After Mom left, Mallory was the one who took care of us, and neither one of us knew what to do without her.
We still don’t.
Dad goes through the motions of being a father, but it’s not the same. There’s no spark left in him. It’s almost like he’s a shell of the person he used to be, and it’s lonely.
Mrs. Meyers clears her throat. “Why don’t you come inside for some breakfast?”
I sniffle and shake my head. “No. I have to get to school.” The last thing I want is to sit at her kitchen table and be forced to talk about my feelings. She has no idea what I’m going through. She doesn’t know what it’s like to have her life combust into oblivion with no hope for it to ever be the same. That’s all I want. I want my old life back.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than this.
“Okay.” Her worried eyes look me over. “Just try and stay out of trouble.”
I nod, reluctantly, before walking away.
It isn’t right. The house is all I have left of Mallory. Of my mom. I don’t want it stripped away from me. Haven’t I lost enough?
We live about a fifteen-minute walk away from Cardale, or ten if I cut through Mr. Campbell’s alfalfa field, but I don’t have the energy to race him if he catches sight of me.
I keep my eyes on my feet, forcing one foot in front of the other down the sidewalk. A drop falls from the sky, landing on my head. I peer up at the clouds, and I dare it to rain. I dare the universe to make my life even more miserable than it already is.
Maybe I scared it off because I make it to the school without another hint of rain, but the simple triumph isn’t enough to lighten my mood.
The school’s yard is manicured with well-groomed shrubs and trees that stand out against the tall brick building. It’s three stories tall, with white-trimmed windows that are so large they almost take up more room than the brick.
To so many people this is a place of opportunity and a reflection of their high status in the community. Parents brag about their children attending Cardale Academy. It’s known for being a stepping stone to Yale and Harvard.
But to me this is just another place where I don’t belong.
Since Mallory died, everyone treats me like I have the plague, pretending I don’t exist. So many people don’t want to believe what Myles did. And those who do believe blame me and my family.
Trying him as an adult was too severe, they said. Some students even protested outside the courthouse with signs. Rumors ran rampant about the case because Myles refused to fight the allegations. He pleaded guilty despite his lawyer’s recommendation.
At this point I’m too tired and numb to care. Besides, I’m used to being on my own.
As I walk in, I expect to be met with the usual response of my classmates turning their backs and darting their eyes, but instead the girls and boys whisper to each other, watching me move down the hallway.
The hallway is filled with students like they’ve been waiting for me, and heat rises on the back of my neck. What do they want?
I continue on toward my locker, passing glares and hushed voices.
I skid to a stop, clutching the straps of my backpack tighter, and swallow.
In thick red paint strokes that are so fresh they’re dripping down the metal door is one word.
Liar.
Below it hangs a folded piece of paper taped to the locker.
I rip it off, and open it to see a traffic ticket with a photo in the corner. Myles is in the driver’s seat, and next to him is a girl. The picture is blurry and pixelated, but someone drew, in big letters, my name with an arrow pointing to it.
It’s dated for April 5th at four thirty-six.
Right before Mallory died.
3
EMMA
