That’s what they said anyway. Sure, Declan cared about grades. He was brilliant, so his grades were there. He applied to ten schools, UPenn being his dream, and a number of safe ones too. After he died, the big, fat envelopes came rolling in. He’d gotten accepted to every one of them—even UPenn. “He had no reason to stress,” I say.

“What?”

“He had no reason to stress,” I repeat, louder. “All the applications were in. The hard part was over. I mean, all he was doing was waiting.”

“Okay, but it’s over. It happened. We can’t bring him back.”

“But I can try to understand it, Kane. And I don’t. That’s why I can’t move on. So bear with me. I mean, what did he say to you the last time you saw him?”

“You’re a masochist, you know that? I saw him the night before he died. I don’t know when you saw him last, but what does it matter?”

We have been over it. In the weeks following his death, we all had discussed the whys and hows until the horror of it numbed us. But the details had blurred with time.

He tugs my sleeve. “You need to get back to class before someone calls out the guards on you.”

“What about you?” I ask, already knowing the answer. Kane is above the rules. People gladly bend restrictions and make exceptions where he’s concerned. His crazy best friend? They keep extra eyes on me.

We walk down the hallway in relative silence until I can’t take it any longer. I hug my notebook to my chest and say, “I’m sorry. I know I should forget it. But yesterday was so weird…and when your mom wanted to give me his things…I saw that picture, and I just…snapped. I’m sorry.”

He stares at me, his expression softening. “What picture?”

I reach into my purse and pull it out, hand it to him.

He looks at it for a second, then shoves it back into the envelope. “Where did you get this?”

“Your stepmom. She said she found it in his room.”

“And you have no idea what this is?”

“Why? Should I?” I reach over to take it back from him. He yanks it away. Then he holds it over his head and starts laughing at me as I jump to try to grab it from him. “Give it back,” I tell him.

“Why?” he asks. “Why does it matter?”

He crumples it in his fist, then thinks better of it and starts to rip it up. It doesn’t tear well, but he shoves it in a trash can, deep, and throws some paper on top.

“Kane! What are you doing that for?”

He shrugs. “Because you don’t need it. You should take that entire box she gave you and burn it. You need to move forward.”