On my lucky days, I successfully tricked my brain into believing Riley was only temporarily away. I convinced myself that her death and the eleven months that followed were just a detailed and interminable nightmare.

I would then wake up with the unshakable certitude that when I opened my eyes, I would find her smiling face looking down at me.

On my less fortunate days, like today, my brain was much smarter than my defensive instinct to deny reality.

The occasional not-so-subtle whispers about my sister during class made denial even less feasible.

"I mean, can you blame her?" I heard a girl on my left mumble to her friend.

I was much better at overhearing irrelevant conversations than focusing on the teacher. Arson had tried to teach me to tune out trivial sentences that were not addressed to me but somehow, those were the ones that I registered and processed.

"She's been through so much," the girl continued, visibly more concerned about my life than her psychology grade. "School would be the last thing on my mind if my sister had died. Riley was so cool, though. I still can't believe it. Such a shame."

Hearing strangers mention my sister's name no longer made me flinch or glance towards the door full of anticipation because now I knew that she wouldn't be there.

"I don't see it." I heard someone whisper over my shoulder.

I held on to my seat, startled, and glanced at where the voice came from.

Matthew was leaning towards my chair, openly trying to catch a glimpse of my book.

"What?" I asked, letting go of the book I had been holding.

He leaned back into his seat on my right and shifted to face me. He was wearing a bright yellow plaid shirt that drew in and retained perplexed eyes on him like leeches to blood. He appeared not to notice all the stares or if he did, he had grown too accustomed to them to react.

"You've been staring at this book ever since class started," he said, spinning a pencil around his fingers. "There's nothing particularly interesting about the cover."

"I'm just a little distracted today." I told him but 'distracted' was definitely not the most effective word to describe how I felt right now.

His eyebrows rose slightly when he registered the last word and he chuckled to himself. As he leaned back into his chair's backrest, he placed his hands behind his head and closed his eyes like class was the last thing on his mind.

He displayed a warm and inviting personality but although his playful expressions and attitude reminded me of Arson's, there was something phony about his demeanor. His smiles never quite reached his eyes. They retained a somber tint no matter how wide a smile he wore.

I could now understand this "something" about him that had made Riley so curious to find out more about him and I wished I had cared enough back then to ask her if she had found out anything.

"You're staring," he said, comically opening one eye to look my way.

I looked down at my book once again. I always failed to understand the intricacies of subtlety.

"Sorry," I mumbled, more to myself than to him.

He sat up again and turned to me.

"Not a problem. Just making sure I had nothing on my nose," he replied, as to make me feel less embarrassed for getting caught. "I don't mind it if it's you." He winked and I shook my head.

The door swung open and Arson entered, looking as disheveled as ever. His eyes were squinted into a thin line like it was the only way he could keep them open.

I watched him hesitantly wave at the teacher. He looked fragile enough to fall headfirst if someone so much as touched him. He walked to the back of the class and fell into the empty seat next to Matthew.

"What's up with you? Did you forget to sleep this weekend?" Matthew asked, after Arson greeted him with a fist bump.

They wore matching wrist sweatbands with a gold and silver hawk emblem—the school's mascot—crested on it.

"I've been up reviewing all the teams in our Division," Arson explained, raking his fingers through his hair to brush it down. "We're playing against the Charters tomorrow evening. They almost made it to regionals last year. Skipping practice for three weeks has probably set us back."

"I heard one of the new guys is really good. We might stand a chance." Matthew shrugged.

I made a conscious effort to turn to the front of the class where Mr. Andrews was erasing the sentence he had just started writing.

His outfit was much more formal today; the vice-principal had most likely lectured him on the dress code. Mrs. Meyers always took it upon herself to add more details to the dress code rules and to provide unwelcomed guidance on proper attire.

"I've lost my train of thought," Mr. Andrews said, setting down the uncapped marker next to his textbook.

He leaned against the white board and tilted his head to the right, visibly brainstorming. As he fiddled with the cap of the marker, his eyes met mine and his face lightened up with an idea.

He started piling erasers, rulers, papers, pencils, staplers, and a bunch of other random classroom materials on his desk.

I realized I would probably have to clean it all up during next period and I looked forward to the distraction.

Every conversation stopped and the students watched him with curiosity plastered on their faces as he focused on his ridiculous task. The best way to draw in the attention of daydreaming students, it would seem, was to do the unexpected.

When he was finally satisfied with the mess he had created on his desk, he looked up at us with a smile.

"So, listen," he said, though it was unnecessary because everyone was already paying attention to him. "A student told me that Mrs. Heathers usually assigns a monthly group project—"

The class groaned and interrupted the rest of his sentence. We all knew that Ms. Heathers's complicated projects were the worst, from shaping a brain out of paper and labeling each part's psychological functions to creating new developmental psychology stages based on our own experiences.

"Come on, this one is fun," Mr. Andrews continued, laughing at our reaction. "Listen because this is going to get a little complicated. We will have—" He swiftly counted the students before continuing—"five groups of five and one group of six. Your task is to get to know everyone in your group and after one month, I will assign each of you with a random member of your group and you will pick a classroom supply that you think accurately represents that person and explain why. Actually that's not complicated at all."

He took a second to breathe. When he realized all eyes were still on him, he decided to go on. "Please do not choose a calculator for your buddy who likes maths." He looked down at his desk and picked up a box of color pencils. "Pick color pencils for your optimistic friend who seems to see life in colors.

"Human beings are complex. It's much harder to capture a person's essence in one word as you get to know them. If I asked you to describe the people you pass by in the hallways, I would get a lot of single-word answers: cute; confident; athletic. But you could write paragraphs about your friends. That's because the more time you spend with people, the more you realize how complex they are and the harder it is to sum them up in one word. I hope this assignment challenges you guys a little. And no, of course you will not get to select your group mates," he added in response to the hands raised, as if he knew exactly what they were about to ask.

The students sighed and complained; all the excitement the project itself had created slowly died down.

Just as Mr. Andrews settled down at his desk again and opened the textbook to resume the original lesson, the bell rang.

"The groups will be posted next class." He waved as the kids filed out of the classroom.

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I always assumed everyone hated group projects but Brooklyn seemed particularly excited when Arson and I ran into her in the hall after school.

"I mean, it's like being graded for making friends," she said, as if building friendships was the simplest science.

As usual, people rushed past us to leave the building like it was on fire, bumping and shoving others out of the way.

"It's even cooler that Andrews will form the groups and won't group us with our friends," she went on, "we'll get an excuse to talk to new people without the awkward first conversation. Where are you two headed anyway?"

"The basketball team has practice right now," Arson answered, as we climbed down the stairs to the first floor where the gym was.

"Really? Is Coach William back?" Brooklyn asked.

"Not yet. I'll try to hold down the fort until he comes back. For most of us, this is our last season before graduating, we can't just give up on the team."

I tuned out their conversation to try and locate Avan to make sure he stopped skipping school.

The hallways were much more deserted now but it still took me a while to make out his familiar onyx hair. His dark clothes had not made it any easier to distinguish him from everyone else.

He was walking towards us but he wasn't looking where he was going so he hadn't seen us yet.

I jumped when I heard someone whisper behind me, "Staring at another guy, huh?"

I knew it was Matthew before I turned around. He walked with us inside the large gymnasium.

"And here I thought we had a moment earlier," he added with a playful smile that did not reach his eyes.

He and Arson joined their team on the court and Brooklyn and I climbed up the stadium seats.

I sighed and shook my head. This recurring joke was going to grow old really fast.