Hate List Part 2

"I didn't know you were coming back today," Stacey said. Her eyes darted just briefly to the side, a.s.sessing Duce's face, and I could instantly see her begin to mold herself into a copy of him. Her grin took on a superior slant that was really awkward on her face.

I shrugged. Stacey and I had been friends since pretty much forever. We wore the same size, liked the same movies, dressed in the same clothes, told the same lies. There were stretches every summer when we were almost inseparable.

But there was one big difference between Stacey and me. Stacey had no enemies, probably because she was so eager to please all the time. She was completely moldable: you just told her who she was and she became it, just like that. She definitely wasn't one of the popular kids, but she wasn't one of the losers like me, either. She had always sort of walked this line in between, totally under the radar.

After "the incident" as my Dad likes to call it, Stacey came to visit me twice. Once, in the hospital, before I was speaking to anyone. Once at home after I was released, and I had Frankie tell her I was asleep. She never really tried to make contact again, and neither did I. I think maybe there was a part of me that felt like I didn't deserve friends anymore. Like she deserved a better friend than me.

In a way I felt sorry for her. I could almost see it in her face-her desire to go back to where we were before the shooting, the guilt she felt over holding me at arm's length-but I could also see how acutely aware she was of how being friends with me now made her look. If I was guilty by virtue of loving Nick, would she be guilty by virtue of loving me? Being my friend would be a tough risk to take-social suicide for anyone at Garvin. And Stacey would no way be strong enough to take that risk.

"Does your leg hurt?" she asked.

"Sometimes," I said, looking down at it. "At least I don't have to take P. E. But I'll probably never get to cla.s.s on time with this thing."

"Been to Nick's grave?" Duce asked. I looked at him sharply. He was staring at me with hard contempt in his eyes. "Been to anyone's grave?"

Stacey elbowed him. "Leave her alone. It's her first day back," she said, but without much conviction.

"Yeah, c'mon," David mumbled. "Glad you're okay, Val. Who do you have for math?"

Duce interrupted. "What? She can walk. How come she never went to n.o.body's grave? I mean, if I was the one writing down all these names of people I wanted dead I'd at least go to their graves."

"I didn't want anyone to die," I practically whispered. Duce gave me one of those raised eyebrow looks. "He was your best friend, too, you know."

There was silence between us, and I began to notice that all around me were curious onlookers. Only they weren't curious about the confrontation. They were curious about me, as if they'd all of a sudden realized who I was. They walked past me slowly on all sides, whispering to one another, staring at me.

Stacey had begun to notice, too. She shifted a little and then looked past me.

"I gotta get to cla.s.s," she said. "Glad you're back, Val." She was already walking past me, David and Mason and the others trailing behind her.

Duce moved last, shouldering past me, murmuring, "Yeah, it's real great."

I stood on the sidewalk, feeling marooned with this strange tide of kids moving around me, shoving me backward and forward with their motion, but never breaking me loose into the sea itself. I wondered if I could stand in this very spot until Mom came back at 2:50.

A hand fell on my shoulder.

"Why don't you come with me?" a voice said in my ear. I turned and found myself looking into the face of Mrs. Tate, the guidance counselor. She wrapped her arm around my shoulders and pulled me along, the two of us heading boldly through the waves of kids around us, leaving whispers in our wake.

"It's good to see you here today," Mrs. Tate said. "I'm sure you're a little apprehensive about it, no?"

"A little," I said, but I couldn't say more because she was pulling me along so fast it was all I could do to concentrate on walking. We broke into the vestibule before the panic in my torso could even well up, and somehow I felt cheated. Like I should at least have the right to panic about entering my school again, if that's what I wanted.

The hallway was a bustle of motion. A police officer stood at the door, waving a wand over students' backpacks and jackets. Mrs. Tate waved her hand at one of them and ushered me past him without stopping.

It seemed a little spa.r.s.e in the hallways, like a lot of kids were missing. But otherwise it was like nothing had changed. Kids were talking, squealing, shoes were scuffling on shiny tile, the walls echoing with the wham! wham! wham! wham! wham! wham! of lockers slamming in the hallways beyond my eyes' reach. of lockers slamming in the hallways beyond my eyes' reach.

Mrs. Tate and I walked through the hall with purpose, then rounded the corner to the Commons. This time the panic rose so quickly it made it to my throat before Tate could pull me into the large room. She must have sensed my fear because she squeezed my shoulders harder and pressed on more quickly.

The Commons-once the place to hang out in the mornings, ordinarily packed shoulder-to-shoulder-was empty, save for the cl.u.s.ters of empty tables and chairs. At the far end, the end where Christy Bruter had fallen, someone had installed a bulletin board. Across the top were construction paper cutout letters reading WE WILL REMEMBER WE WILL REMEMBER, and the board was papered with notes, cards, ribbons, photos, banners, flowers. A couple girls-I couldn't tell who from this distance-were pinning a note and photograph to the bulletin board.

"We would have banned congregating in the Commons in the mornings if we'd had to," Mrs. Tate said, as if she could tell what I was thinking. "Just out of safety concerns. But it looks like n.o.body wants to hang out here anymore anyway. Now we only use the Commons for lunch shifts."

We walked straight through the Commons. I tried to ignore my imagination, which had my feet sliding in sticky blood across the floor. I tried to focus on the sound of Mrs. Tate's shoes clacking against the tile, trying to remind myself of all the things about breathing and focusing that Dr. Hieler had spent so much time coaching me on. At the moment I couldn't remember a single one.

We pa.s.sed through the doorway at the other end of the Commons, where the administration offices were. Technically, this was the front of the building. More officers were searching backpacks and pa.s.sing metal detector wands over kids' clothes.

"All this security is going to make our mornings get off to a slow start, I'm afraid." Mrs. Tate sighed. "But, of course, this way we'll all feel safer."

She whisked me past the officers and into the administrative offices. The secretaries looked on with polite smiles, but didn't say a word. I kept my face tilted to the floor and followed Mrs. Tate into her office. I hoped she'd let me stay there a long time.

Mrs. Tate's office was the opposite of Dr. Hieler's. Where Dr. Hieler's was tidy and lined with rows and rows of reference books, Mrs. Tate's was a haphazard conglomeration of paperwork and educational tools, like it was part guidance office, part supply closet. There were books stacked on just about every flat surface and photos of Mrs. Tate's kids and dogs everywhere.

Most kids came to Mrs. Tate to either complain about a teacher or look through a college catalogue, and that was pretty much it. If Mrs. Tate had gone to college hoping to counsel scads of troubled teenagers, she was probably pretty disappointed. If there can be such a thing as disappointment about not having enough troubled people in your life.

She motioned for me to sit in a chair with a torn vinyl seat and she edged herself around a small file cabinet and sat in the chair behind her desk, dwarfed by stacks of papers and Post-it notes in front of her. She leaned forward over the mess and folded her hands right in the middle of an old fast food wrapper.

"I was watching for you this morning," she said. "I'm glad you came back to school. Shows guts."

"I'm giving it a try," I mumbled, rubbing my thigh absently. "I can't make any promises I'll stay." Eighty-three and counting Eighty-three and counting, I repeated in my head.

"Well, I hope you do. You're a good student," she said. "Ah!" she yelped, holding up one finger. She leaned to the side and pulled open a drawer of the file cabinet next to her desk. A framed photo of a black and white cat pawing at something wobbled as the drawer moved and I imagined her, several times a day, having to right the photo after it fell. She pulled a brown file folder out and opened it on the desk in front of her, leaving the file drawer hanging ajar. "That reminds me. College. Yes. You were considering..." she flipped through a few pages, "... Kansas State, if I remember correctly." She kept flipping, then ran her finger down a page and said, "Yep. Right here. Kansas State and Northwest Missouri State." She closed the folder and smiled. "I got the program requirements from each of them just last week. It's a little late to be just starting this process, but it shouldn't be a problem. Well, you'll probably have to account for some things on your permanent record, but... really... you were never charged with... well, you know what I mean."

I nodded. I knew what she meant. Not that it needed to be on my permanent record, because I pretty much couldn't think of anyone in the country who hadn't heard of me by now. I was like best friends with the world. Or maybe worst enemies. "I changed my mind," I said.

"Oh. A different school? Shouldn't be a problem. With your grades..."

"No, I mean I'm not going. To college."

Mrs. Tate leaned forward, resting her hand on the wrapper again. She was frowning at me. "Not going?"

"Right. I don't want to anymore."

She spoke softly: "Listen, Valerie. I know you blame yourself for what happened. I know you think you're just like him. But you're not."

I sat up straighter and tried to smile confidently. This was not a conversation I wanted to get into today, of all days. "Really, Mrs. Tate, you don't have to say this," I said. I touched my back pocket with the picture of Nick and me at Blue Lake in it for rea.s.surance. "I mean, I'm okay and everything."

Mrs. Tate held up a hand and looked me straight in the eye. "I spent more time with Nick than with my own son most days," she said. "He was such a searcher. Always so angry. He was one of those kids who was just going to struggle through life. He was so consumed with hate. Ruled by it, really."

No, I wanted to shout at her. No he wasn't. Nick was good. I saw it. No he wasn't. Nick was good. I saw it.

I was struck with a memory of the night Nick had shown up at my house unexpectedly just as Mom and Dad began to rev up for their usual after-dinner b.i.t.c.hfest. I could feel it coming: Mom slamming plates into the dishwasher, mumbling under her breath, and Dad pacing the floor between the living room and the kitchen, eyeing Mom and shaking his head. The tension was building and I'd begun to get that tired feeling I'd had so often lately, wishing I could just go to bed and wake up in a different house, a different life. Frankie had already disappeared into his room and I wondered if he got that tired feeling, too.

I was just climbing the stairs to my bedroom when the doorbell rang. I could see Nick through the window next to the door, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"I'll get it!" I hollered to my parents as I ran back down the stairs, but the argument had already started and they didn't notice.

"Hey," I'd said, stepping out on the front porch. "What's up?"

"Hey," he said back. He'd held out a CD. "I brought this," he said. "I burned it for you this afternoon. It's all the songs that make me think about you."

"That's so sweet," I said, reading the back of the case, where he'd carefully typed all of the t.i.tles and artists of the songs. "I love it."

On the other side of the door, we could hear Dad's voice getting closer. "You know, maybe I won't won't come home, Jenny, that's a great idea," he was growling. Nick looked at the door, and I could swear I saw embarra.s.sment creep through his face. And something else. Pity, maybe? Fear? Maybe that same weariness I felt? come home, Jenny, that's a great idea," he was growling. Nick looked at the door, and I could swear I saw embarra.s.sment creep through his face. And something else. Pity, maybe? Fear? Maybe that same weariness I felt?

"Want to get out of here?" he asked, shoving his hands in his pockets. "It doesn't sound too good in there. We can hang together for a while."

I nodded, opening the door a crack and dropping the CD on the table in the foyer. Nick reached out and grabbed my hand, leading me to the field behind my house. We found a clearing and sprawled on our backs in the gra.s.s, looking at the stars, talking about... anything, everything.

"You know why we get along so well, Val?" he asked after a while. "Because we think just alike. It's like we have the same brain. It's cool."

I stretched, wrapping my leg around his. "Totally," I said. "Screw our parents. Screw their stupid fights. Screw everybody. Who gives a s.h.i.t about them?"

"Not me," he said. He scratched his shoulder. "For a long time I thought n.o.body would ever get me, but you really do."

"Of course I do." I turned my head and kissed his shoulder. "And you get me, too. It's kind of creepy the way we're so alike."

"Creepy in a good way."

"Yeah, in a good way."

He turned to face me, propping himself up on an elbow. "It's good that we have each other," he said. "It's like, you know, even if the whole world hates you, you still have someone to rely on. Just the two of you against the whole world. Just us."

At the time, my thoughts had been so consumed with Mom and Dad and their incessant arguing, I'd just a.s.sumed we were talking about them. Nick knew exactly what I was going through-he called his stepdad Charles his "Step du Jour" and talked about his mom's ever-changing love life as if it were some big joke. I'd had no idea he might have meant us against... everyone. "Yeah. Just us," I'd answered. "Just us."

I looked at the carpet of Mrs. Tate's office, once again struck with the feeling that I never knew Nick at all. That all of that soul-mate stuff we'd talked about was just bulls.h.i.t. That when it comes to reading people, I'm an F student.

I felt a lump in my throat. How indulgent was that? The school outcast cries over the memory of her boyfriend, the murderer. Even I would hate me. I swallowed and forced the lump to go down.

Mrs. Tate had sat back in her chair, but was still talking. "Valerie, you had a future. You were choosing colleges. You were getting good grades. Nick never had a future. Nick's future was... this."

A tear spilled over. I swallowed and swallowed but it did no good. How did she know about Nick's future? You can't predict the future. G.o.d, if I could have predicted what happened, I would've stopped it. I would've made it go away. But I didn't. I couldn't. And I should have. That's what gets me. I should have. And now my future doesn't have college in it. My future is about being known around the world as The Girl Who Hates Everyone. That's what the newspapers called me-The Girl Who Hates Everyone.

I wanted to tell Tate all of these things. But it was all so complicated, and thinking about it made my leg throb and my heart ache. I stood up and shrugged into my backpack. I wiped my cheeks with the backs of my hands. "I better get to cla.s.s," I said. "I don't want to be late on the first day. I'll think about it. College, I mean. But like I said, I can't make any promises, okay?"

Mrs. Tate sighed and stood up. She pushed the file drawer in, but didn't move around the file cabinet.

"Valerie," she said, then stopped and seemed to reconsider. "Try to have a good day, okay? I am glad you're back. And I'll hang onto those program requirements for you."

I started toward the door. But just before I reached for the doork.n.o.b, I turned.

"Mrs. Tate? Have things changed much?" I asked. "I mean, are people different now?" I didn't know what I hoped her answer would be. Yes, everyone learned their lesson and now we're all one big, happy family, just like they say we are in the newspapers. Or no, there were no bullies-it was all in your head just like they say. Nick was crazy and you bought it and that's all there was to it. You were angry for no reason. So angry, but it was all in your imagination.

Mrs. Tate chewed on her bottom lip and seemed to really consider the question. "People are people," she finally said, turning up her palms in a helpless, sad shrug.

I think that was the last answer I wanted to hear.

MAY 2, 2008.

7:10 A.M A.M.

"She might cast a spell on you, Christy..."

Most days I found it totally ironic that Mom drove Frankie to school because he hated to ride the bus while I rode the bus because I hated the excruciating car ride with Mom. But some days I wished I'd gone ahead and braved Mom's morning critiques because the bus was just such c.r.a.p. that Mom drove Frankie to school because he hated to ride the bus while I rode the bus because I hated the excruciating car ride with Mom. But some days I wished I'd gone ahead and braved Mom's morning critiques because the bus was just such c.r.a.p.

Usually I could crawl into a seat somewhere in the middle, sink down into a C-shape, my knees propped against the seat in front of me, listen to my MP3 player, and completely disappear.

But lately Christy Bruter had been a real pain. It's not like that was news, since I couldn't stand Christy anyway. Never could.

Christy was one of those girls who was popular because most everyone was afraid not to be her friend. She was big and bulky and had a gut that stood out belligerently in front of her and thighs that were enormous and could crack a skull. Which was weird because she was the captain of the softball team. I never could figure that one out. I just couldn't imagine Christy Bruter outrunning anyone to first base. But she must have done it at least once or twice, I guess. Or maybe the coach was too afraid to cut her. Who knows?

I'd known Christy since at least kindergarten and never once had I thought I might like her. And vice versa. Every Back to School Night, my mom would pull the teacher aside and advise her that Christy and I should never sit at the same table group together. "We all have that one person..." Mom would say to the teacher with an apologetic smile. Christy Bruter was my one person.

In elementary school Christy called me Bucky Beaver. In sixth grade she started a rumor that I wore a thong, which, in middle school, was a huge deal. And in high school she decided she didn't like my makeup and clothes and so started the nickname Sister Death that everyone thought was hilarious.

She got on two stops after me, which could work in my favor on most days because I had time to get invisible before she got on the bus. Not that I was afraid of her or anything; I just got sick of dealing with her.

I sank into my seat, slid down where my head was barely peeking over the top of the backrest, and stuffed my earbuds into my ears, turning up the volume on my MP3 player with my thumb. I peered out the window, thinking that it would feel good to hold Nick's hand today. I could hardly wait to get to school and see him. I couldn't wait to smell the cinnamon gum on his breath and fold my head into the curl of his arm during lunch, sit shielded by him, all the rest of the world shut out. Christy Bruter. Jeremy. Mom and Dad and their "discussions" that always, always, always turned into screaming matches and ended with Dad slithering out of the house into a pocket of darkness, Mom sniffling pathetically in her room.

The bus slid to a stop, and then to another. I kept my eyes glued to the window, looking out at a terrier nosing through a trash bag in front of a house. The terrier's tail was beating the wind and his head was all but completely covered by trash bag. I wondered how he could breathe and tried to think of the things he might have found in there that would get him so excited.

The bus got going again and I turned up my MP3 player as the noise ratcheted up exponentially with the number of kids that got on. I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes.

I felt a b.u.mp against my arm. I figured it was somebody walking past and ignored it. Then I felt a harder one and someone used the cord to s.n.a.t.c.h the earbud out of my right ear. It dangled in midair, tinny music spilling out of it.

"What the h.e.l.l?" I said, pulling the bud out of my left ear and rewinding the cord around the MP3 player. I looked to my right and there was Christy Bruter's face grinning on the other side of the aisle. "Go away, Christy."

Her ugly friend Ellen (the equally Amazonian, red-haired, man-faced Garvin varsity softball team catcher) laughed, but Christy just stared at me with this fake innocent bat of her eyes.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Sister Death. Maybe you're having a hallucination. Maybe you got some bad X or something. Maybe the devil did it."

I rolled my eyes. "Whatever." I pushed the earbuds back into my ears and settled back to my C-shape, closing my eyes. I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of fighting back.

Just as the bus turned into the Garvin driveway, I felt another shove against my shoulder, only this time there was a mighty yank on the cord of my earbuds and they were ripped out of my ears so hard the whole MP3 player flew out of my hand and skittered across the bus floor, settling under the seat ahead of mine. I picked it up. The green light on the side of it had blinked off and the screen was blank. I flipped the switch to turn it off and then on again, but... nothing. It was dead.

"G.o.d! What is your problem?" I asked, my voice getting loud.

Again, Ellen was snickering her man face off, and so were a couple other cronies sitting behind them. And again Christy was giving me this fake wide-eyed look.

The bus doors opened and we all stood up. That's some sort of kid instinct, I think. You could be in the middle of just about anything and if the bus doors opened, you stood up. It was one of the constants of life. You are born, you die, you stand up when the bus doors open.

Christy and I stood up within inches of each other. I could smell pancake syrup on her. She sneered at me, giving me a slow top-to-bottom look.