I move along to my homeroom. As I enter into the classroom, a gradual hush descends, and twenty-six heads swivel towards the door. I feel dizzy, and for a second, just a second, I think I might be sick. But Rachel is there, waving to me, and as I gratefully make my way to sit down beside her, the buzz of chatter and gossip resumes.

“You’d think no one ever saw a girl with a dead brother before,” I say softly.

Rachel put her hand on my arm and squeezes. “Ignore them,” she whispers. “Hey, guess what’s happening this weekend.”

“What?”

“The LGH Bonfire! We have to go. Have to. Everyone who’s anyone will be there. Everyone.” Rachel still has the funny twang, and she has actually said the words everyone who’s anyone.

I shake my head as vigorously as I can without totally messing up my already messy hair. “Uh-uh, no way, lady. Not in a million years. Besides, my mom will never let me go.” For once, I am thankful for my mother’s totally crazy, overbearing rules.

“What do you mean?” Rachel whines. “You have to come with me! I can’t go alone. Puhleeeese!”
“I’m telling you, my mom won’t let me. I’m not allowed out after dark, remember? I might turn into a pumpkin or something.” It’s a lame joke, but it’s too sad otherwise.

“No, seriously, you cannot miss this. And I can’t go without you. Please, just ask her. If you don’t I will,” Rachel threatens.

“Yeah, good luck with that.” I smirk. “Anyway, I don’t even want to go.”

“What do you mean? How could you possibly mean that?” Rachel squeals.

“I don’t know. I’m just not…” My voice trails off as the teacher begins to call roll.

“Just, ask your mom, okay?” Rachel wheedles.

“Fine, I’ll ask! Jeez.”

Rachel shoots me a wide smile, and I can’t help but return it.

As the bell rings, I edge into the surge of students, bodies pressing tightly together, pushing and fighting through the halls. I have geometry first. When I arrive in the classroom, Mr. Lane, the teacher, announces that everyone will be sitting in alphabetical order. His voice drones on as he calls the names, “Allan, Andrews, Ballans, Belson, Bilson, Bradley—" He looks up, looks around. “Bradley? Any relation to…” He doesn’t finish. I had begun to raise my hand, and I drop it too quickly so that it slaps the wooden desk with a resounding clap. I can tell that he had been about to say something smart alecky about my brother, but stopped himself when he remembered. My face is hot, and the nausea has returned. I stare at the ground. Really? Did this really just happen?

The class shifts uncomfortably, and the silence stretches on.

“Uh, sorry, Miss Bradley, for your loss. Your brother was quite a character.”

I can’t even begin to find my voice. I just nod my head and feel my ears catch fire. I cannot believe this is happening.

The rest of the morning passes relatively smoothly—relative to the humiliating debacle of geometry class. I think my classes will be challenging, and there is sure to be a serious load of homework for each one. But I can’t shake the feeling that my teachers were examining me, looking for signs of—I don’t know what—grief, similarity to Nate, craziness. Who knows. But I can sense that they’re treating me carefully. So are the other kids. A few girls I used to be friendly with B.T.A. (Before The Accident), have said hello to me, but I can tell they want to run away from me as fast and far as possible. Like I have leprosy or something. I pat my nose. Still there. No crumbling body parts.

Lunchtime is pretty uneventful. Rachel and I sit together as we have since the first day of first grade. I bought lunch and I have cast around the tray for something edible. The chicken is simultaneously stringy and rubbery and strangely grey. The green beans are cold and rubbery, and the rice pudding is stringy and also grey. To be expected from a school-issue hot lunch. While we sit at our end of the lunch table, next to a wide window, Rachel keeps looking across the cafeteria at Josh Mills, one of the boys from our class. We’ve known Josh for as long as I can remember—that’s how it is with most of the kids in our class, we’ve been together since we were babies—but we’ve never counted him as a friend. I mean, he is probably decent enough, but he’s definitely more interested in football than in girls. His hair is shaved close to the scalp, and his ears stick out like half moons on either side of his head.

He is laterally friendly with the Nasties, meaning his friends are friends with the Nasties, and he is allowed to sit at their lunch table. Important fact, though: He has never participated in the Nasties’ merciless shredding of other classmates. He’s never stuck up for any of their victims, either. (Neither have I, for that matter.) Still, I figure, the fact that he’s never called Rachel McFattie—her last name is McFadden—is a plus. Really, he is just a peripheral Nasty Boy.

“Josh got cute over the summer,” Rachel gushes in a hushed voice. “Like, super cute.”

“Super cute? Really?” I repeat stupidly.

“Omigod, yes! Are you not seeing?” Rachel continues. “I think I have the biggest crush on him!”

“Josh?” I ask. I am dumbfounded. I can’t see past the big ears and the Nasties.

“Yeah! Don’t you think?” Rachel carries on, not waiting to hear my opinion. “I mean, he must have grown like three inches.”

“Hmm,” I murmur.

“Do you think he’ll be at the bonfire?” Rachel asks.

“Well, you said everyone who’s anyone will be there,” I snicker meanly. I’m terrible.

“You’re right. He’ll definitely be there,” Rachel agrees, not even noticing my tone. “You have to call me as soon as you ask your mom, okay?”

“Uh-huh,” I answer without really paying attention to the question. I stare out the window at the cars in the parking lot and the broken glass glittering on the sidewalk like diamonds. It’s funny how a blown-out windshield can look beautiful.