In that moment, I should've said a lot of things. I should've asked her why she wanted to die, if living really was that bad. If I could do anything to change her mind and did she realize the number of bones she would break by jumping and...

None of those things came to mind.

I asked, "What's your name?"

My question startled her. Of all the things, right? And at first I thought she wouldn't respond until she finally said, "Jessica."

Jessica. Jessica the Jumper. I swallowed hard.

"Don't you think someone will miss you, Jessica?"

Her smile was a distant. Muscle memory. Not truly reaching her eyes. "No one will miss me. You'll see."

She spread her arms wide and jumped.

I never saw her hit the water; she vanished into the fog.

Jessica was right. I searched the papers both online and offline for any mention of a girl who leapt off the bridge. No missing person's report, no obituary, no found body, nada. The world kept turning. Jessica the Jumper was gone and nobody cared. And yet, she'd looked so relaxed and at peace. She was grateful to be getting the hell out of this world and into whatever lies beyond. Her sadness is over.

Since then, I've thought a lot about her. Anytime I get stressed out, I remember her face and I breathe deep, in and out, in and out, trying to find within myself that calm state of being she'd achieved just before death. Sometimes it works. Sometimes, it doesn't.

At this particular moment in time, it fails miserably.

Even when I'm standing in front of an auditorium full of people alongside my graduating class—which consists of a whopping thirty people—I'm thinking about Jessica. I wonder how old she was. If she graduated, or had plans of graduating. If she went to a regular school or an independent study course like me.

Which is why we've got such a small group of students here. The independent course, I mean. A few of them did it to graduate high school early, but a majority of them, myself included, are here because we were not cut out for regular school.

Since we're the throwaways, we're also wearing cheap, borrowed cap and gowns that make my arms itch. Or maybe that has to do with the fact I've got a hundred pairs of eyes on me.

I want to crawl out of my own skin. Peel it off and run screaming from the room.

I keep scanning the crowd, over the tops of heads, looking for Maggie. I don't see her but I know she's out there somewhere. I left the house this morning after she waved me off and told me to get out of her hair so she could make herself look presentable for the ceremony. And despite her clipped tone, I knew she was pleased. After all, we've spent the last three years, since she took me in as her foster kid, not knowing if I'd make it to this. I wouldn't have if it weren't for her.