He sighed. “Little late for that.”
I looked at him, confused, as he reached into the pocket of his faded jeans and pulled out a square of messily folded pages and handed them to me. I could feel the frayed edges of notebook paper, and I started to unfold them, even though it was too dark in the truck to read.
“Don’t,” Miles said, holding up a hand. “Not … not in front of me. I can’t.”
He opened the door of the truck and slid out. I stayed put, watching his shadow cross the yard, weave around the fence, and disappear next door.
I waited a few minutes before climbing out myself. I wanted to make sure I was completely past the panic attack, that no lingering signs remained. I didn’t want to freak Mom out. She’d be a mess if she knew the harassment had escalated.
Luckily, when I went inside, I found that she wasn’t home yet. She must’ve been working a later shift at the store.
I went to my bedroom and stripped off my T-shirt and jeans, changing into the comfiest pajamas I could find. I climbed onto my bed, took a deep breath, and, when I was ready, unfolded the wad of pages Miles had given me.
They were handwritten, in his messy, scratchy penmanship. And it was addressed to me.
Dear Lee,
I didn’t think I’d do this letter thing. I still don’t want to. But … I don’t know. I think I should. Not for the reasons you think it’s important. You think it’s better if the truth is out there, but for me, it’d be worse.
I don’t want people to know the truth. Not my version of it.
No. I guess that’s not right. I don’t care that much about other people. I don’t wantyouto know my story. The rest of the world can think whatever the hell they want about me, but you’re different. I can’t deal with the idea of you hating me. Which is why I never talk about what happened that day. But I can’t keep dodging this. I can’t handle lying to you anymore, so … I guess I’m writing a letter after all.
God, I hope you don’t hate me after you read this.
So, you know how everyone thinks I’m some kind of hero? Because I supposedly tried to protect Ashley or something? Well, all of that is bullshit. I’m not a hero. Not even close. In fact, someone is dead because of me.
March 15 was my first day back from two weeks of suspension. I already knew I’d be repeating my sophomore year. I’d missed too much class, been in too many fights. Everyone was fed up with me by then. My grandmother, the principal, pretty much all of the teachers. The only person who wasn’t was Coach Nolan. He was my US History teacher, and he’d been trying to get me to join the football team all semester.
“Might help you channel some of that aggression,” he’d said. “You could even get a scholarship if you get your act together.”
I just shook my head every time he brought it up. Sports, especially team sports, have never worked for me.
“Just think about it,” he said. “It’s not too late to turn things around.”
For some reason, Coach Nolan believed I was more than just some punk-ass kid who couldn’t stay out of fights. He really wanted to see me do well, even when no one else thought I could.
And I repaid him by getting him shot.
I was pissed that morning—the morning of the shooting. I don’t remember why. I was always pissed about something. Coach Nolan had just given us a reading assignment, and everyone was opening their books, trying to get a jump start on their homework. Then some asshole senior behind me grabbed my beanie off my head.
I turned around in my seat to face him. I’d been in detention with him before. He was just some jerk, a slacker who’d failed US History enough times to be taking it again his senior year. The kind of kid who shoved underclassmen against lockers for no reason. The kid who cursed at teachers and threw punches over nothing.
I can’t remember that kid’s name now, but I remember that I hated him. Probably because I knew that, in two years, that’d be me.
I tried to grab my hat back from him, but he held it over his head.
“Hats are against the dress code, freak,” he said.
“Give Mr. Mason his hat back,” Coach Nolan said, barely even looking at us.
The kid rolled his eyes, but he did give it back. Because even if you didn’t like Coach Nolan, you respected him.
I took my beanie and pulled it onto my head.
“That is actually against dress code, though,” Coach Nolan said. But he gave me a quick smile, and I knew he wasn’t going to ask me to take it off. No one cared if I broke dress code just as long as I kept my fists to myself.
“I was doing you a favor, freak,” the kid behind me said. “Trying to keep you from looking like the white trash you are.”
