A Breath Too Late - Rocky Callen Page 0,2

a passage from a book, her eyes sparkle as if somehow the words make her more real, like they’re her talisman and she just needs to read them to be set on fire. I wonder if she can feel it. The twinkle of life, I mean. I wonder if it’s something that bubbles up inside her. I wonder what that must feel like.

I want to be Ms. Hooper.

Eyeing August’s empty place just a couple of seats away, I sit down. Sometimes I think I feel him watching me, but that’s stupid. He wouldn’t watch me. Not like before, especially with Ms. Hooper twinkling with so much life and me rotting in my chair.

I sit down, surprised Britney doesn’t make her oh-my-gosh-I-can’t-believe-I-am-sitting-next-to-this-freak eyes at me. She just giggles with Sarah and Terry and then they squeeze into their respective seats, ignoring me entirely. Which is fine by me. I am perfectly happy being ignored.

I stretch and look up at the ceiling. There are thirty-six cracks up there. I know. I’ve counted them all.

The door creaks open and I shift my gaze to the doorway. August is there, breathless. He looks confused and flustered, which doesn’t suit him. He makes his way to his seat and then knocks his knuckles on my desk while chancing a glance at the door again.

I blink at the spot where his knuckles had been. What was that about?

I stiffen in my chair and look back. August’s eyes are on the door as he twirls a pencil with his fingers. He always has one in his hand or tucked behind his ear. Always ready to draw something in his sketch pad. He needs to be ready for when the muse hits. I used to tease him about it when we were younger.

I pivot forward, feeling woozy all of a sudden. Ms. Hooper is leaning against her desk, hands clasped in front of her. She is young and beautiful, but she isn’t glittering with her usual splendor. Her jaw is too tight, her eyes not sparkly at all. I can see how she swallows over and over again as if she has something to say and is struggling to get the words out.

Does anyone else notice? I glance around. There is not a single face looking up at Ms. Hooper. They are ducked down staring at phone screens or leaning across desks to mouth something to their friends. August is tapping his leg against his desk, still watching the door. Who is he waiting for?

Ms. Hooper finally clears her throat, just barely grabbing the students’ attention. She looks at me. I perk up. Yes, I’m listening. I am here.

Beautiful and twinkling people have this way about them. A way that makes you feel like if they just watched you, just connected, you would somehow be a bit more twinkly too. She doesn’t twinkle at me though, so I can’t twinkle back. She stares through me, eyes glassy, and I am convinced that somehow the black void of emptiness inside me must’ve robbed her of that beautiful dazzle and sent it off into the ether where so many things are lost, including, but not exclusively, my smile.

Ms. Hooper finally speaks. “Class, quiet.” There is an edge to her voice I have never heard before. I stiffen, wondering who might’ve cheated on our last test on Friday. I scan the room. Becca or Ty? I stare at the couple in the front corner. Eyes red, goofy grins, and gazes far-off and distant. Stoned? Really? At 7:45 a.m.? I roll my eyes. I am surrounded by idiots.

Ms. Hooper clears her throat again. “I—I have a very sad announcement today. One of your classmates”—her voice breaks—“died yesterday.”

Her face turns red and splotchy and I sit up straighter. Died? Someone died? I scroll through my own mental roster of students and try to remember who I saw in the hallways.

The classroom is silent.

Ms. Hooper continues, “Ellie Walker”—her voice cracks again—“died by suicide in her home yesterday.”

There is silence. Too much of it.

My heart is knocking against my rib cage, breaking it.

No.

No-no-no-no-no. I am standing and about to scream, I am right here!

Ready to throw this desk at someone. Anyone. To get their attention. To make them see.

But someone is already shouting. I whip my head to the side. August is standing and yelling, pointing one accusatory finger at Ms. Hooper. “You are lying! You are fucking lying!”

I have never heard August swear.

Or yell.

Or heard his voice made of splinters and ragged edges.

That’s when