Page 54 of Goodbye Days

The rain pounds down in sideways torrents. The wind driving it folds the trees almost in half.

“Whoa,” she whispers.

But I ignore the storm and marvel at her rapture. “It’s like I’m witnessing someone experiencing something holy.”

Her eyes glimmer. “You are,” she murmurs, not turning from the window. “I love the energy of storms. They remind me of what powerful forces there are out there.”

Another thunderous rumble. I wonder if you can hear thunderstorms in prison.

“If you envision nature as a piece of music, then storms are the movements in that piece,” she says.

My session with Dr. Mendez has put me in a listening mood, so I listen without saying anything.

“Do you think I’m psycho?” she asks. It’s obvious she doesn’t care if I do.

“No. I mean, don’t forget that I took you to a park to chase squirrels, so I can’t really talk.”

The storm gathers in intensity. It’s noon but dusklike outside. Another flash of lightning, a peal of thunder, and the lights flicker.

I stand close to her and turn my gaze outward. “Speaking of chasing squirrels, do you remember when we did that and I told you about how Blake’s grandma suggested that we have a goodbye day for Blake?”

She turns from the window to me. “I remember.”

“I talked with my therapist about that. Asked if I should do it. He left it up to me.”

“You gonna?”

“Might help.”

“Then you probably should.”

A flash of lightning illuminates the side of her face nearest the window. I suddenly become acutely aware of how alive and breathing I am. And I also have the momentary sense—a flash—that even though Mars, Blake, and Eli aren’t here anymore to screw around with in Mr. McCullough’s history class, now I have something different, which is watching a thunderstorm with Jesmyn Holder, and maybe that’s okay. I try to grab onto the feeling, but it’s too ephemeral to hold and it disappears into the ether.

Jesmyn gives me a half smile and turns to face the storm.

After school, I watch her play. I’ve never sat nearer to someone doing something better. She sways and murmurs to herself while her fingers glide over the keys like wings. She pauses midphrase to pencil in notes on her music.

If Adair should happen to peek in and see, it will only make things worse for both Jesmyn and me.

I should be at McKay’s right now, asking for my job back and putting in some hours after school, to pay for my legal defense.

Instead, I watch her play. If I could leave my body and see myself, I likely would resemble her when she was watching the storm. As if I’m in the presence of something hallowed and true. Like I’m witness to someone’s hidden heart, to some secret ritual. For a while I forget myself and everything I carry. The grief. The guilt. The fear.

Whatever mysteries may exist in the universe, or within the recesses of my own mind, what Eli saw in her is not among them.

I have a Facebook account for the sole purpose of corresponding with my grandma in Ireland. I made her get one because she wouldn’t stop forwarding me dumb emails. I get a notification that I have a message from her. As I go to read it, I see the little “recommended pages” bar on the side of my page.

This time, among the usuals, there’s a new recommended page: Prosecute Carver Briggs.

My heart explodes against my ribs like a rabid animal at the bars of a cage. There’s not much on the page yet. It has a brief account of the Accident. It has a few statistics on driving fatalities related to texting. It’s shared the main article from the Tennessean about the Accident. The post has five likes. Two are from Adair’s friends. The page itself has thirty-seven likes.

I close my laptop without reading my grandma’s message, get up from my desk, and start pacing. I shut my blinds for some reason. I feel naked and vulnerable.

The thing is that none of the articles about the Accident have identified me by name. This page does. Now any future employer, any school that Googles me, will see this. And that’s if I have future employers or schools and I’m not in prison.

I guess part of me assumed that someday I wouldn’t be stained by the death of my friends.

What a silly thing to assume.