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Ilean over the sink, splash cold water onto my face, and attempt to catch my breath and dry my tears. I take a good, hard look at the girl in the mirror, studying her face and knowing that others will be studying it, too. How do the tears make me look? Do they make me look sad, or do they make me look guilty, remorseful? Because that’s the last thing I need. I’m not either of those things. Not for her, anyway.
I hate this. I hateher. I don’t know how to do this.
I feel a million eyes on me as I return to the gym. And no, I’m not paranoid, and it’s not my imagination. Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating in number, but they are watching me. It happens everywhere I go. At least half of them think I’m a murderer. A lot of them think I’m an accomplice. A few of them think I’m a victim, too.
They all know I’m a liar. I’m none of the other things.
I exhale slowly, attempting to steady my heart rate as I return to the sidelines. I pick up the white candle from my seat and prepareto join my teammates, lined up along the net in the middle of the court, but a hand on my shoulder stops me.
“Sorry, Ally,” Coach Davis says. “The family asked that you not be here for this.”
I guess that shouldn’t come as a surprise. It’s not like I want to face them. But…
“Where am I supposed to go? What am I supposed to do?”
“Go home, Ally.”
“What about the next match?”
“It’s just one game. I’ll see you at practice tomorrow,” she says, giving me what is supposed to be a reassuring grin. She seems sincere enough, at least.
I nod, set the candle back on the folding chair, pick up my duffle bag, and head toward the exit that would lead me back to the hallway. Instead, I turn and duck under the bleachers—to that old spot where I used to go when I felt lonely and needed to be alone. I set the duffle bag down on the ground as they lower the lights in the gym and lie down on my back, using the bag as a pillow. I look up at the letters carved into the wood, knowing they will hurt me and wanting them to.
“I don’t know where to start. Um…” Principal Coleman pauses, and I hear her suck in a breath, attempting to stifle a sob. “It’s been over four months since Darci Connelly was taken from her family and this community. Today, on what would have been Darci’s eighteenth birthday, we remember her as she lived. Darci was an amazing student and an exceptional friend.”
Was she, though?
“Darci had this force about her that was irresistible. She was the kind of person you were drawn to; she was a leader, a pillar of her community, her church, and her team. Those lucky enough to know her will always remember her for her energy, bright smile, passion, and drive to succeed. She was a force to be reckoned with, the kind of daughter who would have made any parent proud. Her death rocked our tiny island community to its very core, and she will be forever missed. Those who loved her are forever changed.”
What the hell happened to you, Darci?
More tears begin to leak from the corners of my eyes. I guess she was—at least for a while and at least as far as I knew—a friend.Myfriend.
I’m sorry, Darci. I don’t know what I could have done, but I’m sorry I didn’t do it. I’m sorry for whatever part I played in it.
“But today, we don’t want to focus on her tragic end. We want to celebrate her life. In honor of Darci’s memory and birthday, we will add her jersey to the gym wall and officially retire #11. It will be hers forever. No other Black Rock Eagle will wear the number. We ask for a few moments of silence while the jersey is placed in memoriam.”
The band plays something slow and sad while—I can only assume from my location—they hang Darci’s jersey on the wall. I trace the ‘A + D’ etched into the bleacher above me hard with the tip of my finger, feeling a splinter burrow into the skin when I do. I suck in a breath through my teeth and bring my hand back towardmy body, examining the shard of wood. It’s large enough that I can grasp it between my pointer finger and thumb and remove it with my other hand and deep enough that blood runs down it when I do.
I’m squeezing the tip of my finger, watching the blood drip down the side when a voice makes my heart stop.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he says.
All the air leaves my lungs. I look up at the face of the person who couldn’t possibly be standing there and feel that familiar ache in my chest that never quite goes away intensify until it becomes a crushing weight. I can’t moveorbreathe. Until I remember…
“You’re not real,” I tell him.
I push off the ground, throw my bag over my shoulder, and attempt to walk past the guy who isn’t real before a hand reaches out and grabs me by my throat.
“Are you sure about that?” he asks.
I can’t speak, so I don’t.
“I’ve never killed anyone before—but hey—you know that better than anyone, don’t you, Ally?”
Yes.
“But seeing you here now, likethis…really makes me want to.”
