shouted question brought a new answer from my lips. I knew before they did that it was over and that we’d never be a family again, if we ever had been.
That was the first time I truly learned that most answers are better left unsaid.
By the next morning it was official: Jade’s death was murder. She had been found at the edge of the woods off of Laurel Creek, leaving a trail of blood behind her. Even after being stabbed three times in the chest and stomach, she had managed to crawl a good distance before she bled to death. The weapon had missed her heart and her lungs, but it hadn’t mattered in the end. If you lose enough blood, there’s nothing you can do but watch as your life drips away. I knew that Jade had curled herself into a fetal position and stared unbelievingly at the thin but steady stream of blood leaving her body until finally her eyes had gone dim.
I should have stayed home, the way lots of the other students had, even those who weren’t close to Jade. They were just taking advantage of the suspension of roll call. But something had made me come, so I stuck it out, not willing to admit defeat. Maybe Alex’s advice, I don’t know.
My MP3 player made little difference today. Teachers let students talk things out in class, presumably thinking it would help them cope. For once, I was grateful to Mrs. Pratt for her enforced cheerfulness. She handled the situation perfectly, only allowing talk of flour, eggs, and sugar during home economics. That suited Delilah, too. Strangely enough, she’d come to my table again in silence, head down, all the fire gone from her.
We stood side by side, mixing things in bowls, dropping in ingredients, reading the recipe—together, but also apart. I opened my mouth half a dozen times, wanting to say something, but unable to think of what that might be. At the end of the class, we had a perfect batch of peanut butter cookies to show for our time together. Neither one of us took even a single bite. As she was gathering up her things to leave, Delilah finally spoke. “Thanks for not making me talk.” I nodded like that had been my intent all along and patted her shoulder when we parted ways.
THE HALLWAYS WEREN’T AS kind to me as home ec, though. The big question of
who
did it was asked many times. I had only one answer: “Water is like life. It arrives madly, then recedes away faster, faster … leaving everything silent.” It became like a mantra to me. I could hear it in my head even against the pulsating rhythms of The Maine cranked as loud as it would go. And yet that answer had no rhyme or reason to it and an Internet search had turned up nothing. The only thing I could figure was that she had died near the lake, but it certainly wasn’t water that had killed her. A blade had done that.
No, a person had. Someone had stood over her with a cold smile, striking first at her stomach and then at her chest. And then they had watched as she had fallen to her knees, begging.
When people asked
why
Jade had been murdered, however, three different answers came.
“Silence never killed anyone,” I murmured the first time someone had asked, which wasn’t so much an answer as a statement, albeit one that didn’t mean anything.
Then:
“Once begun, can’t be undone.
The itch must be scratched,
The fire must be fed.”
That made even less sense.
And finally: “There are so many little dyings that it doesn’t matter which of them is death.” I stole away to the computer lab between classes and learned that the last was a quote from a poet, Kenneth Patchen. But figuring that out did nothing to shed any light on the reason someone had killed her.
LUNCH ARRIVED, AND I escaped to my oak tree. I didn’t trust myself to eat anything beyond crackers, not with the rest of the afternoon stretching ahead of me and doubtless more questions. The stomach churning was starting to lessen with repetition, but I didn’t want to take any chances. I looked more pale than
That was the first time I truly learned that most answers are better left unsaid.
By the next morning it was official: Jade’s death was murder. She had been found at the edge of the woods off of Laurel Creek, leaving a trail of blood behind her. Even after being stabbed three times in the chest and stomach, she had managed to crawl a good distance before she bled to death. The weapon had missed her heart and her lungs, but it hadn’t mattered in the end. If you lose enough blood, there’s nothing you can do but watch as your life drips away. I knew that Jade had curled herself into a fetal position and stared unbelievingly at the thin but steady stream of blood leaving her body until finally her eyes had gone dim.
I should have stayed home, the way lots of the other students had, even those who weren’t close to Jade. They were just taking advantage of the suspension of roll call. But something had made me come, so I stuck it out, not willing to admit defeat. Maybe Alex’s advice, I don’t know.
My MP3 player made little difference today. Teachers let students talk things out in class, presumably thinking it would help them cope. For once, I was grateful to Mrs. Pratt for her enforced cheerfulness. She handled the situation perfectly, only allowing talk of flour, eggs, and sugar during home economics. That suited Delilah, too. Strangely enough, she’d come to my table again in silence, head down, all the fire gone from her.
We stood side by side, mixing things in bowls, dropping in ingredients, reading the recipe—together, but also apart. I opened my mouth half a dozen times, wanting to say something, but unable to think of what that might be. At the end of the class, we had a perfect batch of peanut butter cookies to show for our time together. Neither one of us took even a single bite. As she was gathering up her things to leave, Delilah finally spoke. “Thanks for not making me talk.” I nodded like that had been my intent all along and patted her shoulder when we parted ways.
THE HALLWAYS WEREN’T AS kind to me as home ec, though. The big question of
who
did it was asked many times. I had only one answer: “Water is like life. It arrives madly, then recedes away faster, faster … leaving everything silent.” It became like a mantra to me. I could hear it in my head even against the pulsating rhythms of The Maine cranked as loud as it would go. And yet that answer had no rhyme or reason to it and an Internet search had turned up nothing. The only thing I could figure was that she had died near the lake, but it certainly wasn’t water that had killed her. A blade had done that.
No, a person had. Someone had stood over her with a cold smile, striking first at her stomach and then at her chest. And then they had watched as she had fallen to her knees, begging.
When people asked
why
Jade had been murdered, however, three different answers came.
“Silence never killed anyone,” I murmured the first time someone had asked, which wasn’t so much an answer as a statement, albeit one that didn’t mean anything.
Then:
“Once begun, can’t be undone.
The itch must be scratched,
The fire must be fed.”
That made even less sense.
And finally: “There are so many little dyings that it doesn’t matter which of them is death.” I stole away to the computer lab between classes and learned that the last was a quote from a poet, Kenneth Patchen. But figuring that out did nothing to shed any light on the reason someone had killed her.
LUNCH ARRIVED, AND I escaped to my oak tree. I didn’t trust myself to eat anything beyond crackers, not with the rest of the afternoon stretching ahead of me and doubtless more questions. The stomach churning was starting to lessen with repetition, but I didn’t want to take any chances. I looked more pale than
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