Chapter Twenty-three

I’ve never talked about any of this. Not with the therapist they made me go see, not with Lucy or Grann, no matter how hard they tried to get me to open up, and especially not with my parents. And yet, right now, I can’t stop myself. Zach’s silence has this weird pull on me, and his arm around my shoulders has unlocked something deep inside my chest.

It’s been so long since I’ve been touched.

“I hid in there, you know. I left all those other kids out there and I stayed in the closet and let it happen. I left my brother out there; I left him out there to die.”

I was in that closet, searching for an extra music stand, all slow and hungover from hanging out with Chim the night before, when I heard David come into the room—heard Mr. Oppenheimer say, Ecchles, you aren’t in this class—and then a boom and then the screams. All the screams. I tucked my head between my knees and stayed in there, in that closet. Shoved my hands against my ears and tried to block out the sounds coming from the other room, the cries, Mr. Oppenheimer’s voice pleading, Stop, please stop, shoot me instead, more shots.

And then, silence.

The silence was the worst. It felt louder than anything that preceded it; it pressed against my entire body like a vise.

They found me in there, hours later, long after most of the other students had been pulled out of the school, long after the cops had discovered David Ecchles hiding out in a restroom on the second floor, too much of a coward to blow his own brains out like he was supposed to.

When they found me, I couldn’t unball my body; it was like all my muscles had frozen in place.

They had to pick me up and carry me out of the building like that. I kept my eyes wide open as they took me through the room where the bodies had been. I knew I needed it burned into my brain, knew I deserved to have that picture carved into my mind with the sharpest instrument possible so it would stay with me for the rest of my life.

I left them all out there to die.

“You know it’s not your fault, right?” Zach’s voice tears me out of my thoughts, out of the play-by-play, the one that starts up at night when I forget to leave music on, when silence snakes its way through my head. The recitation of names: Juliet Nichols…Madison Kim…Mr. Oppenheimer…Marcus Neilson…Britta Oliver…Michael Graves…

Jordan.

When I’m stronger and more awake, I don’t let most of those names pass through my mind. Never. I block them out with all my might and what little self-preservation I have left.