One Last Thing ✅

fifty-nine parts

Grams and I sit in her car in front of the school.

"There are only three periods left," I protest.

She doesn't say anything.

I sigh loudly.

"Don't forget to talk with Mrs. Feldmann," Grams says when I push open the car door. "She's expecting you."

"I won't," I say, unable to keep the exhaustion out of my voice. I feel completely drained of energy, and the thought of attending classes and trying to make my brain focus on schoolwork sounds almost impossible. The best I can do will be to sit passively and hope the teachers don't call on me while I ponder what happened at the arraignment and try to keep myself from hoping that Mr. Mason is right, that I won't be spending the rest of my senior year in prison.

"Good girl," Grams replies with a reassuring smile. "Go get 'em."

I wonder exactly who "'em" is as I close the door, turn, and walk toward the school. A man in overalls is raking the leaves under a large oak tree. He stops, smiles at me, and tips his hat as I walk by. I turn the corners of my lips up in return.

The halls are silent as I walk toward the main office to get a pass. Going by a science classroom, I peek inside. The teacher is sharing a PowerPoint, and it looks like half the students are asleep. Business as usual. No evidence that anything has changed in the last few weeks. Life goes on. People move forward.

I wonder if I ever will.

Worse, I wonder if the Edwards family ever will. 

The secretary, Mrs. Grealy, looks up when I walk in and smiles. Her desk is a mess of pictures of family, trinkets, and random pieces of paper of all colors, shapes, and sizes. I remember Abbott once telling us that it was really she who ran the school. The principal got most of the credit, but it was her behind the scenes who made sure everything runs smoothly. She knows almost every student's name, their schedules, their family situations, who is failing which classes.

"Hi," I tell her, glancing at a picture of a puppy in a Santa hat. "I need a pass. I just came... from court."

She nods. "Your grandmother called. I think you're supposed to go talk to Mrs. Feldmann before going to class." She takes out a pad of paper, scribbles the date, time, and "counselor's office," along with her signature.

"Thanks," I tell her, turning to go.

"Liliana," Mrs. Grealy says, stopping me.

I look at her and wait.

"My brother was killed by a teenager who was texting and driving," she says, her voice wobbling a little. Ashamed, I cut my eyes away. "No, wait," she says again, rising from her seat. "I'm going somewhere with this, I swear." She walks over and stands right in front of me. I can smell her perfume, fresh and citrus-y. Her teeth are unnaturally white.

"I was angry for a very long time," she says. "But after a while, I realized there was no point. And so I went to see the girl. She was so sweet and apologetic. I had imagined her as this monstrous, selfish person, but she wasn't that at all. She had a younger brother who adored her and a couple of cats and she loved the ballet. We spent all afternoon talking, and after that, we kept in touch by email. I hear from her once a week."

I am staring at her mouth, listening intently, grasping at her words hungrily. It had never occurred to me that there were others out there going through the exact same thing. I've been so lonely, thinking I was the only person who could possibly understand the pain associated with accidentally taking another life. I never imagined that someone could ever feel forgiveness. 

It seems too much to hope for.

"I guess my point is," Mrs. Grealy goes on. "Sometimes terrible things happen. That's just life. The important thing is what you do afterward. If you can find a way to let the love in, you will get through this." She reaches out and squeeze my shoulder. "Now. Go on. Mrs. Feldmann is waiting for you."

"Okay," I say.

Mrs. Grealy nods and returns to her desk.

For a moment, I stand there, trying to find the words to express my gratitude for her gesture of sympathy. Finally, I decide there aren't any perfect words, or maybe they don't have to be.

"Thanks," I say softly, and turn to leave.