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popular. He’d never be harassed like that girl with the old Myspace page. He was the star center on the first line even though he sometimes spent more time in the penalty box than on the ice. Hooking, holding, tripping. Once, he even knocked out some guy’s teeth after the guy pulled a slew foot on our now team captain, Beau.
    The bell rang for first block.
    “Gotta go,” Heather said. She quickly gave me another hug. “Don’t forget you’re coming to mine after the game, okay? You can stay over and help me practice in the morning. I need to work on extensions.” She flashed a smile, waved, and jogged down the hall. I didn’t get a chance to tell her that the only way I’d be able to go out was if I talked Robbie into coming with me. She wouldn’t have understood anyway.
    World Civilizations IV was my first class, and the only class I shared with Robbie. Because Mr. Tan arranged the room alphabetically, I sat right behind him.
    “Nice to see you’ve joined us again, Robert,” Mr. Tan said.
    Robbie stuck his thumbs up. “Glad to be back, too. You know how much it sucks to not be ten feet away from a toilet? I swear, I lost ten pounds. Food poisoning: the new Weight Watchers.”
    Almost everyone in class burst out laughing. Robbie always had that ability to disarm anyone. Even Mr. Tan barely refrained from chuckling.
    “Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
    “Thank you for being so concerned about the state of my ass, Mr. Tan. I shall remember your generosity the next time I worship the porcelain throne.” And, with a flourish, he reached into his bag, pulled out a bottle of Pepto Bismal, and took a chug. “Mmm, deeeeelliiiiish.”
    The class started howling. Mr. Tan even wiped his eyes as he gripped his desk for support. Only Robbie could talk about taking a dump and have people worship him like it was the coolest thing ever. How could Robbie act like nothing changed? How could he act like his botched suicide attempt meant nothing to him?
    As Mr. Tan began lecturing, Robbie reached into the back pocket of his jeans for his iPhone. Over his shoulder, I caught a glimpse of a Snapchat from Dana, a girl who sat in the back of the class, angled to give a generous view down the front of her shirt. I swore I heard Robbie say, “Ugh,” before he shoved his cell in his back pocket, shoulders rounding over his work like it was a needless distraction. Maybe, with hockey always on his mind, that’s all it was. A nothing instead of something.

4
    W e shifted our weight from skate to skate while we waited in the tunnel that led from the locker room to the ice. Leading our pack would be Janek, our starting goalie who was brought to our school on full scholarship plus stipend from the Czech Republic, and bringing up the tail was Ray-Ray, our back up. Most high school teams were less formal than ours, but parents got what they paid for. With Briar Rose’s obscene tuition, parents expected the best. We had an NHL-size arena that could hold up to two thousand spectators, enormous locker rooms, showers, and fitness lounges. Students sang the national anthem, announced the play-by-play, and picked which songs to blast during stoppage of play. It might have been high school hockey, but we were so good we usually filled every seat.
    Robbie tapped everyone on the shin with his stick, proudly wearing the A on his chest. At the start of the season, Dad lost his shit when Robbie wasn’t given captaincy; instead, he shared the role of alternate, but Robbie said it was better that Beau got it. He and Coach Benoit told Dad it was to make him look humble to scouts, but I’d overheard them talking once. Robbie begged to not be given the C, and Coach only gave in once Robbie started getting hysterical.
    A horn blared. It was time. Lights flashed across the ice as Janek burst through the gate, leading us in a fast lap around half of the arena. We sped after him, torsos ducked as people cheered. We recognized our schoolmates’