Mrs. Patterson nods with practiced compassion. She's seen this before—students returning after family deaths, accidents, violence that intrudes on the carefully protectedbubble of adolescent concerns. She knows the script as well as I do.
"It's completely normal to feel overwhelmed," she says, consulting the file open on her desk. "You've been through something no child should have to experience. Are you still seeing Dr. Walsh?"
Dr. Walsh. The trauma therapist Janine found, a soft-spoken woman who specializes in helping victims of violence. Twice a week, I sit in her office and talk about grief stages and coping mechanisms while she takes notes on my progress toward psychological recovery.
"Yes. She's helping." Another lie, smooth as silk. Because Dr. Walsh can't help with what I'm actually experiencing. She can't address the disconnect I feel from everything that used to matter, the way normal teenage concerns seem impossibly trivial now. She definitely can't discuss the letters I've been exchanging with the man who killed my father, or the way those letters are the only thing that feels real anymore.
"That's wonderful. And your aunt? How are things at home?"
"Good. Really good. Janine's been amazing." This, at least, is true. Janine has created a haven of safety and kindness that I never knew was possible. But even her genuine care feels distant somehow, filtered through the performance I have to maintain every waking moment.
Mrs. Patterson makes a note. "I know your teachers have been understanding about assignment extensions, but we should start thinking about getting you back on track academically. College applications are coming up junior year, and with your grades…."
She trails off, tactful enough not to mention that my GPA has always been exceptional, that I'm the kind of student teachers point to as proof that academic excellence can overcome any background. What she doesn't know is that I've been maintaining those grades through sheer force of will, completing assignments like I'm solving puzzles rather than learning anything meaningful.
"I'll catch up," I say, because that's what she needs to hear. "I just need a little more time."
Time. The word tastes strange in my mouth, because time has become elastic and unreliable since that night in our kitchen. Minutes stretch like hours during classes where teachers discuss literature and history and mathematics as if these subjects contain universal truths. Hours compress into moments when I'm alone with Kent's letters, reading and rereading his careful observations about justice and necessity and the weight of carrying truth that others can't handle.
The bell rings, releasing me from Mrs. Patterson's gentle interrogation. I gather my backpack and navigate the surge of students changing classes, noting how they part around me like water around a stone. Not deliberately—most of them don't even realize they're doing it. But there's something about me now that registers as different, Other, someone who's seen things that don't belong in their protected world.
AP History is next. I slide into my usual seat in the back corner, positioning myself where I can see the entire classroom while maintaining the illusion of engagement. Mr. Rodriguez is discussing the Cold War, the careful balance of mutually assured destruction that kept superpowers from annihilating each other for decades.
"Who can explain the concept of deterrence?" he asks, scanning the room for volunteers.
Sarah Morrison raises her hand—popular, blonde, the kind of girl who's never questioned whether the world is fundamentally just. "It's when the threat of consequences prevents someone from taking action they might otherwise take."
"Excellent. And why was this effective?"
"Because both sides understood that attacking would lead to their own destruction."
I find myself thinking about my father, about the careful system of deterrence he created in our house. The threat of violence keeping me silent about what he did in private. The knowledge that speaking out would bring consequences worse than enduring whatever he chose to inflict. A perfect balance of power maintained through fear and isolation.
Until Kent disrupted the balance.
"Miss Jenkins?" Mr. Rodriguez's voice cuts through my thoughts. "Do you have something to add?"
Every face in the classroom turns toward me, and I realize I've been staring out the window for God knows how long. Twenty-something pairs of eyes studying me with mixtures of curiosity and sympathy, waiting to see if the traumatized girl will break down in public.
"Sorry," I say, arranging my features into something approaching attention. "I was just thinking about unintended consequences."
"Interesting point. Care to elaborate?"
The weight of their attention presses against me like a physical force. These children—because that's what they are, children playing at understanding the world—want me to perform my tragedy for their entertainment. They want to feelsophisticated and compassionate by witnessing my carefully managed breakdown.
"Sometimes deterrence fails," I say, keeping my voice steady. "Sometimes the threat of consequences isn't enough to prevent necessary action."
Mr. Rodriguez nods encouragingly, probably thinking I'm making some profound observation about international relations. The other students shift in their seats, uncomfortable with the edge they hear in my voice but not quite understanding why.
"And what happens then?" he asks.
I meet his eyes directly, feeling something cold and certain settling in my chest. "Then someone has to be willing to accept the consequences of doing what needs to be done."
The silence that follows is loaded with implications no one in this room except me can fully grasp. Because they're still playing the game of academic discussion, treating violence and justice as abstract concepts to be analyzed rather than lived realities that shape every moment of existence.
They have no idea what it means to watch someone die and feel grateful for their death.
The rest of class passes in a blur of note-taking and discussion I don't participate in. When the bell rings, I'm first out the door, needing the anonymity of crowded hallways to escape the weight of being observed and analyzed.
