from the crisis hotline, pleading for volunteers to staff the phones. The same flyer the striped-tights girl was hanging up this morning.
Did Mackenzie stick this in my locker? Or is it from another bully, intent on reminding me my mother may be dead, but her memory is still very much alive?
The last time my locker was stuffed, a hundred copies of my momâs faculty photo from the yearbook spilled out, scrawled with one epithet after another. Pedophile. Slut. Predator. The crumbled-up papers filled an entire trash can.
Maybe I should be thankful that this time, thereâs only one.
I turn the paper over and see handwriting on the back.
Sorry if I made you uncomfortable this morning.âSam.
I read the message again and then a second and third time. So, not harassment, after all. But what is it, then? A nice gesture?
Iâm still staring at the paper a few minutes later when Alisara comes up.
âAre you thinking of volunteering at the hotline?â my old friend asks, her black hair pulled into a long ponytail, a volleyball at her hip.
âWhat? Oh god, no.â I shove the paper into my pocket, the warmth traveling up my face like mercury in an overheated thermometer. âIâd never do that.â
âWhy not?â
âAlisara.â I break her name into four distinct syllables. âMy mother died at the hotline. Itâs where Tommy said they rendezvoused for sex.â
She passes the volleyball from one hand to the other. âItâs just a place. Besides, didnât they move the call center, once the police blew the secret location?â
I turn to my locker and begin color-coding my folders, alphabetizing my textbooks. Anything to show Alisara how uninterested I am in this conversation.
âI mean, itâs not like the hotline itself is a bad thing,â she persists. I grab my pens and lay them, alternating ball point and clicker, in my plastic case. âNo matter what your mom did, the hotline helps people. It always has.â
âOh, please,â I scoff, glancing over my shoulder. âDoes anyone even call?â
âI did. Last year, when my dad died and we almost moved back to Thailand. We didnât, of course, but for a while, things were really tough for me and my mom.â A smile ghosts across her lips. âI used to call the hotline when I knew your mom was working. I had her for sophomore English, and she was one of my favorite teachers. Calling her was a way to continue our bond, even if she didnât know it was me. Up until the day she died, she was so kind to me. Iâll never forget that.â
A twinge of guilt stabs my stomach. Alisara lost a parent, too, and I havenât been there for her the way she has for me. Iâm a terrible friend. An even worse person. But as always, my momâs death pushes its way to the front, demanding precedence above everything else.
âYou talked to my mom that last day?â I ask, hating myself. Hating the self-absorbed person Iâve become. The selfish girl my mother made me. âWhen?â
She fiddles with the volleyball. âA few hours before she, um . . . you know.â
My throat closes up. I canât believe this. My mom worked the phone lines that day. Hours before she took her own life, she had enough left in her to counsel other peopleâs children.
But what about her own daughter? I got nothing. No note. No good-bye. No final wisdom about how to live my life. Thatâs what gets me the most about my momâs suicide. She was leaving this world forever. And she didnât even bother to write me a letter.
I throw the plastic case into my locker. It hits the wall with a metallic twang, and I slam the door closed.
âIâm sorry, CeCe, I shouldnât have said anythingââ
âItâs not your fault.â I look at her, this grown-up version of the girl who used to play at my house. We once baked a coffee cake in a mixing bowl and