By the time I moved home again, the media circus had slowed down a bit. I mean, I’m not a headline anymore. Other people have done terrible, embarrassing, shameful things, and they have moved on to them. Most have, anyway. I know I’m still out there as a favorite topic and target, as a mascot and prop. I’m a celebrity to some, a disgusting villain to others. I looked a few times, and there are long, opinionated think-pieces about me. Well, not about me, but about what it means, what I did. How they can use it as a mirror, how it fits into a larger picture, you know. A zeitgeist. A paradigm shift. A tipping point. A moment. I look away.

I went to the Youth Custody Centre every day for a month. Mom drove me, and I stared out the window while she chattered away nervously. It went by quickly. I met other “troubled youth” and noticed that we are all different, all the same: some were tough and mean looking, others quiet and broken. We were all some version of lonely, defensive, sad, regretful, but then, miraculously, hopeful that maybe we could change. Some of us were shy and reluctant to talk, and then, over time, we did. We talked about how we got there, what we did; we cried; we hugged each other. I didn’t tell anyone about Dee, but I was honest about the rest. It was exhausting, like something had been leeched out of me, and I usually slept on the way home. I don’t know if I’ll see any of them again, or if I want to, but my faith in restorative justice is actually the only political position I have anymore.

I am taking time off school. Mom and I hang out. She’s not a friend the way Lottie was, or Dee, but she’s my mom. And I have Ava and Matthew now, and they come over when they can, and maybe, one day, I can reach out and find Lottie there. Maybe. Meantime, Mom and I do quiet crafts and play board games. She makes lunch, dotes on me, and I feel young and safe again. We spent one afternoon playing the Game of Life that she got from the Woepine Benevolent Fund, and even though it was missing a lot of pieces, we had a good time. Pretending we were making life choices and stuff. Matthew comes over and we play cards, although it’s slow for me to master maneuvering them with my new hand. Ava and I listen to music and watch home improvement shows on TV, and it is relaxing and meaningless and exactly what I need.

One day, Mom comes into the living room, where I am resting on a big La-Z-Boy chair she got me. She’s carrying a stack of DVDs, and she dumps them on the carpet.

“What d’ya got there?” I ask.