remembered something. She presses two fingers firmly to Yong’s neck.
He doesn’t react.
Aramovsky and I stare. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Bello coming closer, hand over her mouth, eyes wide, head shaking slightly.
Spingate moves her fingers, tries another spot. A
pulse
—that’s what she’s looking for, a pulse.
She moves her fingers again, to below his jaw, pressing them in so deep the skin and muscle of Yong’s neck billow up on either side.
He doesn’t move.
My eyes drift to the stab wound, the wound that I made.
A thin line of blood lies in it, pooled there, unmoving.
Spingate pulls her shaking hand away.
“He’s…he’s gone.”
The word turns Yong from a person into a
thing
. I fall to my butt, scoot away, leaving a wide, smeared path through the red slush until my back hits the wall and I can go no farther.
I stare at the frightened little boy who wanted his mother.
Yong is dead.
I killed him.
TWELVE
I don’t know how long we sit there.
Spingate is crying. So is Bello, and this time I don’t think she’s being weak. I wonder if I should be crying, too, but no tears come.
Yong’s blood is all over my shirt, my plaid skirt. Spingate is blood-smeared as well, with two prominent streaks on her ribs where she tried to wipe her hands clean after he died. I know it’s not her own blood, and I know it’s not the right way to think about it, but I’m almost glad she’s finally dirty.
Aramovsky’s shirt is spotless. Not a speck on it, not even a wrinkle.
“It’s not your fault, Em,” he says. “It was an accident.”
“Of course it was,” I snap.
But…was it?
I was so mad. Those feelings of hate, roiling through me. I wanted to hurt Yong. But if he hadn’t rushed at me, if he hadn’t tried to hit me, I wouldn’t have done anything. So Aramovsky is right—it’s not my fault.
Aramovsky stands, walks over to O’Malley, gently tries to wake the fallen boy.
I stare at Yong. I’m waiting for him to move, like this is a game and I’ve been tricked. He’s going to sit up and smile, and everyone will laugh because they are all in on it.
But no one is laughing.
And Yong doesn’t move.
Aramovsky helps O’Malley to his feet. Blood runs from O’Malley’s nose, and more trickles from a cut over his right eye.
He stares down at Yong.
O’Malley looks at all of us in turn, as if he, too, is waiting for someone to tell him this is a game. I see his eyes flick from Yong to the bloody knife, back to Yong, and then to me.
“Em, what happened?”
I glare at him. He would know what happened if he hadn’t got knocked out. Come to think of it, if he hadn’t got knocked out, none of it would have happened at all. He can defend me with words, it seems, but not with his fists.
O’Malley doesn’t look so beautiful anymore.
Aramovsky puts his hand on O’Malley’s shoulder.
“Yong attacked Em,” Aramovsky says. “She protected herself and stabbed him.”
I’m on my feet so fast I don’t recall trying to stand.
“I did
not
stab him! He ran into the knife. It was an accident, Aramovsky. An accident!”
My shouts bounce off the walls. Both Aramovsky and O’Malley lean back a little bit, away from me.
“An accident,” Aramovsky says to O’Malley, and nods. “It was obviously an accident, like Em said. I suppose if Yong hadn’t put you down, he wouldn’t have attacked Em—he’d still be alive.”
O’Malley winces. Did it hurt him to hear that? Good, it
should
hurt him.
“Spingate tried to save him,” Aramovsky says. “The cut, it was very deep. There was nothing anyone could do.”
O’Malley’s expression remains blank. He stands there, bleeding. He steps to Yong, kneels in the crimson slush. He stares at the body, but talks to us.
“Why did he attack us like that? He went crazy.”
No, he wasn’t crazy—he wanted to lead. He wanted it bad enough that he had no problem hitting to get his way. Yong was a bully.
O’Malley stands. He brushes
He doesn’t react.
Aramovsky and I stare. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Bello coming closer, hand over her mouth, eyes wide, head shaking slightly.
Spingate moves her fingers, tries another spot. A
pulse
—that’s what she’s looking for, a pulse.
She moves her fingers again, to below his jaw, pressing them in so deep the skin and muscle of Yong’s neck billow up on either side.
He doesn’t move.
My eyes drift to the stab wound, the wound that I made.
A thin line of blood lies in it, pooled there, unmoving.
Spingate pulls her shaking hand away.
“He’s…he’s gone.”
The word turns Yong from a person into a
thing
. I fall to my butt, scoot away, leaving a wide, smeared path through the red slush until my back hits the wall and I can go no farther.
I stare at the frightened little boy who wanted his mother.
Yong is dead.
I killed him.
TWELVE
I don’t know how long we sit there.
Spingate is crying. So is Bello, and this time I don’t think she’s being weak. I wonder if I should be crying, too, but no tears come.
Yong’s blood is all over my shirt, my plaid skirt. Spingate is blood-smeared as well, with two prominent streaks on her ribs where she tried to wipe her hands clean after he died. I know it’s not her own blood, and I know it’s not the right way to think about it, but I’m almost glad she’s finally dirty.
Aramovsky’s shirt is spotless. Not a speck on it, not even a wrinkle.
“It’s not your fault, Em,” he says. “It was an accident.”
“Of course it was,” I snap.
But…was it?
I was so mad. Those feelings of hate, roiling through me. I wanted to hurt Yong. But if he hadn’t rushed at me, if he hadn’t tried to hit me, I wouldn’t have done anything. So Aramovsky is right—it’s not my fault.
Aramovsky stands, walks over to O’Malley, gently tries to wake the fallen boy.
I stare at Yong. I’m waiting for him to move, like this is a game and I’ve been tricked. He’s going to sit up and smile, and everyone will laugh because they are all in on it.
But no one is laughing.
And Yong doesn’t move.
Aramovsky helps O’Malley to his feet. Blood runs from O’Malley’s nose, and more trickles from a cut over his right eye.
He stares down at Yong.
O’Malley looks at all of us in turn, as if he, too, is waiting for someone to tell him this is a game. I see his eyes flick from Yong to the bloody knife, back to Yong, and then to me.
“Em, what happened?”
I glare at him. He would know what happened if he hadn’t got knocked out. Come to think of it, if he hadn’t got knocked out, none of it would have happened at all. He can defend me with words, it seems, but not with his fists.
O’Malley doesn’t look so beautiful anymore.
Aramovsky puts his hand on O’Malley’s shoulder.
“Yong attacked Em,” Aramovsky says. “She protected herself and stabbed him.”
I’m on my feet so fast I don’t recall trying to stand.
“I did
not
stab him! He ran into the knife. It was an accident, Aramovsky. An accident!”
My shouts bounce off the walls. Both Aramovsky and O’Malley lean back a little bit, away from me.
“An accident,” Aramovsky says to O’Malley, and nods. “It was obviously an accident, like Em said. I suppose if Yong hadn’t put you down, he wouldn’t have attacked Em—he’d still be alive.”
O’Malley winces. Did it hurt him to hear that? Good, it
should
hurt him.
“Spingate tried to save him,” Aramovsky says. “The cut, it was very deep. There was nothing anyone could do.”
O’Malley’s expression remains blank. He stands there, bleeding. He steps to Yong, kneels in the crimson slush. He stares at the body, but talks to us.
“Why did he attack us like that? He went crazy.”
No, he wasn’t crazy—he wanted to lead. He wanted it bad enough that he had no problem hitting to get his way. Yong was a bully.
O’Malley stands. He brushes
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