“I know what you’re thinking,” I say.

“You do?”

“Yep. You think I’m weird because last time I was moody and, this time, I’m…”

I don’t know how to finish the sentence, but I don’t have to.

“Hyper?” Tom says, and I laugh because it’s been a long time since anyone described me as that.

Will was hyper for both of us. He was off-the-charts exhausting, and I was his audience.

Tom is already backing away, but I’m sure I’m right about him. He looks different from the others.

“Meet me at break,” I say, and I think he will.

IIII IIII IIII IIII IIII IIII IIII IIII III

Everything happens around me, because I’m too late to be important.

All the friendships have been made, all the private jokes and famous stories have been written into our school’s history. All I can do is answer my name when roll is called and try not to think how long a year can be.

I go back to the reception area, and he’s there, looking a lot like he doesn’t want to be.

I try my best smile and say, “I’m here for the tour.”

He tells me the truth all the way around, which only makes me like him more. Then he shows me the sports field and says, “That’s Simon Marlow’s head-start line,” and the way he looks at me changes.

Most people don’t look at me at all. But something in Tom’s eyes feels lovely and awkward at the same time, and I stay quiet because whatever I say will spoil it.

He tells me a story about a dead boy, and I imagine what would happen if I did the same.

This boy has a line drawn in the grass and a story repeated over and over again, but Will doesn’t have anything like that. Simon Marlow isn’t a secret like my brother.

Tom tells the tale like someone recalling their own experience rather than rushing through someone else’s. I give him a hug because he’s sad and nice and cute, and, if he has more stories, I might not feel alone in my own.

“Do I scare you?” I ask.

“No.”

“I will,” I say, because I think we could be friends, and I’m worried how much I already trust him.

IIII IIII IIII IIII IIII IIII IIII IIII IIII

Dad hands me a box and says, “I made you this.”

At the bottom, on a square of paper, are two words: I’m sorry.

“What is it?” I ask and he bows his head.

“It’s a way of talking to Will…without raising suspicion. If anyone finds this, it’s just an apology.”