Crush

7

Thursday morning, Jonathan stood at his locker. It had already been two days since Toby’s body was found. Jonathan stared inside at the stack of books and notepads absently, wondering what it was he needed. He felt lost this morning. Distracted. Entering the school was like entering a funeral home, the faces of Toby’s mourners surrounding him. Everyone looked so sad. He hadn’t attended the candlelight vigil for the boy last night. The service was held at the city park on the far side of the lake, and he had no way to get there. Even if he had managed a ride, he didn’t see how he could attend the bully’s vigil without feeling like a total hypocrite.

Instead he’d stayed home and studied for tests in geometry and English lit, both of which were being given tomorrow. He’d talked to David on the phone for a while and gone online briefly to look up some information on Shakespeare, but mostly he’d just read through his notes and checked the textbook. Studying hadn’t been easy. Concentrating on anything was tough these days.

Mr. Weaver. Toby.

Damn.

“Hey, Jonathan.”

The voice broke his reverie, and he turned away from the contents of his locker and faced the first pleasant surprise he’d had in a long time. Emma O’Neil stood next to him.

“H–hey, Emma,” he said. With her face so close to his, Jonathan could hardly breathe. She put his mind in shock, made his pulse double.

“Look, I know this is lame,” she said, “and I really hate to ask, but you know that test we’re having tomorrow?”

“Sure,” he said.

“I can’t make any sense of my notes,” Emma said. Then she laughed and lowered her head, pointing the nest of spiky hair at him. “Okay, the truth is, I didn’t take any notes.”

Jonathan laughed too loudly and then bit the inside of his cheek to staunch the unflattering tide of chuckles. “It happens,” he said.

“Well, I’m not usually such a flake, but after what happened to Mr. Weaver…jeez, and then Toby…I just couldn’t get my head on straight, so I know like nothing about Macbeth. I mean, I’m totally good through Othello, right? But if I could snag your notes for the last couple of classes, I’d totally owe you one.”

“Sure,” Jonathan said, already ducking his head back into the locker to find the right notebook. “My notes should be good.”

“They’d have to be better than mine,” Emma said.

“I just don’t answer questions in class,” he explained. “I mean I know the material.”

“I know you do,” Emma said. “That’s why I asked. Look, I have to bail, but could you email them to me or something? I could pull it into my PDA, and that would totally help.”

A knot formed in Jonathan’s throat. He hadn’t transferred any information to his computer. It was all handwritten. Besides, he had no idea if he’d be able to get online at home. His mother might be in a mood. Plus he had to work.

“I…uh,” he muttered. “I just have the handwritten ones.”

Emma’s smile faltered a bit. A cloud of disappointment passed over her brow. “Well, that’s okay.”

“I could make some copies in the library and get them to you later.”

“Jonathan,” Emma said with a laugh, “you’re doing me the favor by letting me use your notes. I’m not going to put you through the lameness of sharing your lunch period with a Xerox machine. I can copy them and get them back to you fifth period, if that’s okay?”

“Sure,” he said, handing her the notebook with his lit notes. “No problem.”

“You’re the best,” Emma said, placing her hand on Jonathan’s shoulder. “I owe you a coffee or ten.”

Then she was rushing away. Jonathan watched her go, dazed. She was so nice. God, she was just so amazing. He leaned back against the lockers and breathed deeply, hardly noticing the throng of kids passing him in the hall on the way to their first period classes.

Was she serious about coffee? he wondered. No way! he thought, absolutely ecstatic about the idea.

“Well, you’re in a good mood,” Kirsty Sabine said with a smile, as she veered out of the river of kids to meet Jonathan at his locker.

“Just having a better-than-normal day.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” she said. “Me too, in fact.”

“That’s cool.”

“Thanks for the coffee the other night. I know I already said it, but you and David were really nice to let me join you. I don’t know too many people here, and there isn’t exactly a line of kids looking for new friends.”

“I know the feeling. I’m glad you could join us.”

“David’s really cool.”

“He’s a good guy,” Jonathan agreed.

“Are you ready for that test tomorrow?”

“Pretty much. I studied last night because I’ve got work tonight. What about you?”

“I guess. I never do well on tests. I get all dorky and forget everything.” Kirsty paused like she wanted to say something else but didn’t know how to. Then she smiled and shook her head. “Are you headed to class?” she finally asked.

“Yeah,” he said, still buzzing from his conversation with Emma O’Neil. “I guess.”

“Well, why don’t you walk with me and tell me about David?”

“What do you want to know about David?” Jonathan asked, very pleased to hear the coyness in her voice.

“I don’t know. Just stuff.”

“I can tell you plenty of stuff,” Jonathan said, starting into the flow of students. Kirsty followed, clutching her books to her chest, her head cocked toward Jonathan as he prepared to fill her in on David.

The librarian, Mrs. Vierra, found Emma O’Neil’s body at the end of fourth period. The elderly librarian, her hair a tight brush of white, had been stacking books and heard a scream and then a clatter in the stairwell. Panicked, she ran onto the landing and looked down to find Emma sprawled below. The books she was carrying, including Jonathan’s notebook, were scattered along the stairway. Mrs. Vierra dialed 911 as she raced down the stairs. She knelt by the girl and searched for a pulse but found nothing.

She cast her cell phone aside and began to perform CPR. One minute later, Emma was breathing on her own, though she remained unconscious.

Jonathan heard all of this during fifth period, while he waited for Emma to return his notebook. He’d seen the ambulance outside, heard the kids mumbling their panic as they speculated on whom the vehicle was intended for. When he heard it was for Emma, all of the excitement, the joy of the day, drained out of him as if someone had pulled a plug from his big toe to release the emotions. In fifth period Mr. Lane told them what had happened. He said Emma had fallen down the stairs. He called it an accident.

Jonathan was in no state of mind to believe in accidents.

When he got home from school, he called David, but his friend didn’t answer his cell or the home phone. Jonathan felt so miserable—his chest aching as if someone had punched through his ribs to bruise his heart and lungs—he didn’t know what to do. Emma. Jesus, it didn’t seem real. She was beautiful. She was nice. She played jazz piano and wrote for the school paper. She had spoken to him that morning.

Finally. She had spoken to him, and now this.

Falling down the stairs. Heart stopping. Being brought back to life by old Mrs. Vierra. After Mr. Weaver. After Toby. What the hell was going on?

His mother wasn’t home, so Jonathan logged on to his computer and went online. He surfed to Westland High School’s website, praying to find news—good news—about Emma. He checked the school’s LiveJournal, and while dozens of kids had replied to the subject line ALL OUR PRAYERS FOR

EMMA, no one had any new information.

Jonathan went to the page for The Westie, the school newspaper. He scrolled through the newest issue until he found Emma’s picture by an article she had written about teen dating. He didn’t read the article. He looked at her picture, never wanted to stop looking at it.

The tears filled his eyes only a moment later. Everything just hurt too much. The light that carried him through his school days had nearly been put out. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t real. Why the hell did everything have to be so bad?

Was life always going to hurt like this?