“Do you live on campus?” I can’t help but wonder why this boy would need to be in an alternative school.

He shakes his head. “No, thank God.”

“That bad, huh?”

He sort of laughs, but it sounds more like a snicker. “I already spend more time here than I like. I’m local.” Ah, so he probably didn’t do anything to be sent here.

As we cross campus, I conduct another sweep of the grounds and notice a thin layer of decay has settled upon the landscape in the form of weathered brick, buckled sidewalks, and rusted pipe rails. These are flaws in its beauty—cracks the past has slipped through. The dead are a part of that past, and the same as always, I feel a fierce desire to fix it. The urge tugs at my heart, twines with my veins, and bursts from my palm. The sharpness is startling, and I squeeze my fingers into a fist, knowing no good can come of it, no matter my intentions.

Worse, I’ll mess it up like I have before.

It’s like fixing a china doll after her face has shattered—you might find a rosy cheek and an eye, but nothing prepares you for the chips in the already-broken pieces or the glue that never stops oozing from those cracks.

“Are you a senior this year?” Shy asks. His voice startles me, and though the question grounds me, I want to tell him he doesn’t have to keep up conversation just to be polite. Still, I answer.

“No, a junior.”

“Good. At least you don’t have to start your last year of school in a new place. Where are you from?”

“Chicago.”

“Why did you move here?”

The question makes my stomach churn.

“Things…got complicated.” A weak response, but an answer that’s true. I’m relieved when Shy nods and doesn’t ask me to elaborate. “What about you?” I ask quickly. “Have you always lived here?”

“My whole life.”

Surprising. Somehow, I can’t see this being the only place he’s ever lived. His smile seems sad too, and I wonder if he feels trapped like I feel trapped.

We approach Walcourt, which is shaped like a rectangle with large square columns running the length of a cement overhang, and ugly white rails zigzag to the doors. Inside, the place smells like must and mold. The white floor looks yellow under fluorescent lights.

We walk midway down the hall, and Shy’s eyes capture mine before he nods to a door on my right.

“That’s Mr. Val’s class. Just to warn you…he’s a bit of a prick.”

So that’s why he laughed earlier. Great. Shy steps back and then twists toward the door. He knocks and doesn’t wait for a response. I hear a deep, stern voice.

“Mr. Savior. What can I do for you?”