Downstairs, Grams is curled up with a cup of coffee and a fat novel. The scene is so extremely normal that for a moment I almost believe that nothing has changed, that this is a normal Saturday morning and we'll laze around the house and watch TV and bake muffins and wait for the hours to pass by.

But I know that this is no ordinary Saturday. This is my last weekend of freedom before the arraignment. The thought is enough to seize my gut and kill any appetite I might have had, coming down the stairs.

Grams looks up at me, and her face breaks into a smile. "Well, don't you look nice?"
I blush.

After a long, hot shower, I'd decided to dress up a little. I'm wearing thick black tights with a frilly skirt I picked up from Goodwill two years ago, along with a Violet Crumble t-shirt and jean jacket. It's not the sort of outfit Grams would usually label as "nice," but I guess she considers me brushing my hair and putting on a little mascara a vast improvement over the sweatpants I've been wearing recently.

"I thought I'd go for a walk," I say.

She nods and waves her hand. "Go. The fresh air will do you some good."

I wait for a moment, expecting her to think about all the ways I could get in trouble and change her mind, but she returns to her book, brow furrowed. Relieved, I turn and let myself out the front door.

Once I'm outside, the wind blows my hair across my face. I stand there and stare at the trees, naked against the grey of the sky. In the past few days, they've finally let go of the straggling leaves. They look bare, unprotected. Vulnerable.

I start to walk.

Each step seems like an adventure. My feet could take me anywhere. I mean, not really. I'd have to stop eventually and rest, and I couldn't really go wherever I want because I have to be in court on Monday, but it feels like I could just keep walking forever. Wherever I want.

A little boy plays in his yard. He is only about six, and I wonder if he knows who I am. When I smile at him, he doesn't run away. He smiles back, the sort of smile that you'd give a nice person just passing by, not someone who accidentally killed her English teacher.

The playground is up ahead, the one where I go sometimes to escape reality, and I see a few people enjoying the day, despite the chilly air. A woman catches her toddler at the bottom of a slide. A couple of kids throw rocks into the wading pool, now empty of water.

I stand at the edge of the playground and take it all in—these people, here in the world with me. It's like we have that in common. All our lives are different, yes, but we have this one thing holding us together, even if it's just that we're in the same place at the same moment.

That's something, and it feels real.

A girl pushes herself dejectedly on the swings a few yards away, her back to me. Something about the way she moves seems familiar. She is dressed in a coat much heavier than the other children, and her head is covered by a woolen cap. My heart speeds to twice its normal rate when I realize who it is.

Harper.

Part of me wants to run away. Most of me, if I'm being honest. My eyes are already searching the park for her father, anticipating his accusatory eyes and bitter words. But I don't see him anywhere. And, despite the instinct to leave as quickly as possible, there is a nibbling at my heart to talk to this girl who looks so lonely, so haunted. So like me.

Slowly, cautiously, I take the swing next to her. Push off with my feet, let myself dangle until the momentum runs out, just like she does. Wait for her to notice. Which she does quickly.

"Hey, it's you," she says, studying me carefully. "You're that girl. From the other day. Elle. Right?"

"Yeah," I say, my breathing becoming labored. I wonder what her father told her about me, if anything. I brace myself for her tears, her little fists pummeling my stomach, her furious words. But none of those things come.

"How old are you?" she asks, kicking some rocks with a tiny pink sneaker.

"Seventeen."

She nods. "Are you still in school?"

I swallow. "Yup."

"My mom used to teach at Thomas Edison. Is that where you go?"

Agony.

"Yes, that's where I go."

"Did you know my mom? Pam Edwards?"

Pure anguish.

"Yeah." My voice breaks. "She was my English teacher."

I am afraid of where this conversation is going. Will she put two and two together somehow? Will I have to be the one to tell her I'm the reason her mother isn't here to comfort her and guide her through whatever hell she's going through?

"She was really great," I say instead. "One of my favorite teachers."

The look in Harper's eyes just breaks my heart. It isn't even sad; it's more longing, like she's hungry for someone to talk to her about her mother. How insane is it that I'm the one who's doing that for her? She tilts her head toward my words like they're warmth on her face. I know how she feels, what it's like to be cold.

"Can you..." she begins.

"What?"

"Can you tell me a story about her?"

I let out a long, slow breath and rack my brain for something to tell her.

Something.

Anything.

Something true.

"Well..." I say. "There was this one time..."

Her eyes light up. I twist on my swing so that I'm facing her and notice a small brown stain on the sleeve of her coat. She smells faintly of chocolate pudding.

"I didn't have a lot of people who believed in me," I tried to explain, hoping this little girl would understand. "I messed up a lot, and when you mess up so many times, people just kind of give up hope. But your mom, she gave me a second chance. And, to me, that was everything. I really... I really liked her."

My voice comes out calm and smooth. I know that I'm not being detailed enough, but what kid is going to understand why someone would cheat like that? Yeah, it's selfish of me to leave out the specifics, but I just want her to know her mother was a good person. A great person. 

Harper's eyes are fixed on my face, and she looks as though she's savoring every word, storing it away in a safe place deep within her. I am glad that I was able to think of something to tell her. 

Something small, but something real.

Something true.

But then her face falls, and all I want to do is scoop her into a hug.

"I miss her," she says.

Reaching over and putting my good hand on her shoulder, I say, "I know."

"What's going on?" a voice asks.

I turn, wincing, but it is not a man's voice.

Rose Evans stares back at me.

"What are you doing, talking to her?" she spits.

I don't know what to say, don't know why Rose is questioning me about my conversation with Harper. The only thing I can come up with is, "Oh. Hello."

"Hello," she replies, voice tight. "Can I talk to you... over there?" She gestures toward a picnic table not far away.

Reluctantly, I get up from my swing. Harper looks from my face to Rose's and back to mine. Despite my irritation, I give her a small, reassuring smile. "Nice to talk to you," I say, feeling sure that our moment of connection is over. Whatever Rose wants, she means business.

"Wait here, sweetheart," Rose tells Harper, and I realize that Rose must be babysitting for Harper. She stalks over to the picnic table. I follow, slowly. Rose sits down at the picnic table, fingers laced together, face tight.

I do not sit. Instead, I hover near the end of the table, crossing my arms over my chest the best I can with my injury. "What do you want?" I ask Rose.

"How dare you speak to her?" Rose demands.

My cheeks color with shame. "I just wanted to..." My voice trails off. I don't know what I wanted. To feel like I knew her a little. To try to help in some small way, even though I knew it was impossible. To just be there, or something. "I just wanted to tell her I was sorry." After the words come tumbling out, I know these are the right ones. This is what I've wanted to do all along, but I haven't been able to bring myself to do it because to look into that little girl's face and admit that I took everything from her is unimaginable.

Rose shakes her head, looks off in the distance. Someone honks a horn. Children playing tag shout at each other in glee. Suddenly, Rose turns toward me. "I wish it had been you," Rose spits.

I don't flinch. I've been saying the same thing to myself for so long, it only seems natural that someone else would tell it to my face. "Why do you hate me so much?" I ask. There is no bitterness in my voice, only curiosity.

Rose blinks.

For a minute, I think she's not going to answer me.

But then she does.

"Mrs. Edwards understood me. And I understood her. Do you know how rare it is to find a person like that? It didn't matter that she was my teacher. She was my friend. She said I was one of the strongest writers she'd come across in fifteen years. She was going to write me a letter of recommendation for the writing program at Iowa." She pauses. "And then she died."

"So... you're mad because she didn't get to write you that letter?"

Rose glares at me. "Hey, fuck you."

"Well, then why?"

"I'm mad because you killed the only person who believed in me. All the other teachers are like, yeah, whatever, I'll tolerate you for a year. But she actually sat down and listened to my problems. She saw who I was, as a person."

I find myself agreeing with Rose, thinking of the little things Mrs. Edwards did over the years to set herself apart as a different kind of teacher. She was always the one to give you a compliment, like she wasn't just seeing through you, but she got that you were someone, or at least trying to be. I can't think of a single time Mrs. Edwards belittled a student, not even in anger.

It makes me sad.

Sad that she's gone.

Sadder that there aren't more people like her.

I look at my feet. Suddenly I remember the day by the lockers that I found the word "killer" scribbled on my locker in permanent marker. Rose had been there.

"It was you," I whisper, challenging her.

She stares back defiantly.

"You wrote that word on my locker."

She raises an eyebrow. "Isn't it the truth?"

Unable to come up with a good comeback, I stand and stumble blindly away. I wait until I'm far enough away that Rose won't be able to tell I'm crying. By the time I hit my street, though, I'm doing the ugly cry, snorting and all.

Are you? I ask myself. Is that what you are? A killer?

There's a tiny voice, familiar only in that it's the one I identify as Amy's, but it's much softer, gentler than the one I grew up with in the back of my mind.

Of course not, she tells me. You didn't set out to hurt anyone.

I take a deep, jagged breath.

The voice, the one I thought was Amy's, but now I'm thinking maybe it's really mine, is correct. I didn't mean to kill Mrs. Edwards—or anyone, for that matter. It's true that her death was the consequence of my actions, but that does not mean I am evil. It doesn't mean I am incapable of doing good things as well as bad.

My tears slow.

I hold up my hand, the one I held the knife in when I slit my wrist. I squeeze it tight into a fist, and then flex all the muscles, extending the fingers as far as they will go. This hand is mine, and I can use it to do whatever I wish. It is merely a tool, as is the rest of my body.

I wiggle my fingers and make a promise to myself.

From now on, I will use my hands and my mouth and my mind to do productive things. Creative things. I will write, and I will sing. When I'm able to play the guitar again—and I do believe that I will one day, if I set my mind to it—I will strum the chords that come from the truest part of my heart.

That is all I can do.