SOFTLY I GO

one

ninety-eight days after

Returning to school on September seventh feels like going back to the scene of a crime. Here is the hallway that Alex and I kissed. Here is the field Alex practiced on. Here is the math room where we would get in trouble for passing notes. Here is his old locker, blocked off with flowers and pictures like a memorial from people who didn’t even know him.

Here is his ex-lover walking down the hall toward me like a ghost. Like we’re the ones who died instead of Alex.

“Long summer, huh?” he says. I pull my bag higher up and nod.

“Yeah. You holding up alright, Eli?”

“I’m doing alright, I guess. As good as anyone could really expect when your secret gay boyfriend shoots himself.”

I pull him in for a hug and don’t let go for a long time.

“I should have been there for you this summer.”

“We all grieve in our own ways. I don’t blame you. It’s a lot to process.”

Both of us go far away for a minute, to the phone call from Mrs. Druman to me and then me to Eli, the hysterical way I pushed into Alex’s house and had to be picked up and carried away from the bloody room. The way neither of us have slept right since that day. The way Alex still haunts us both even in death. The anger, the sadness, the guilt. When we come back, the silence hurts so I tell him bye and say I’ll talk to him later even though I probably won’t.

Cici finds me at my locker and she talks in a soft voice about cheer practice and maybe stopping by the coffeeshop to catch up with all the girls. I say yes but I know I’ll mysteriously get ill before the final bell rings.

“Hey,” she says, grabbing my wrist before I can leave. “We’re all here for you, alright? We’re a family. Don’t forget that.”
When I flash a smile more like a grimace, she releases me and lets me walk down the hall to Alex’s locker.

There’s an array of pictures of him, some from his old student IDs and some that Eli and I gathered from our own homes, the three of us laughing at some forgotten joke, Alex and I with our cheeks pressed together smiling into his camera, Eli in the middle of going to swat his arm. On the floor behind the pictures, there are yellow flowers from the student government and a bouquet of white roses from his parents. Some people have left wildflowers or dandelions as humble goodbyes. Every week, they take away the dead flowers and I’ve noticed how they’ve stopped replacing them with fresh ones. Like it’s possible for anyone to let this go. Like anyone could ever forget what happened.

First bell rings and I go to homeroom where Mr. Daniels is saying hello to the class. He doesn’t write me up for being late. Instead he nods his head once with a somber smile, the kind everyone’s been giving me since June and the funeral. He gives out student handbooks and his hand lingers on my desk for a second longer than it needs to, and then he walks past my desk and goes back to passing the books out.

I find this to be a recurring theme throughout the day, the sympathy exuding from teachers and classmates, the pity they throw at me. On my way to lunch, Miss Westbay asks if I can eat with her in her office so I tell the cheerleading team I’m being analyzed again and bring my bagged lunch with me in her office.

The chairs, squeaky and swollen upholstery from heat, are all too familiar. I remember sitting in here, still numb with shock, the day after it happened. The way Eli and I held onto each other like if we laced our fingers tight enough we could mend the hole Alex had left.

“How have you been, Sadie?”

“Alright, I guess.”

“Are you still seeing a therapist?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re still taking your medication?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to tell me how you’ve been feeling lately?”

I love when people ask that expecting the answer to miraculously change. I’m not alright, haven’t been alright, and won’t be alright for a long time.

“Better,” I say. “I miss him. Lots. But I’m doing okay.”

This pleases her enough to let me out early on good behavior, so I take this opportunity to hide in the bathroom and throw my lunch out. There isn’t much for me to do for the next half hour, so I sit up against the wall beneath the window and doodle in a new notebook that was supposed to be for Algebra.

I’m not expecting the door to open so I look up when it does, glance momentarily at the purple-haired girl sticking out like a sore thumb against the beige walls that were probably once white. I expect her to ignore me since she doesn’t look familiar and I refreshingly won’t receive and pitiful looks, but she sits next to me like we’re old friends.

“Are you hiding from Westbay, too?” she asks.

“Uh… Sort of. Do I know you?”

“Nah, I’m new here. As you can probably tell from my hair. I didn’t know the uniform applied to hair, too.”

She sighs and drops the smile when I only give her a look that is equal parts unamused and expectant.

“I’m Hazel.”

“I’m Sadie.”

“Do you play any sports?”

“I’m a cheerleader. Well, I used to be a cheerleader. Not anymore.”

“I dance. And I do theater. I don’t even know if this school has a drama club.”

I give her an odd sort of look. A talkative girl with vibrant hair who’s hiding from Westbay and sat next to a stranger in the bathroom. I find myself softening into a smile as I pack up my notebook.

“We do. It’s small but it’s running. I’m joining this year. My friend Eli begged me to.”

“What’s the play?”

“They haven’t voted yet. Eli’s pushing for Chicago but they’re leaning towards Footloose.”

There’s something comforting in the simplicity of the conversation, where the words are just words. They aren’t hidden signals or eyes searching for a cry for help. It’s just two people hiding from the guidance counselor, talking about musical theater.

Jesus, I might have really lost it.