May 3, 1879–November 26, 1897
She was eighteen, barely older than me. A sister. I wonder if she had a brother, if they were close, why brave is the adjective her family chose to put on her final resting place. I wonder how she died, why so young. I wonder if anyone she trusted ever made her feel small and powerless.
If she fought back.
In my mind, I see a girl in a white dress, dark curls and a fierce smile. She’s soft and lovely. She speaks the truth, and the world took her anyway.
I run my fingers over Elizabeth’s name. “Brave sister,” I whisper. Suddenly, I want to find more. More girls, more sisters, more proof of lives lived boldly no matter how short or long. I cut through the grass, eyes scanning the stones, a desperate hunt, stopping to read every girl’s epitaph. I’m near the riverbank and I’ve just found Valiant mother Virginia Howard, when I hear my name over the swirling water.
“Mara!”
Turning, I see Alex walking quickly toward me from the newer section of the cemetery, the graves marked with fake flowers and plaques stuck into the ground. His hands are stuffed into the pockets of his dark jeans, his nearly black hair windblown, a gray cardigan buttoned over an azure-blue shirt.
“Hi,” I say, slightly out of breath from running around the cemetery for the past hour.
“Hey.” He stops in front of me, a question on his straight brows. “What are you doing? Are you okay?”
I try to say an automatic yes, but I can’t seem to form the word. Instead the past few days tangle in my throat, a giant knot of not okay.
He must see it all coalescing in my eyes, because he blows out a long breath and rakes his hand through his hair. Then suddenly his arms are circling me and my face is pressed to his chest, inhaling some kind of herbal scent, neither manly nor girly. Just clean. Just Alex.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Me too.”
My arms hook under his, clinging to him. Or maybe he’s clinging to me. Either way, I can feel how tired he is, like all his weariness is leaking from his bones to his skin and into my fingertips.
“Sorry,” he says, pulling back.
“Don’t be. Oh shit, sorry.” I wipe at a wet circle on his sweater, a swirl of black mascara mixed in with the tearstain.
“Eh, whatever,” he says, not even dabbing at the spot while I wipe under my eyes.
“I seem to have a habit of ruining your sweaters.”
He gives me a small smile. “So what are you doing running around here in the middle of the day?”
“What are you doing spotting me running around here in the middle of the day?”
“Fair enough.” He starts a slow amble toward the river and I follow. “I saw you leave school. You seemed upset.”
“You followed me?”
“Not in a creepy way. Just . . . wanted to check on you. Plus, I do come here sometimes, just to clear my head. I like reading the tombstones. It’s interesting.”
“Alex Tan, communing with the dead.”
He grins. “Oh, you know me. Usually I bring my violin and play them a little song.”
I laugh, which makes him smile even wider. “Also, my parents work at our house, so I can’t really go home yet. I couldn’t deal with school today.”
“Yeah,” I say through a sigh. “Me neither.”
Silence falls between us, but I can’t handle it for long. “Alex, what happened? Have you talked to him?”
He bites at his lower lip. “Not today.”
“Since the party, though? Did he say anything about Hannah?”
“No.”
