carefully. âYou were friends with him, werenât you? Now that I think of it, I remember seeing you talking with him by the lockers every morning before first period.â
âOh yeah, we go way back. But, you know, we havenât talked in a while.â
She nods again, understanding. She knows how people avoid the dying. The same thing has probably happened to her. âWell, I canât tell you much about Ryan because I donât know him too well. When heâs not playing football heâs usually hanging out with the other jocks. And he spends a lot of time with this cheerleader heâs dating.â
âIs it Brittany Taylor?â I blurt it out before I can stop myself.
âNo, itâs that idiot Donna Simone. Brittanyâs not at Yorktown anymore. She dropped out last fall.â
My stomach lurches. âDropped out?â
âYeah, it was a big deal when it happened. She just didnât show up at school one morning. Her parents didnât know where she went, so they called the police, and then the cops interviewed her friends. They didnât find her until two weeks later. She was in New York City, living in a crappy basement with some other runaways.â
This is a total surprise. Itâs so unexpected that it seems absurd. I know this kind of thing happens all the timeâkids get into fights with their parents, drop out of school, run away from homeâbut I canât imagine it happening to Brittany. âSo what did the cops do? Did they bring her home?â
âThatâs what I heard, but a month later she ran away again. According to the rumors, sheâs back in the city now, back with the other street kids, and her parents have basically given up on her. Some people say she was having problems at school, bad grades, whatever. But I think her real problem was at home, you know?â
I feel dizzy. I thought Brittany was still a cheerleader. I imagined her that way in my VR program because thatâs how I saw her: always happy and full of spirit. She used to practice her cheerleading routines in her backyard, working on her cartwheels and flips until it was too dark to see. Her house was on the other side of town, almost a mile from ours, but when she finished practicing sheâd run all the way down Greenwood Street so she could show me the latest stunt sheâd mastered. Sheâd dash into our living room and do a flip or a handstand while I watched from my wheelchair. Sometimes sheâd fall to the floor with a thump and Dad would come running to see if I was all right and heâd find Brittany sprawled on the carpet, laughing like crazy. I canât picture this girl as a runaway. Itâs unthinkable. Itâs absurd.
Iâm so lost in my thoughts I forget about Shannon. Then I feel her hand on my right arm, gently gripping me above the elbow. She looks me in the eye. âWas Brittany your girlfriend?â
I shake my head. âNo. Not really.â
âNot really?â Shannon squeezes my arm. Itâs strangeâI feel close to this girl even though weâve been talking for less than fifteen minutes. But time moves faster when youâre dying. We both know our opportunities are diminishing. If we donât do something now, weâll never do it. Thatâs why I want to tell her about Brittany. I want to tell her everything.
But before I can say a word, the door bursts open. Three people stumble into the room, two of them wearing Army uniforms. The two soldiers are grappling with the third person, a wiry, middle-aged woman with graying hair and red-rimmed eyes. Itâs Anne Armstrong. My mother.
â No ! â she screams. â You canât do it ! â
âMrs. Armstrong!â one of the soldiers shouts. âPleaseââ
â You canât take him ! â
With a savage twist, she tears herself from the soldierâs grasp and lunges across the room. Her face is
Pierre V. Comtois, Charlie Krank, Nick Nacario