"Your mother went to some support group," he said, staring straight into his bowl. "There's nothing to eat in this G.o.dd.a.m.n house," he said. "Unless you like cereal."

I peered into the refrigerator. He was right. Other than a carton of milk and some ketchup, a small bowl of leftover green beans and a half dozen eggs, there wasn't much to be had. "Cereal's okay," I said, pulling down a box from the top of the refrigerator.

"It's G.o.dd.a.m.n stale," he said.

I stared at him. His eyes looked red-rimmed, his face unshaven. His hands looked rough and shaky and I realized it had been so long since I'd looked at Dad, I hadn't even noticed how much he'd aged lately. He looked old. Spent.

"Cereal's okay," I repeated, more softly now, grabbing a bowl out of the cupboard.

I poured my cereal into the bowl and sloshed some milk into it. Dad ate silently. As I was leaving the room, he said, "Everything in this house is G.o.dd.a.m.n stale."

I stopped, one foot on the bottom step. "Did you and Mom fight again or something?"

"What would be the point of that?" he responded.

"You... you want me to order a pizza or something? For dinner, I mean?"

"What would be the point of that?" he repeated. Seemed like he was right, so I just crept back up the stairs to my room and listened to the radio while I ate my cereal. He was right-it was stale.

I had slapped the petrified pizza onto my tray and was spooning some slimy canned fruit c.o.c.ktail into the square next to it when I heard Mr. Angerson's voice just over my shoulder.

"Not planning to eat that in the hallway, are you?" he asked.

"Yeah, I guess I was," I said, going about my business. "I like the hallway."

"That's not what I was hoping to hear. Should I go ahead and line up a teacher for Sat.u.r.day detention?"

I turned and leveled my stare at him, using every ounce of determination that I had left. Angerson didn't even bother to try to understand. "I guess so."

Stacey, who'd been in line just ahead of me, took her tray and ducked away, scurrying toward her table. I could see her in my peripheral vision saying something to Duce and Mason and the gang. Their faces turned toward me. Duce was laughing.

"I'm not going to let you orchestrate another tragedy in this school, young lady," Mr. Angerson said to me, a little red coloring creeping up from under his tie to his chin. So much for the medal and the letter and all that hero and forgiveness c.r.a.p So much for the medal and the letter and all that hero and forgiveness c.r.a.p, I thought. "There is a new school policy that no personal isolation is allowed in this school. Anyone who is caught regularly secluding herself from the student body will be carefully scrutinized. I hate to say but some extreme cases could be subject to expulsion. Are we clear?"

The line was moving around me and out the door now, I realized, and kids were staring as they went. Some of them had curious grins on their faces and were whispering to their friends about me.

"I never orchestrated anything," I answered. "And I'm not doing anything wrong now, either."

He pursed his lips and glared at me, the red creeping from his chin up his cheeks. "I would like you to consider your options," he said. "As a personal favor to the survivors of this school."

He let the word "survivors" drop on me like a bomb and it worked. I felt shaken by it. Felt like he said the word extra loud and that everyone had heard it. He turned and walked away and after a minute I turned back to the fruit c.o.c.ktail. I loaded more of it onto my tray with shaky hands, even though my stomach suddenly felt very full.

I paid for my food and carried my tray out into the main part of the Commons. I felt like everyone was staring at me, like a bunch of rabbits caught in the middle of the night by back porch lights. But I looked forward, only forward, and headed out into the hallway.

I could hear Angerson just inside the cafeteria talking to some boys about where French fries belonged and where they didn't, and steeled myself for another face-off when I heard footsteps coming around the corner.

"You sure you want to do this?" he asked, as I sunk to the floor, carefully balancing my tray on my lap.

I opened my mouth to answer, but was interrupted as a bustle of motion burst into the hallway. Jessica Campbell, holding her lunch tray, whisked around Angerson and slid to the floor next to me. Her tray rattled against the linoleum as she shrugged out of her backpack.

"Hi, Mr. Angerson," she said brightly. "Sorry I'm late, Valerie."

"Jessica," he said, one of those statements that sounds like a question. "What are you doing?"

She shook her milk carton, opened it. "Having lunch with Valerie," she answered. "We've got some Student Council stuff to talk about. I figured this would be the best way to talk without getting interrupted. It's so loud in there. Can't hear yourself think."

Mr. Angerson looked like he wanted to punch a hole in something. He stood around for a minute, then pretended he saw something alarming going on in the Commons and scurried off to "break it up."

Jessica giggled softly after he left.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Having lunch," she said, taking a bite of her pizza. She made a face. "G.o.d, it's petrified."

I smiled in spite of myself. I picked up my pizza and took a bite. We ate silently, side by side. "Thanks," I said around a mouthful of pizza. "He's totally looking for a reason to expel me."

Jessica waved her hand at me. "Angerson's such an a.s.s," she answered, and then laughed as I opened my notebook and drew a picture of a bare b.u.t.t wearing a suit and tie.

22.

[FROM THE G GARVIN C COUNTY S SUN-TRIBUNE,.

MAY 3, 2008, R 3, 2008, REPORTER A ANGELA D DASH]Abby Dempsey, 17-As Student Council Vice President, Dempsey was manning a fundraising table selling doughnuts. She was shot twice in the throat. Police believe that the bullets were stray, intended for a student in line approximately three feet to Dempsey's left. Dempsey's parents had no comment for reporters, and are said by friends of the family to be "grieving deeply for the loss of their only child."

Mom called and left a message on my cell phone telling me she had a meeting and couldn't come pick me up. My first reaction was outrage that she would expect me to ride the bus after everything that had happened. Like I could just flop down in a seat beside Christy Bruter's posse now and everything would go fine. How could she? How could she? I thought to myself. I thought to myself. How could she throw me to the wolves like that? How could she throw me to the wolves like that?

I guess it goes without saying that I wasn't going to ride the bus home, whether Mom was driving me or not. Truthfully, my house was only about five miles away and I'd walked the route more than once. But that was back when both of my legs were normal. I doubted my ability to do it now, sure that halfway there my thigh would begin throbbing and force me to sit down and wait for the nearest predator to whisk me away.

But I could probably make it a mile or so, I figured, and Dad's office was not much farther than that. True, getting a ride from Dad was definitely not top on my list. Probably not any higher up than giving me a ride was on his. But it would be better than trying to avoid the drama on a school bus any day.

There was once a time when I was embarra.s.sed that Dad's office wasn't more imposing. Here he was, supposedly this big-shot lawyer, and he was in a tiny brick "satellite office," which, if you asked me, was just another way of saying "hole in the wall in the suburbs." But today I was glad he worked in a hole in the wall not far from school, because the October sun did nothing to warm up the air and within just a few blocks of walking I was beginning to be sorry I hadn't taken the bus after all.

I'd only been to Dad's office a couple times before; he didn't exactly put out a welcome mat for his family to show up at work. He liked to pretend it was that he didn't want us exposed to the, as he called them, "lowlifes" he represented. But I think the truth was that Dad's office was his escape from the family. If we started showing up there, what would be the point of him always being at work?

My leg felt tight and I knew I was lurching along like a horror movie monster by the time I opened the big double gla.s.s door set in the brick of Dad's office. I felt glad to have made it.

Warm air settled around me and I stood in the entryway rubbing my thigh for a minute before walking into the office itself. I could smell microwave popcorn, buoyed on top of the air and snaking around me, and I felt hunger twist inside of me. I followed the scent through the vestibule and around the corner to the waiting area.

Dad's secretary blinked at me from behind her desk. I couldn't remember her name. I'd only met her once before, at some family picnic the head office had sponsored a summer or two ago, and thought it was Britni or Brenna or something young and trendy like that. I did remember, though, that she was only twenty-four and had the most incredibly shiny straight sheath of cocoa-colored hair that hung down her back like a superhero cape and these big cow eyes that blinked slowly and housed giant trusting pupils ringed with the color I can best describe as spring green. I remembered her being cute and shy and laughing longer than anyone else every time my dad told one of his stupid corny jokes.

"Oh," she said, a blush rising to her cheeks. "Valerie." It was a statement. She didn't smile. She gulped-actually gulped like they do in the movies-and I imagined her reaching for a red security b.u.t.ton under the desk just in case I should pull a gun or something.

"Hi," I said. "Is my dad here? I need a ride."

She pushed away from her desk in her rolling chair. "He's on a conference c-" she began, but she couldn't finish because Dad's door flung open at just that moment.

"Hey, sweetheart, could you pull the Santosh file... ?" he was saying, nose down in a pile of paperwork, reading. He walked around the back of Britni/Brenna's chair. She sat motionless, except for the color that crept up her face. Dad's hand landed familiarly on her shoulder as he walked by, giving it a soft squeeze, a gesture I hadn't seen him give to my mother in... forever. Britni/Brenna ducked her head and closed her eyes. "What's wrong, baby? You seem tense-" Dad started, finally looking up, but he stopped when his eyes landed on me.

His hand jumped from Britni/Brenna's shoulder and back up to the paperwork he was holding. The gesture was subtle, una.s.suming, almost so much so that I wondered if I'd seen what I thought I'd seen after all. I might have thought I was imagining things had my eyes not totally accidentally rested on Britni's/Brenna's face, which looked almost wet with a furious blush. Her eyes were trained only on the desk in front of her. She looked mortified.

"Valerie," Dad said. "What are you doing here?"

I tore my gaze away from Britni/Brenna. "I need a ride," I said. At least I think I said it. I'm not entirely sure because my lips were so numb. Britni/Brenna mumbled something and darted out of her chair toward the restroom. I could have guessed that she wouldn't come out again until after I'd left. "Mom um... Mom had a meeting."

"Oh," Dad said. Was I seeing things or was his face looking flushed too? "Oh, yeah. Sure. Okay. Give me a minute."

He stepped briskly back into his office and I could hear things shuffling around in there, drawers being shut, keys rattling. I stood rooted to my spot, beginning to wonder if I'd imagined the whole thing.

"Ready?" Dad asked. "I've got to get back, so let's move." All business. All Dad. I expected nothing less.

He opened the door, but I couldn't move.

"Is that why you and Mom hate each other?" I asked.

He looked like he considered pretending he didn't know what I was talking about. He c.o.c.ked his head to the side and let the door close.

"You don't know what you think you know," he said. "Let's go home. It's really not your business."

"It's not because of me," I said. "It's not my fault that you and Mom hate each other. It's yours." And even though I pretty much knew my parents weren't exactly in love before the shooting, this. .h.i.t me like some great epiphany. And for whatever reason I felt worse than I had before. I guess I always thought that if it was just about me, when I left the house they would be in love and happy again. Now, with Britni/Brenna's beautiful flushed face in the picture, Mom and Dad would probably never be in love again. Suddenly all those fights they'd had over the years no longer seemed reparable. Suddenly I understood why I had clung to Nick like a life preserver-he not only understood c.r.a.ppy families, he understood c.r.a.ppy families that would never be good again. There must have been a part of me that knew all along.

"Valerie, just let it go."

"All this time I've been beating myself up about making you and Mom hate each other and you were having an affair with your secretary. Oh my G.o.d, I'm such an idiot."

"No." He sighed, put his hand to his temple. "Your mother and I don't hate each other. You really don't know anything about my relationship with your mother. This isn't your business."

"So it's okay?" I asked, gesturing toward the bathroom door. "This is okay?" He probably thought, given the context of the conversation, that I meant whatever was going on between him and Britni/Brenna. But what I really meant was about the lying. He was lying about who he was, just like I had. And it was okay. But it so didn't feel okay. And I wondered how, given everything that had happened, he couldn't see why lying about who you are isn't okay.

"Please, Valerie, let's just get you home. I've got work to do."

"Does Mom know?"

He closed his eyes. "She has an idea. But, no, I haven't told her, if that's what you mean. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't go to her and say something when you really don't know anything."

"I've gotta go," I said, pushing past him and out the door. The cold air felt so much better going out than going in.

I listened hard for him as I walked down the sidewalk back the way I'd come. I waited for him to lean out the door and yell. Stop, Valerie! No, you've got it all wrong, Valerie! I love your mother, Valerie! But what about your ride, Valerie? Stop, Valerie! No, you've got it all wrong, Valerie! I love your mother, Valerie! But what about your ride, Valerie?

But he never did.

23.

I walked back to school. I didn't know what else to do. I left Mom a voice mail message while I walked.

"Hey, Mom. I had to get help on a homework a.s.signment and missed the bus," I lied. "I'll just wait for you to pick me up after your meeting."

When I got to school, I went inside and dropped my stuff by the giant trophy case that a.s.sailed visitors with glittering football trophies and track trophies and giant blown-up photos of coaches long gone from the school. Long gone from their glory days. Or just plain long gone.

I sat on the floor under the case and pulled out my notebook. I wanted to draw something, to get hold of my emotion with a picture. But I wasn't sure what to draw. As jumbled up as my mind was, it was just way too hard to see reality. I couldn't make my pencil scratch out the lines of Britni/Brenna's face. Couldn't make it curve into the contours of Dad's guilty eyes-his big secret blown up. Would he marry her? Would they have children together? I couldn't make myself imagine Dad holding some creamy-faced baby, cooing down at it, telling it he loved it. Taking it to baseball games. Living some life he'd probably consider his "real life," the one he deserved rather than the one he got.

I held the point of my pencil to the paper and started to draw-immediately the curve of a woman's seeded belly took form in profile. I sketched a fetus inside it, curled into itself, sucking a tiny thumb, cradling itself around an umbilical cord. And then I drew an identical curving line on the other side. A teardrop sliding down a narrow nose. My mother's eyes. A line of fury between them. Another teardrop, clinging to an eyelash, with my name written in it.

Distantly, I heard a locker clang shut and footsteps nearing me. I shut my notebook and pretended to be staring absently out the front doors of the school. My fingers curved around my notebook, which before had always been like a fun pair of eyegla.s.ses that would allow me to reflect the world as it really was, but now felt like a big shameful secret.

"Oh, hey." Jessica Campbell was striding toward me.

"Hey," I answered.

Jessica stopped in front of me and set down her backpack. She peered out the front doors. She sighed and sat crosslegged next to her backpack, just a couple feet from me. "Waiting on Meghan," she said, as if to justify why she might be sitting in the hallway next to me if she wasn't saving me from Angerson. "She's retaking her German test. I told her I'd give her a ride home." She cleared her throat awkwardly. "Do you need a ride? I can take you, too, if you can wait for Meghan. She shouldn't take too much longer."

I shook my head. "My mom's coming," I said. "She'll probably be here pretty soon." And then I added, "Thanks."

"No problem," she muttered, and cleared her throat again.

Another locker shut somewhere down the science hall and our heads turned toward the sound of a couple kids talking. Their voices faded and we heard the sound of a wooden door shutting, cutting their conversation off completely.

"You coming to the StuCo meeting tomorrow?" Jessica asked. "We're going to go over progress on the memorial project."

"Oh," I said. "I figured that meeting was just a one-time thing. I thought... well, I kind of ditched you guys last time. Plus, you know, I thought you had to be voted in to be a member of Student Council. Something tells me not too many people would vote me in."

She got a funny look on her face and then laughed a shrill, nervous little laugh. "Yeah, probably not," she said. "But I keep telling you it's okay. Everyone understands that you're going to be a part of the project. It's cool."

I arched one eyebrow and gave her an I doubt it I doubt it look. She laughed again, this time a little more breathy and relaxed. "What? It is!" she said. look. She laughed again, this time a little more breathy and relaxed. "What? It is!" she said.

I couldn't help myself. I laughed, too. Pretty soon we were both cracking up, leaning our heads against the brick wall behind us, the tension sliding off of us.

"Listen," I said, studying the graffiti on the bottom of the trophy case above my head. "I appreciate what you're doing, but I don't want people to start leaving StuCo because of me."

"Not everyone was against it, you know. Some people thought the idea was great from the beginning."

"Yeah, like Meghan, I'll bet," I said. "She wants to be my best friend, you know. Tomorrow we're going to dress alike. Be twinkies."

We looked at each other for a beat and laughed again.

"Not exactly," Jessica said. "But she came around. I can be very persuasive." She grinned at me wickedly and wiggled her eyebrows. "Seriously. Don't worry about Meghan. She'll get cool with it. We need you to be involved. I I need you to be involved. You're smart and you're, like, really creative. We need that. Please?" need you to be involved. You're smart and you're, like, really creative. We need that. Please?"

A door opened at the far end of the hallway and Meghan stepped out. Jessica gathered her backpack and coat together. She shrugged. "You didn't shoot anybody," she said. "They don't have any reason to hate you. That's what I keep telling them." She stood up and shouldered her backpack. "See you tomorrow, then?"