which was muddy and patchy as it began its gradual recovery from winter.
“Welcome back, you guys,” Mr. Matthews said as everyone huddled together on the bleachers. “I know the weather isn’t the best, but thank you for coming out. We’re going to have a great season this year.”
The words seemed like the right thing to say, the sort of cheery “we’re all in this together” speech that coaches are supposed to give, but the tone was subdued and the smile on his face didn’t reach his eyes. Of course, the damp cold meant no one exactly seemed enthusiastic. Well, no one except Sarah, who’d been weirdly bright-eyed from the moment she’d whipped her hair back into a ponytail in the locker room.
Mr. Matthews coaxed us onto the field, where he started us off with some laps. After that, we
