Then they descended like murky vapors.
I twisted over and flipped on the bedside lamp. Then I bolted from the bed and yanked the drapes across the window, blocking out the strange silhouettes cast by the moonlight. My eyes darted around the room and toward the ceiling. No more scary apparitions danced overhead, but something was still wrong.
My heart thumped. I tiptoed around my room, and then I shuddered. No more piles of wadded stationary spotted the floor. The stapler, pencil sharpener, and other items had been returned to my desktop.
Maybe Mom came in and picked up things while I slept.
But then my back stiffened.
The Disney World caricature was back on the wall. Mom would not have searched through my desk drawers for that cartoon. I snatched it off the wall and opened the bottom desk drawer, but before I dropped the picture in, I gasped. The picture slipped from my fingers and fell to the carpet.
I knelt next to the drawer and peered inside. All my botched attempts at writing a letter to Jordan’s parents had been smoothed out and stacked together. The top letter read:
Dear Mr. & Mrs. Hilaman,
It’s not my fault that Jordan didn’t wear his seat belt. He was a jerk.
Sincerely,
Hannah O’Leary
My hands began to shake. I never wrote that letter, and yet, it was my penmanship. Yes, Jordan was a jerk, but I would never say that to his parents. Never. The accident happened because of me, whether Jordan wore a seat belt or not.
I lifted the letter out and methodically tore it into a million tiny bits, letting the pieces fall back into the drawer. Then I grabbed the other failed letters and ripped them all to shreds. When I finished, I placed the framed caricature on top of the mess and closed the drawer. I sat at my desk and pulled out an unspotted piece of stationery. With deliberate strokes, I wrote:
Dear Mr. & Mrs. Hilaman,
I am so sorry for the accident. No words can ever convey my sorrow. I will understand if you never forgive me.
Sincerely,
Hannah O’Leary
Monday
August 26
I dabbed more concealer onto my chin and said to myself in the bathroom mirror, “You can do this.” I lifted the flat iron and pulled it through my hair, again, section by section. The hot enamel intensified the fragrance of my jasmine conditioner.
First day of our senior year.
Last week, Lily, Chelsea, and I had been so excited we bought coordinating outfits for today: new jeans with rhinestones on the front and back pockets and shirts in school colors. Mine was an emerald-green blouse with ruffles down the front. Lily’s was a simple sleeveless marigold knit top. Chelsea’s was a green-striped polo with a white collar. As student council members at Peregrine High, we planned to start the year with spirit. But now, Lily clung to life in a hospital bed, and Chelsea ignored my texts.
I slid an emerald sequined headband in place and smoothed my dark hair. A tear slipped down, and I swiped it away. Manny had bruises on his face, the least of his injuries. I felt guilty for wanting to look good, but today was my first time anchoring the morning broadcast at school. I had worked hard to earn that position, and Mr. Arnold expected me to show up and do my part. I touched up my mascara and promised myself: no more waterworks today. I spritzed myself with my jasmine body spray and returned to my room.
I finished putting my supplies into my backpack, but hesitated when I noticed the letter I’d written last night still sitting on the desktop. No tears, I reminded myself. I slid the letter inside a spiral notebook and added it to my bag.
I straightened the quilt on my bed and considered kicking off my shoes and climbing back under the covers. But if I ignored the world today, I’d still have to face it tomorrow, and it wouldn’t be any easier. I’d still have to go to school alone. Hopefully, Manny would return soon. I grabbed my backpack and headed downstairs. In the kitchen, Mom rinsed a cup in the sink.
“You’re up
I twisted over and flipped on the bedside lamp. Then I bolted from the bed and yanked the drapes across the window, blocking out the strange silhouettes cast by the moonlight. My eyes darted around the room and toward the ceiling. No more scary apparitions danced overhead, but something was still wrong.
My heart thumped. I tiptoed around my room, and then I shuddered. No more piles of wadded stationary spotted the floor. The stapler, pencil sharpener, and other items had been returned to my desktop.
Maybe Mom came in and picked up things while I slept.
But then my back stiffened.
The Disney World caricature was back on the wall. Mom would not have searched through my desk drawers for that cartoon. I snatched it off the wall and opened the bottom desk drawer, but before I dropped the picture in, I gasped. The picture slipped from my fingers and fell to the carpet.
I knelt next to the drawer and peered inside. All my botched attempts at writing a letter to Jordan’s parents had been smoothed out and stacked together. The top letter read:
Dear Mr. & Mrs. Hilaman,
It’s not my fault that Jordan didn’t wear his seat belt. He was a jerk.
Sincerely,
Hannah O’Leary
My hands began to shake. I never wrote that letter, and yet, it was my penmanship. Yes, Jordan was a jerk, but I would never say that to his parents. Never. The accident happened because of me, whether Jordan wore a seat belt or not.
I lifted the letter out and methodically tore it into a million tiny bits, letting the pieces fall back into the drawer. Then I grabbed the other failed letters and ripped them all to shreds. When I finished, I placed the framed caricature on top of the mess and closed the drawer. I sat at my desk and pulled out an unspotted piece of stationery. With deliberate strokes, I wrote:
Dear Mr. & Mrs. Hilaman,
I am so sorry for the accident. No words can ever convey my sorrow. I will understand if you never forgive me.
Sincerely,
Hannah O’Leary
Monday
August 26
I dabbed more concealer onto my chin and said to myself in the bathroom mirror, “You can do this.” I lifted the flat iron and pulled it through my hair, again, section by section. The hot enamel intensified the fragrance of my jasmine conditioner.
First day of our senior year.
Last week, Lily, Chelsea, and I had been so excited we bought coordinating outfits for today: new jeans with rhinestones on the front and back pockets and shirts in school colors. Mine was an emerald-green blouse with ruffles down the front. Lily’s was a simple sleeveless marigold knit top. Chelsea’s was a green-striped polo with a white collar. As student council members at Peregrine High, we planned to start the year with spirit. But now, Lily clung to life in a hospital bed, and Chelsea ignored my texts.
I slid an emerald sequined headband in place and smoothed my dark hair. A tear slipped down, and I swiped it away. Manny had bruises on his face, the least of his injuries. I felt guilty for wanting to look good, but today was my first time anchoring the morning broadcast at school. I had worked hard to earn that position, and Mr. Arnold expected me to show up and do my part. I touched up my mascara and promised myself: no more waterworks today. I spritzed myself with my jasmine body spray and returned to my room.
I finished putting my supplies into my backpack, but hesitated when I noticed the letter I’d written last night still sitting on the desktop. No tears, I reminded myself. I slid the letter inside a spiral notebook and added it to my bag.
I straightened the quilt on my bed and considered kicking off my shoes and climbing back under the covers. But if I ignored the world today, I’d still have to face it tomorrow, and it wouldn’t be any easier. I’d still have to go to school alone. Hopefully, Manny would return soon. I grabbed my backpack and headed downstairs. In the kitchen, Mom rinsed a cup in the sink.
“You’re up
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