Mr. Boyce smiles. At least his mouth does. His hair is combed, his face shaved. He’s wearing a navy blue jacket, a pale blue shirt, and khaki pants, a typical Mr. Boyce outfit. He seems older somehow, and his eyes are still sad.

I try to smile back, but I’m thinking how nice he’s being when he must totally hate me. I should tell him I’m sorry, but it’s hard to talk because of the huge lump in my throat.

“I almost didn’t come today,” he says. “But Kris meant so much to me. I wanted to be here for her. Even if . . .”

His voice breaks. “I know what people think, what they say—if I’d gone after her that day, she’d still be alive.” His eyes linger on the meadows running downhill to the woods. “I’ll always blame myself for her death, for letting her go, for not stopping her.”

I squint up at him. The sun’s in my eyes and my sandal straps are rubbing my heels. I’m embarrassed. I don’t know what to say. I hadn’t expected Mr. Boyce to tell me how he felt, as if I were another grown up, not a kid. Sweat trickles down my sides.

“I should go. Mom will wonder where I am.” I stumble over the words like I’m giving a speech I didn’t prepare for. Before I lose my nerve, I add, “I’m sorry about the police and all. Skylar and I, we . . . well, we—”

“Don’t worry about it, Abbi. I’m sorry too. I handled everything so badly.”

A teacher, Ms. Russell, comes out of the restroom. Without even looking at Mr. Boyce, she says, “The memorial starts in five minutes, Abbi.”

Mr. Boyce pretends not to notice the snub. “It’s nice to see you, Abbi. Enjoy eighth grade. Keep pulling down those As, you and Skylar both. And don’t worry—you two will always be my one and only super-duper dynamic duo.”

I hurry away, then stop and look back. “It was good to see you too, Mr. Boyce.”

He’s already deep in a conversation with Mr. Ignazio, the eighth-grade science teacher. But he raises a hand to wave.

I walk slowly uphill to Mom and Greg, the sun beating down on me, sweat trickling down my back. I feel better about Mr. Boyce, but it would have been nice if Skylar had been with me. We could talk about what he told me. Surely she’d be glad to see how sorry he is. Maybe she’d even forgive him, at least a little.

I stand between Mom and Greg, holding hands with both of them. I see Mr. Boyce at the back of the crowd. He’s by himself.