The sun’s up, the air is fresh, and I feel empty inside. I stay close to Mom in the aisles of the nursery, laser focused on everything she says, offering suggestions on what plants might look good in the flower beds. I don’t think any harsh or caustic thoughts. I try to stay out of the way of the other customers. Being hyperaware of what’s going on around me and making sure I’m doing everything right staves off the ferocious guilt that I know lurks beyond the curtain of my conscious thought.
On the drive home, Mom is buoyant, happier than I’ve seen her in weeks. “The geraniums are going to look perfect in the railing planters,” she says, smiling. “You always had a great eye for flowers.”
I smile back. I’m glad I can do this for her. It feels like atonement. I carry our seeds and pots to the garage, where we’ll start them for later transplanting in the flower beds. “Mom, I wanted to say I’m sorry.”
She takes the pots from me, setting them on the workbench in the garage. “About what?”
She doesn’t even seem angry. As if everything I’ve said and done over the past month hasn’t damaged her. “For yesterday. Walking out. And the way I talked to you. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Oh. Well, thank you. I appreciate that.”
It would have been worse if she’d tried to deny I’d done anything wrong, but the acknowledgment is still a knife to the gut.
She pulls me into a hug. “I love you, Evie. I know things are hard right now.”
It doesn’t make sense that she’s being so nice to me. I don’t deserve it. I pull back, avert my eyes so she can’t see the fear creeping up inside me again, and say, “I’ll be right back. I need some water.”
Inside, alone, I spent seven minutes crouching in the laundry room, forcing myself to breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth while the world narrows to a two-foot square at my feet. When the moment passes, I go back to the garage and help Mom plant seeds. It keeps my thoughts at bay, but it isn’t enough. That night I help her make ham-and-cheese sandwiches, and I force myself to eat. It tastes like sawdust. Before I go to bed, she gives me another hug and says, “I enjoyed today, you know? We should do it more often.”
She only enjoyed it because she doesn’t know what kind of person I really am. The real me is hiding because something evil is hunting it; this helpful, easygoing version of Evie Leigh is a paper-thin facade. It fooled Mom today, but it won’t work for long.
I’m exhausted by the time my head hits the pillow. I surprise myself by being calm enough to sleep, but I wake because of the worst nightmare I’ve had since I was a kid. I don’t evenremember what it was about, all I know is that I was dying, the world was dying, and it was my fault that it happened, and it was my fault it wasn’t stopping. I lie in bed for the rest of the night with dread washing over me like the tide, in and out.
It’s Monday. I have to go to school.
I get up. Get dressed. Put my stuff in my backpack. Get breakfast and find myself once again staring at my cereal bowl. I can’t eat. I’m not even hungry. Do I even deserve to eat? Why should I? Alissa doesn’t get to anymore.
Mom comes in, grabs her coffee and her protein bar, kisses me on top of my head. “You’re going to be okay at school today?” she asks. “You have that assembly.”
Oh god, the assembly. I forgot. How am I going to get through standing on a stage in front of the entire school, much less an entire school day? It was hard enough before, in the beginning, when Alissa was gone. Now I’m the wild girl who claws up boys’ faces, who yells at teachers, leaves track practice early, doesn’t do her homework. I am a failure. A liar. A pretender.
Mom starts putting on her shoes, and a jolt of terror rocks through me. I won’t get to see her until later tonight. I never think about this, worry about this, so why am I now? Why does it feel like she’s going to die if she’s not in my sight?
Letting her walk out the door feels like the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I watch her car disappear down the street. She could get in an accident. Or someone could shoot up thedealership. Or she could choke on her lunch. The possibilities are endless.
Any of those things could happen to me too, I guess. That might be a relief.
School felt like a colorless dream after Alissa died, but now it’s a minefield. The other students are no longer ghosts; now they are enemy combatants. I keep careful track of what everyone around me says and does so that I can react in exactly the right way. I must minimize the damage I cause. I don’t offer answers in class, but when the teachers call on me, I answer as best I can, in the lightest, happiest tone of voice. I don’t work on homework in class unless the teacher explicitly says we can. I stay so aware of everything around me that nothing will surprise me, I will miss no alarms, I will not succumb to the overwhelming guilt.
Before the end of second period, I’m called to the office. One of the office aides instructs me to sit by the organized bin of college flyers until Mrs. Maddox appears. She says hi, smiles at me, doesn’t seem to realize I’m a nightmare inside.
“Ready to do this?” she asks.
The answer will always be no.
I follow her to the gymnasium. The bleachers have been pulled out on both levels, and folding chairs fill the court. A stage has been erected at one end with a podium emblazonedwith the school’s logo. Mr. Tyler, the principal, stands there talking to an IT guy. One of the school security officers stands by the stage, the other by the doors. The school guidance counselor, Mr. Olshank, already sits on the stage, along with Ms. Reeder, the nurse. Beside the stage is a five-foot-tall photo of Alissa on an easel, bigger even than any of the photos at her funeral. One of her school pictures. The ones she hated.
Mrs. Maddox sits me in a chair next to Ms. Reeder. No one speaks or even looks at me. Ms. Reeder and Mr. Olshank don’t even acknowledge my presence.
“...half of them take ADHD medication these days,” Ms. Reeder says quietly to Mr. Olshank. “Some of them actually need it, but I’m convinced some of their parents just didn’t want to deal with their behaviors anymore.”
“It’s not the kids’ fault,” Mr. Olshank says. “Most parents are just trying to help. It might be all the social media, might have been the pandemic, might be all kinds of things. There’s no way to tell anymore....”
The empty bleachers and folding chairs fish-eye out from me, multiplying into the hundreds of thousands. After several minutes, classes begin to arrive. Students and teachers file in. The gym swells with noise. I look at my knees, pick at my cuticles. Count the bounces of my leg.One two three four five...I look up when Mrs. Maddox stops in front of me again. She holds a small wooden plaque with an engraving.
INMEMORY OFALISSAWHITAKER, CLASS OF2026
NATURE’S FIRST GREEN IS GOLD,
