Part 2 (1/2)

I finally find my locker in the next hallway and put a combination lock on it. Then I move along to my homeroom. As I enter into the cla.s.sroom, a gradual hush descends, and twenty-nine heads swivel toward the door. I feel dizzy, and for a second, just a second, I think I might be sick. But Rachel is there, waving to me, and as I gratefully make my way to sit down beside her, the buzz of chatter and gossip resumes, ”You'd think no one ever saw a girl with a dead brother before,” I say softly.

Rachel puts her hand on my arm and squeezes. ”Ignore them,” she whispers. ”Hey, guess what's happening this weekend?”

”What?”

”The LGH Bonfire! We have to go. Have to. Everyone who's anyone will be there. Everyone.” Rachel still has the funny valley girl tw.a.n.g, and she has actually said the words ”everyone who's anyone.” What?

I shake my head as vigorously as I can without totally messing up my already messy ponytail. ”Uh-uh, no way, lady. Not in a million years. Besides, my mom will never let me go.” For once, I am thankful for my mother's crazy, overbearing rules.

My Mom's Rules: No drugs (fine, makes sense) No alcohol (also reasonable) No riding in cars unless a parent is driving (a little bit overprotective)

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No going out without a parent at night -- ever (kind of crazy, right?) Permission to go out without said parent on daytime outings will be given on rare occasions only (seemingly very, very crazy) ”What do you mean?” Rachel whines. ”You have to come with me! I can't go alone.

Puh-leeeese!”

”I'm telling you, my mom won't let me. I'm not allowed out after dark, remember:1 I might turn into a pumpkin or something.”

”No, seriously, you cannot miss this. And I can't go without you. Please, just ask her. If you don't, I will,” Rachel threatens.

”Yeah, good luck with that.” I smirk. ”Anyway, I don't even want to go.”

”What do you mean? How could you possibly mean that?” Rachel squeals.

”I don't know. I'm just not...” My voice trails off as the teacher begins to call roll.

”Just ask your mom, okay?” Rachel wheedles.

”Fine, I'll ask! Jeez.”

Rachel shoots me a wide smile, and I can't help but return it.

After homeroom, Rachel and I split up and head to our first cla.s.ses. I edge into the surge of students, bodies pressing tightly together, pus.h.i.+ng and fighting through the halls. I have geometry. When I arrive in the cla.s.sroom, the teacher, Mr.

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Lane, announces that everyone will be sitting in alphabetical order.

His voice drones on as he calls the names, ”Allan, Andrews, Ballans, Belson, Bradley --” He looks up, looks around. ”Bradley? Any relation to ...” He doesn't finish. I had begun to raise my hand, and I drop it too quickly, so that it slaps the wooden desk with a resounding clap. I can tell that he had been about to say something smart-alecky about my brother, but stopped himself when he remembered. My face is hot, and the nausea has returned. I stare at the ground. Really? Did this really just happen?

The cla.s.s s.h.i.+fts uncomfortably, and the silence stretches on.

”Uh, sorry, Miss Bradley, for your loss. Your brother was quite a character -- a, uh, fine young fellow.”

I can't even begin to find my voice. I just nod my head and feel my ears catch fire. Seriously? A fine young fellow? I cannot believe this is happening.

The rest of the morning pa.s.ses relatively smoothly -- relative to the humiliating debacle of geometry cla.s.s. My cla.s.ses will be challenging, and there is sure to be a serious load of homework for each one. But I can't shake the feeling that my teachers are examining me, looking for signs of -- I don't know -- grief, similarity to Nate, craziness. Who knows? But I can sense that they're treating me carefully. So are the other kids. A few girls I used to be friendly with B.T.A. (Before The Accident), like Callie Rountree and Carolyn Wright, have said

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h.e.l.lo to me, but I can tell they want to run away from me as fast and far as possible. Like I have leprosy or something. I pat my nose. Still there. No crumbling body parts.

At lunch, Rachel and I sit together as we have done since the first day of first grade. I bought the hot lunch and I cast around the tray for something edible. The chicken is simultaneously stringy and rubbery and strangely gray. The green beans are cold and rubbery, and the rice pudding is stringy and also gray. To be expected from a school-issue lunch. While we sit at our end of the lunch table, next to a wide window, Rachel keeps darting looks across the cafeteria at Josh Mills, one of the boys in our grade. We've known Josh for as long as I can remember -- that's how it is with most of the kids in our cla.s.s, we've been together since we were babies -- but we've never counted him as a friend. I mean, he is probably decent enough, but he's definitely more interested in soccer than in girls. His hair is shaved close to the scalp, and his ears stick out like half moons on either side of his head.

He is laterally friendly with the Nasties, meaning his friends are friends with the Nasties, and he is allowed to sit at their lunch table. Important fact: He has never partic.i.p.ated in the Nasties' merciless shredding of other cla.s.smates. He's never stuck up for any of their victims, either. (Well, neither have I, for that matter.) Still, I figure the fact that he's never joined in the Nasty choral renditions of calling Rachel ”McFattie” -- her last name is McFadden -- is a plus.

25.

”So, I just have art left this afternoon. Thank goodness,” I remark.

”Mmm,” Rachel mumbles distractedly.

”They put me in Advanced Art, you know, with mostly uppercla.s.smen. They hardly ever let freshmen into the advanced cla.s.ses,” I tell her.

”Cool,” she mutters, clearly not interested even a little bit in what I'm saying.

”So, what do you have after lunch? History?” I ask, trying. Really trying.

”Don't you think Josh got cute over the summer?” Rachel finally asks in a hushed voice. ”Like, super cute?”

”Super cute? Really?” I repeat stupidly.