“Okay?”
She pulls out a piece of paper with the Meadowbrook logo (a forest-green cougar) in the corner.
“Dr. Matthews thought you might like the opportunity to write an apology to Mr. Markham.”
“Oh.” There’s that clenching in your stomach again, the hot shame you’ve gotten so familiar with the past few days. It stews in your gut. At least, it does when you’re not busy being mad at Cooper and Tyler. Betrayal doesn’t even begin to cover it.
But Mr. Markham didn’t do anything to you. You did something to him. You know it was messed up. And if you can say sorryto him, at least that will solve one of your problems. You can take accountability, like Marshall said.
And then things can go back to normal. Your friends will forgive you. People will stop avoiding you in the halls. You can start taking the bus again.
“Yeah. Okay.”
Except when you sit and click your pencil, you realize the last piece of lead is shattered, and you don’t have any refills. You turn; Ms. Anderson notices and raises an eyebrow.
“My pencil’s empty,” you say sheepishly.
You think she might be trying not to laugh at you. But she hands you a nonmechanical pencil, round and blunt at the tip and with barely any eraser left. You get up to sharpen it, then sit back down.
Dear Mr. Markham,you write.
And then you stare at the paper. It’s one thing to say you’re sorry, but another to write a whole letter about it. There’s all that blank space, andI’m sorryis only two words. One more word than the thing that got you into this whole mess.
And it’s not like he cares anyway, right? He doesn’t live here. He’s off in California with all the other fancy people with expensive haircuts and spray tans and fake white teeth and tight pants.
He’ll never see you again. So what does it matter?
You almost crumple up the paper. Rip it into pieces and toss it in the trash. You’re sorry, but do you have to spend the rest of your life being sorry? You’re not the only person in the world who ever made a mistake.
You almost give up. But something stops you.
Maybe it’s the look Marshall keeps giving you over the kitchentable. Or the way Cooper’s lip trembled as he broke off a decade of friendship with you. Or the fact Reggie never did give you that twenty dollars.
It was just a joke. You didn’t mean it. But still, it was wrong.
So you pick up your pencil.
My name is Dayton Reilly, and I wanted to write so I could apologize to you for what happened at your visit…
You’re relieved that Brody’s waiting for you at the pickup line.
You weren’t sure if you were really going to become friends, or if you were just friendly because you were stuck together.
But he smiles when he sees you.
“Look who’s finally made parole.” He reaches out to clasp your hand and bro-hug you. He just came from seventh-period conditioning. His forehead and hairline are damp with sweat, and his T-shirt clings to his neck.
“Look who needs a shower,” you joke back, and then wish you hadn’t, because what if he thinks you mean it?
But he cracks a grin and laughs. “Don’t act so superior. You’ll be back with us tomorrow, won’t you?”
You nod.
“Good. I better go.” He gestures to his bus. “See you?”
“Yeah. Tomorrow.”
He walks backward, giving you a funny salute before spinning around and running for the bus, arms flailing.
