Page 37 of Goodbye Days

“This building is so fancy,” Jesmyn says. “It looks like it belongs in L.A. or something. My last school looked like it belonged in…Jackson, Tennessee.”

“Uh-huh,” I say.

“You totally weren’t listening,” she says.

“No, I was.”

“Liar.”

I take a deep breath. Dread has started to seep down my body—indigo-purple dye injected into my brain, dispersing through my bloodstream. “I was thinking about something else.”

“Them?”

I nod.

Her hand weighs light and warm on my shoulder, over my backpack strap. I’m vaguely aware of the people flowing around us into the building while we stand like sticks jammed in a creek bed. I hold my blazer wadded up in my hand. What I thought made me look cool and authorial, I now realize, makes me look funereal.

“You’re not alone, at least,” she says. “Neither am I. That’s something.”

“We should probably go in. It’s about to start.”

“Well. Shall we?” Jesmyn asks.

“We shall, I guess,” I say, as though she suggested walking onto the thin ice of a frozen lake.

The smell of gentle (art school parents can be pains in the ass) industrial cleaning chemicals assaults my nose. Soft green sage and cedar, rather than electric-cough-syrup cherry and neon-laboratory pine. It’s a smell I used to love because it signified the possibility and promise of a new year. I enjoyed first days of school. When I had Sauce Crew. The scent puts my memory of last year’s first day in sharper relief. And that heightens my sense of festering dread.

The entryway atrium is a hive of activity. There’s a perceptible hush as Jesmyn and I walk in. Like somebody turned a volume knob down an eighth of a turn. People try to continue their conversations, but I see the abrupt shift in topics as they eye me sidelong. On their faces: There’s Carver. What do we do? Do we talk to him? Do we sully ourselves by associating with him?

Then I spot Adair, flanked by three of her friends. She catches my eyes and stares jagged icicles at me. She mutters something to one of her friends. I imagine: Look, there’s Carver showing up on the first day of school with his dead best friend’s—my brother’s—girlfriend. I wonder if he even waited until my brother was ash before trying to move in.

I have a slow-motion sensation again, but this time it’s not intentional. It’s not funny. Blake isn’t slightly ahead of me, nudging the waistband of his pants downward.

I sense Jesmyn at my side. I’m vaguely aware she’s said something, but my ears only catch whispered snippets from the crowd. There he is….Seems okay….Haven’t heard…Eli’s girlfriend…Don’t know her name. Then I hear Adair clearly through the murmurs and mutters. “Great day to be alive, huh?” she says to one of her friends.

I suddenly can’t imagine even one moment of happiness here all year. An invisible anaconda winds around my chest, squeezing, crushing. My heart strains against the pressure. My throat clenches. A sheen of sweat forms on my forehead like an ice slick on a bridge. My mouth is parched.

And then, as if pushed by an unseen hand, my head turns involuntarily to the right. There, in a glass display case normally used to showcase student awards, paintings, drawings, photographs, and other creations, are photographs of Blake, Eli, and Mars against a black background. The words “In Memoriam” float spectral and silver above them. Look, see Carver’s creation. His magnum opus. Isn’t it funny that the one piece of writing he ever did that most impacted people’s lives was a lethal text that said, Where are you guys? Text me back.

“Carver?” Jesmyn says, sounding as if she’s distant from me and echoing down a cavernous marble corridor. She lightly touches my left upper arm. But I don’t acknowledge her because the following thoughts command my full attention: I need air. My picture should be there too. I need air. I will never be happy again. I need air. I’m going to jail. I need air. Adair hates me. I need air. Everybody thinks I’m moving in on Eli’s girlfriend. I need air. Everybody hates me. I need air.

My head heaves like I’m on the deck of a ship. Then, that falling-through-ice sensation. That watching-something-heavy-and-fragile-slide-off-a-shelf feeling. Dark spots congregate in my field of vision. I need air. I need air. Not here. Not now. Not this. Not in front of Jesmyn. Not in front of everyone. Not in front of anyone. But it’s too late to call it back. It built like some awful orgasm; once it tips there’s no return.

My blazer slips from my grasp. My backpack slides off and thumps on the floor. My laptop is inside, and I would be more concerned but for the minor fact that I cannot breathe I’m being buried alive I need to breathe I’m dying.

Jesmyn faces me now, both her hands on my arms. She’s blocking me from the crowd’s view. “Carver,” she’s whispering, “Carver, are you okay? Are you having a panic attack?” I see the horde gathering behind her.

I nod, short and quick, so as not to stir my vertigo. My legs go numb beneath me. My heart thunders. Nausea rises in my gut.

“Out,” I wheeze.

“Okay.” Jesmyn puts her arm around me and starts to help me turn to leave. As soon as I unroot from my spot, I lurch to the side and stumble a couple of steps, catching my toe. I slip from Jesmyn’s light grasp and careen into the wall. My head impacts with a fleshy thud directly below the photos of Sauce Crew. A collective gasp sweeps through the crowd. I imagine this would be embarrassing if my need for oxygen weren’t reigning supreme over my need for dignity. Blake would be proud as he looks down on me. A few people step tentatively forward, uneasy expressions on their faces. “Call Nurse Angie,” someone says. What a gift this must be for Adair.

Jesmyn kneels beside me. “I’m here. I’m here for you,” she whispers, her lips against my ear, the flower and fruit scent of her hair brushing my face.

She helps me to my unsteady feet and grabs my bag and blazer, and we stumble out the door. I keep my eyes down and try to ignore the slight murmur of disapproval that I’m not waiting for Nurse Angie. Jesmyn’s hand grips my upper arm. She has strong fingers, no doubt the result of exercising them for hours each day.

I stop for a second as my stomach heaves.