Collateral Damage

Chapter Thirty-Two

It took forever for spring to come. Michigan winters are brutal in their unpredictability. Just when flowers began to peek from the freshly thawed dirt, they're driven back into the ground by that final surprise winter storm.

Even when the snow finally stopped, there were still those windy, rainy days to contend with. "At least everything's turning green again," people remarked. I didn't agree. Green was such a boring, uniform color. For me, it wasn't spring until the trees blossomed pink and white. They were beautiful, though they weren't the same as my bright autumn leaves.

With April came the one-year anniversary of the McCloud scandal—and our breakup. It was hard to believe it had been that long already. One whole year of my life spent without Matt.

A year ago, I might have marked the milestone with some significant gesture: visiting one of our old haunts, lighting a candle, or digging out whatever old mementos I had left. But I didn't. I didn't even feel obligated to rebuild our old collage. I took down the corkboard from my wall, and stuffed the extra pictures in a photo album in my closet.

Not I didn't still miss him. Time had just gentled the passionate yearning into something else. It was like a twinge of pain that lingers years after a broken leg is healed: little stiff at first, yet ultimately easier to bear.

With Bernadette and her mother gone, none of the adults in Verndale wanted to even mention the scandal anymore. It only popped up in conversation sporadically as "that horrible thing that happened last year." No need for names or people, it was over and done with.

People at school still talked about it, though as much. Caitlyn Wright and her friends stopped giving me the stink-eye now that Bernadette didn't need a defense squad. There were no more comments about me on social media. I could focus on my schoolwork with the comfort of a complete nonentity.

Best of all, I was off probation. It ended once I told Ms. Walker about seeing Bernadette. Well, I didn't tell her everything that happened, only that I accepted her apology and wished her well. Thankfully, she was astute enough not to press for the details. "It feels good, doesn't it?" she kept asking. "Getting closure on the whole thing?"

I smiled tightly and nodded. But there couldn't be any closure as long as these things kept happening. Somewhere out there would be another girl that got attacked. Another boy would be accused—one that was actually guilty this time. Then it would start all over again: the assumptions, the finger-pointing, the slut-shaming. More girls taking the blame, more lives turned upside down. People would be quick to remember Bernadette then—as a scapegoat, not a victim. "That girl in Verndale lied," they'd say. "This girl could be lying too."

Because of Bernadette, it would be even more difficult for other girls to come forward. They would hate her for that. Months ago, I might have relished that. Now it just made me cringe.

"You can't obsess on all the problems of the world," Ms. Walker reminded me whenever I stopped by her office for a friendly check-in. "Just do the best you can with your own life."

That's what I tried to do. It wasn't so simple for John.

The first couple of months were the worst for him. He'd stalk reluctantly to school, his movements sluggish and his eyes stoned. He sat through classes without taking in anything, barely giving any signs of life. He never spoke at all. We'd spend lunch together in the cafeteria, the only silent ones in a sea of noise. I'd have to force him to eat something.

Then there were good days. He'd chat about a new book in English, tried to smile (albeit in a strained way). He was able to function through the motions as if nothing had changed at all. Until something would set him off—seeing a little girl with a Disney princess backpack, a new polar bear at the Detroit Zoo, or just a bunch of little kids laughing and playing. Then he'd disappear back into himself, and it would be days before I'd hear him speak again.