“I know,” I choke back.

At school, everyone is crying. Groups of kids sit in clumps on the floor with their backs against the lockers, their faces screwed up. As I pick my way through the hallway to find my friends, I see mascara like black calligraphy ink running down the cheeks of all the older girls. Tall boys with hoodies still on over their uniform shirts have the hoods pulled up over their heads. Everyone is hugging, and none of the teachers are even saying a thing about boys and girls not touching.

I still feel so shocked I just keep staring. I look at everyone crying and feel like I am floating above, watching them, watching myself. I don’t want to have to share my sadness. How can I feel like I had a special connection to Mr. Sandler if all these people look like they feel the same way? Only Honey’s shoulder, which I can sense next to mine throughout the day, reminds me that my feet are on the ground.

After school, Honey comes over and we head straight to the spare room. I lie down on the massage table, and she flicks on the Shabbat lamp, then sits cross-legged on the floor, her back against the bed. We are quiet. For the first time today, I suddenly remember that Honey and I have been in a fight and have barely spoken in a week. I stare at the ceiling where the pillar of light from the lamp creates eerie shadows. Usually, the small beam makes our thoughts feel more solemn, but this afternoon I think our thoughts are too solemn already, and the darkness is too heavy. I stand up and flip on the overhead light and then I fling myself onto the extra bed on my stomach with my face in my arms.

“It’s just weird that we’ll never see him again,” Honey says after a while, and I want to cover my ears at the final-ness of those words. She’s taken my place on the massage table. I turn to face her, my cheek on the pillow. “Even when we thought he left that time, at least there was the possibility of him coming back.”

I swallow, wondering how Honey will take what I want to admit. “I know it’s stupid, but I was upset he left that time because I wanted to be one of those kids that come to visit him when they’re in high school, and he has them stand up in front of the class and he says, ‘So-and-so was my superstar’ or ‘So-and-so was our class poet.’ ”

“He loved you, Milla,” Honey says. “He always said your answers were ‘impressive.’ ” She’s taken out her ponytail, and her hair flows over the sides of the massage table.

“He said your answer about the red wheelbarrow was beautiful.”

“Milla, that was only because I was trying to think like you and for once it worked! And remember what he said to you in Starbucks? About your ‘incisive’ essay.”