I didn't know Jade well. I'm not sure if I should regret that, or I should be grateful.
She sat quietly through every class, kept to herself, answered when spoken to. People talked anyway. They said she was abused, confused, gay, retarded. She had no friends to ask her about this, instead spending lunch alone, watching people around her. She looked like she knew, though. Like she knew better than the rest of us and was sad for it.
When we were in sixth grade, I had a big group of friends I hung out with, and she was one of them. Of course, she hung on the outskirts, ready to escape if she needed to. I think she wanted us to be impressed by her, and to really like her. So she had a sleepover with a few of the girls. We all arrived and she had music, makeup, and all kinds of food. We all agreed she knew how to throw a good party. Everything went well until her mom came home. We could hear downstairs that her and Jade's dad were screaming at each other worse than any of our parents ever screamed. I looked at Jade and her face was sad, and upset, and angry; angry that they ruined her sleepover. Angry that now, all the other girls would talk about her family, talk about how much it sucked going to her house. Her older sister drove us all home and we never went back.
After that, none of us really talked to her. I wished I could tell her the party was still pretty cool, and that I still wanted to be her friend, but the other girls wouldn't accept that. So I didn't. And now it was too late.
When Jade came to the school that morning, I never noticed anything different than usual in our homeroom class. I was already down two halls when I heard the gunshots. It was two hours later, while I was in the bathroom with Lanie and Georgia, when I found out it was her. The police said they didn't know why she would do it and asked many students if they knew. The other girls at the school who'd been at the sleepover didn't know either. I could think of a couple of reasons why.
