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My dad glances up at me again, and smiles. “I could eat,” he answers. “I’ll come down to the kitchen in a minute.”
I slip from the prep room and close the door behind me in relief, leaning against it for a second with my eyes closed as I try to un-see Mr. Elliott’s blank face. The last time I’d seen it, it’d been red and taut as he yelled at us during gym. Seeing it so empty and devoid of life is just flat-out jarring.
“You okay?”
My mother is concerned about me still. Always. I nod, because I don’t want to worry her. She’s always worried about me, it seems.
“Yeah. It’s just…he was nice to me.”
That night, after dinner, I have ear-buds in while I do Chemistry homework, but I still hear my parents bickering in the next room.
“I don’t like it,” my mother says. “We’re surrounded by too much death here. It’s not good for her.”
“She needs to prepare for it,” my father says, and his words make me pause, my fingers icy as they hold my pencil.
“Perhaps,” my mother answers, and she sounds so sad. “But not yet. She doesn’t need to face it yet.”
There is silence and I wonder if my father is comforting her, as I so often see him doing. He holds her close and murmurs into her red hair, and his voice is low. It always works.
In a minute, though, they continue.
“As much as I hate it, I think we should spend more time at Whitley. The atmosphere is quiet there. It’s good for Calla’s mind.” My mom is quiet, her voice thin.
My father doesn’t like the idea, I can tell. “And you’ll have to spend more time with Richard? Laura, please. The reason we came here was to get away. We have to participate, but we don’t have to be with them every day of our lives.”
Participate in what? I don’t even realize I’d whispered out loud, until I receive an answer.
“I know,” a voice says, and my head snaps up.
In the corner of my room, a boy stands, his hood pulled up and shadows covering his face. He’s tall, he’s slender, he’s familiar.
I don’t feel afraid, although I probably should.
“Who are you?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Does it matter?”
“Yes,” I answer firmly, a
nd I think he smiles. I can barely make out the curve of a lip.
“It doesn’t matter because I know what they’re talking about, and you don’t.”
“I’ve seen you before,” I say slowly. “But where?”
He doesn’t answer and instead shakes his head.
“Your teacher,” he says, and his words are soft and enunciated. “You can change it.”
“Change what?”
“It,” the boy says impatiently. “You can change it. If you try.”
“I’m crazy, aren’t I?” I whisper, and I’m surprised when he shakes he hooded head.
“No, they just want you to think so.”
This perplexes me, and I want to ask more, but I blink and he’s gone and of course I’m crazy.
