I once overheard my mom saying, “If Harrison would learn to look people in the eye, he’d be such a pleasant boy,” and, “If Aidy would spend more time on her schoolwork, she’d be doing so well in school.” She went on like this for most of our friends, except for Nick. Nick Cline was a When. “When that Nicky Cline grows up, he’s going to be something.”

Success wrote itself into his genetics. Mama’s boy smile, jolly upturned nose, bashful cheeks, and cheerful eyes, he’d once looked the part of a young white hero waiting for time to catch up to him. There he stood, eyes no longer cheerful but a face as handsome as ever. He’d never dared attend Marley’s memorial before. He was the one person who lived on the flip side of every Marley news piece. CADENCE NATIVE NICHOLAS CLINE, 11, FIRED THE GUN. Underdressed in a white tee and dark jeans, he kept his steady gaze on the dessert display in front of me. He started moving closer.

To me?

To me.

“Hi,” I said, before I could stop myself.

The word fireworked in the air, surprising us both.

Nick froze. “Really?” he asked, like Are you sure you mean me? and I nodded. His eyes flickered across my face and he said, “Hi,” and I said, “Hi,” again, because where do you go from there? He scuffed his shoe on the floor. I cleared my throat like Don’t be a fool or I will crack my olive branch in half and bury it under every bit of unresolved anger I have toward you, and he said, “Thanks,” and I said, “You’re welcome,” because I gave a cruise-control response before realizing how strange it would sound. I tried again with “Yes,” in a very definite way, like I, the official spokesperson for the Tragedy of Marley Bricket™ was confirming that it was indeed very nice of me to speak to him.

Then came the lull we both needed: a chance to catch our breath and climb out of the tangled web of random pleasantries we’d stumbled into, and he said “Want to,” to which I finished with “Get out of here? No. I’m giving a speech later.”

He let out a small laugh, which made things worse, because everyone in Cadence was always saying that Nick Cline could’ve been something, but he’d done a terrible thing. By accident, of course. But terrible. So terrible. He’s lucky he was just a kid. I’d spent years committing myself to that truth. Yet there I was blushing, forgetting to boycott him, being neither somber nor casual.

“To talk somewhere quieter,” Nick said. “I can barely hear myself think over the music.”

“It’s not even that loud,” I argued.

It was so loud. Everywhere. My heart had a beat that countered the music. The syncopation made for chaos inside and out.