During fifth period, the school secretary gets on the intercom. Everyone looks up from their textbooks, exchanging curious glances.

"We will be dismissing all classes to the gymnasium," the secretary announces. "Students should proceed directly to the gym."

I throw a glance at the teacher, who is sitting at the front of the classroom with a newspaper. Even he looks like he doesn't know what's going on.

The halls are eerily subdued as we all walk to the gym. People speak in hushed tones, wondering what this is all about, but no one dares to jump on each other or shout the usual profanities.

I run into Riley in the hallway and give her a questioning look. "What's going on? Do you know?"

She shakes her head. "No idea."

When we reach the gym, I see that it's been set up with rows and rows of black folding chairs. At one end, there is a stage—the one they usually use for graduation—with a screen, a projector, and a microphone. Rose Evans and another girl from the newspaper are standing by the microphone, chatting with Principal O'Hara. Then I see a couple of familiar faces sitting in the front row, and I freeze.

Mr. Edwards.

And Harper.

Someone bumps into me from behind and swears. I force myself to keep walking, even though the man who told me to stay away is sitting at the front of the gym. My heart pummels my rib cage.

Breathe.

I follow Riley and sink into a chair next to her, trying to calm myself. The fact that Mr. Edwards is here means this assembly has something to do with the crash, doesn't it? I'm considering the idea of just leaving, but then Abbott's dad clears his throat and taps his fingers against his microphone.

"Is this thing working?"

A few kids in the front row nod at him, so he starts his speech. "Two weeks ago, we lost an important member of our community. I know that many of you have been struggling with this loss and might be uncertain about how to deal with your feelings of grief. A number of you worked with Mrs. Edwards on the school newspaper, and most of you have taken a class with her over the years. It is important for us to recognize Mrs. Edwards and all that she did for our school. Today is meant to provide you with some sense of closure, however inadequate. Several students from the newspaper have put together a slide show to commemorate one of the finest teachers we've employed at Thomas Edison High."

Abbott's father makes a strange choking sound, and I think about how awkward it would be if he started crying in front of the whole student body. I look around for Abbott and finally spot him sitting in the back, near the exit. He looks like he'd rather be anywhere than here. I can appreciate the sentiment.

I turn my attention back toward the stage. Rose messes with a computer that's hooked up to the projector. The other girl crosses her arms over her chest, clearly trying to hold herself together during a very emotional moment.

Someone hits the lights, and the gym goes dark. A weepy classical song begins to play. A picture of Mrs. Edwards during last year's community service day flickers onto the screen. In it, she wears a faded University of Iowa sweatshirt. Her long, brown hair is pulled back in a ponytail. She looks pretty, much younger than she did in the cardigans and pearls she always wore to school.

I find myself staring at the back of Harper's head. She's wearing a pink and gold scarf to cover her bare scalp. What is she thinking as she watches the pictures flash on the screen? Does she even realize her mother is gone forever? How old will she be before that idea becomes real for her? Perhaps she will pass away herself soon and join her mother in heaven or whatever. Or maybe they will both just be gone, existing only in pictures and our memories.

The slide show is brief but powerful, reminding us of the woman who worked so hard to decipher Shakespeare for us. I can hear others around me trying to stifle their own sobs, but strangely enough, in this moment, I don't feel like crying. It's like crying isn't enough or something.

I don't know. It's weird.

At the end of the show, someone turns the lights back on. Abbott's father leans over and murmurs something to Mr. Edwards before getting out of his chair and approaching the stage. He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabs at his eyes. Then he grabs the microphone and starts to talk.

"I want to thank Mr. Edwards for coming here today. We hope you know how very special your wife was to us, and to show our appreciation we'd like to present you with a plaque..."

There's a loud noise in the back of the room as someone abruptly pushes back their chair. I turn just in time to see Abbott walking out of the gym. His father tries to draw attention back to the stage by saying loudly, "Everyone, please give Mr. Edwards a hand for being here with us today. We know how difficult it must be..." There is a smattering of applause, and Mr. Edwards stands up awkwardly and does this little half-wave thing.

I stand up and push past the other students, most of whom have moved on from the crying portion of the assembly. They lean over each other and gossip as I walk out. All eyes are on me. I hear someone say my name. I turn my head, trying to catch the person, but I can't figure out where it came from.

When I get to the edge of the gym, I speed past the doors leading to the locker rooms and push open the heavy doors that lead to the main hallway. For a moment, I just stand there, unsure of where to look for Abbott. The boys' bathroom? There's no way I'll be able to muster the courage to follow him in there. But then I have a hunch.

Turning the corner, I head toward the band room.

I hear him before I see him.

Sure enough, I find him inside, pounding on the drums in the corner. The rhythm is unlike anything he plays during band practice. He is manic, furious, relentless. His face is fixed in an expression of pure rage. I stand and watch for a few moments, uncertain whether I should announce myself or just leave him alone, but then he notices me and I don't have to make a decision at all.

"Shit," he says. "You scared me."

His taut arm muscles relax. He lets the drumsticks fall down by his sides, but the anger in his features remains. I wonder what pissed him off so much.

"Hey," I say softly, walking closer. I let my fingers trail over a music stand with a music book propped open on it, tiny black notes sprawled across the pages like squashed ants.

When I'm a few feet away from Abbott, I slump into one of the seats. "What's up?" I ask, fiddling with the latch on a music instrument case.

"This is all such bullshit," he blurts out.

I look at him in surprise. "The memorial service?"

"Just... all of it. My dad, standing up there, acting like he was Mrs. Edwards's best friend or something. He barely even knew her."

"What's wrong with him being upset?" I'm having a hard time following him. Somehow his anger is tied up in his fight with his father, but I can't quite connect all the dots. There's a connection that I'm not getting.

I think of Principal O'Hara, standing up there on stage, trying not to cry in front of the student body. He seemed so different from the man he is in the halls every day, the man who gave me detention for standing up to bullies when I was a freshman. It was almost as if he were... human.

Why would that make Abbott so angry?

He stares at the wall, shakes his head. "He's just so fucking fake."
"What, you don't think he cares that Mrs. Edwards died?"

"It's not that. It's just..." He drops his head into his hands. When his shoulders start to shake, I realize that he's crying. I don't know what to do. For some reason, I think of me breaking down in Mrs. Feldmann's office, how it meant so much when she just took my hand.

So I sit down on the chair next to him. Cautiously, I reach out and put my hand on his back. The flannel is soft beneath my fingers. I make circles with my palm, slowly, gently. "It's just what?"

He looks up at me, eyes red. "I can't remember the last time I saw him cry. At home. Or act like he felt anything at all. So it's like..."

Abbott's tears start to make sense.

"A betrayal," I finish for him.

Abbott nods. "He doesn't give a shit about his own family, but he'll cry in front of the whole school about some teacher dying? No offense to Mrs. Edwards. She was a nice lady."

"But she's not family." I put my arm around him, rest my cheek on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Abbott."

We just sit there for a few minutes, until Abbott's tears subside. I feel so close to him, like I know this thing about him that no one else does. His face is so close to mine. If I were a brave girl, I'd turn my head to the side. Just a few inches...

"Can I ask you a question?" Abbott he asks.

If possible, he sounds even more serious than usual. I am suddenly wary. But he did just share all of this personal information from his own life. How can I refuse to tell him what he wants to know?

"Um, okay." I straighten and fix my gaze on Abbott, waiting expectantly.

"Ever since I found out what happened with your mom, I've wondered why you never told anyone. Not even Riley. Why didn't you?"

I swallow hard.

How do I explain to him that what my mother did to me isn't like his father withholding his affection? I mean, yeah, that sucks, but his dad didn't try to end his whole existence. There's a certain weight to the knowledge that my mother regretted having me so much that she tried to fix her mistake by holding me under water until Grams wrestled her to the ground.

I carry that truth inside of me every day, and it never gets any easier to bear. And with it comes a sense of shame, a certainty that there must be something so terrible, so evil about me that I don't deserve to go on living.

I look away.

"I don't know," I say, shrugging. "It's just, like... something people don't need to know. It's none of their business."

He seems to consider this. "Yeah, but there are some things you tell people just because you want them to know the whole you. I feel like what happened in your past is a pretty big part of who you are. I mean, it helped shape you into this beautiful, complex—"

My cheeks are flaming.

"I'm just saying, you don't have to be ashamed of it."

"I'm not," I say, but my voice is a little too loud.

"Okay, okay."

We are both quiet then, and I look at the clock. There's still half a couple of hours left of the school day, but I can't imagine going back to the gym and facing Mr. Edwards and everyone else.

"Wanna get out of here?" I ask, knowing that Abbott probably wants to go back to the gym even less than I do.

"God, yes."