Absent (Katie Williams)

Lucas’s friends: lanky, shy Joe Schultz, who happens to pause by the mural on his way to the gym. Joe is so quiet, I don’t know that I’ve ever heard him talk before, so it’s strange to hear my name whispered in the deep, rumbling voice of his thoughts. Though it’s not nearly as strange as his body.
    Usha and I had been best friends since middle school. We’d shared clothing, locker rooms, beds at slumber parties. Usha’s body was as familiar as another person’s body could be. Even so, it was little preparation for suddenly being her—different heights, different weights, different muscles pulling different bones. Essentially, different physics equations.
    But, being Joe . . .
    How can I describe it? If Usha’s body was a favorite pair of jeans, Joe’s is a Halloween costume.
    For one thing, he’s a guy with, um, all the guy features. I try to avoid thinking about the soft, swinging weight between my legs, which forces me to adjust the width and roll of my steps. Also now, suddenly, I’m a good six inches taller, with long limbs and ropy muscles. Joe is an athlete, tall, fast, and strong. I can feel that just walking down the hall, the potential for power and speed. I have the impulse to double back to the gym and dunk a basketball like some stupid testo.
    Instead, I head to the locker banks where I find Lucas and the testos in a cluster. I stand uncertainly at their backs, afraid to actually speak. I don’t know how to be a guy, much less a testo sort of guy. They’ll know. They’ll know right away. But then, one of them says, “Hey, Schultz.” And when I realize that he means me, I say, “Hey” back, and they shuffle aside to make room for me.
    I expected the testos to be talking about free throws or girls’ tits or something, but in fact, they’re talking about Mr. Cochran and how he hasn’t yet returned from his leave.
    “We should get a group of guys from the team and go over to his house,” Brian Mulligan is saying.
    “I’ll go,” Chad Harp offers. “It’d suck to be sitting there thinking that you caused some girl’s death.” Their minds whisper my name.
    “That’s what I mean,” Brian says. “He should know what people are saying. He should know that it wasn’t his fault.”
    “Maybe it was his fault,” Lucas says softly.
    The boys shift and look at each other nervously. I watch Lucas. The usual confidence is gone from his eyes. Today, he doesn’t look like the world is his birthday present; he doesn’t look like he even has a birthday.
    “But, Luke, if that girl wanted to jump, what could he have done?”
    “I don’t know.” Lucas scratches the back of his neck, studying the floor tiles. “But he was the teacher. Maybe he should have done something. Maybe he shouldn’t have walked away.”
    Then there’s a pause. I take a breath, take a chance. “What if she didn’t jump?”
    They all look at me with vague surprise. I wonder, belatedly, how often Joe speaks, much less speaks about gossip. He doesn’t seem like much of a presence; in fact, he didn’t offer any push-back when I inhabited him.
    “Naw, dude. She jumped.” Brian slaps his hand flat on the locker for emphasis. “It’s all around the entire school.”
    “But that’s just gossip,” I say.
    “I heard that people saw her jump,” Chad says.
    “Exactly.” Brian slaps the locker again. “There was a whole roof full of people.”
    “You were there on the roof,” I say to Lucas, Joe’s heart suddenly pounding in his chest as I wait for Lucas’s answer. “Did you see it?”
    “I was talking to Coach C,” he says, looking away.
    “So you didn’t see it, then?” I press, half hopeful that he did, so that he can tell these guys how I didn’t jump, half relieved that he didn’t, because how awful to see someone die, someone you knew, someone you’d kissed. I touch a thumb to my lips. Joe’s lips. They’re chapped, my thumb rubbing against little flakes of peeling skin.
    “I didn’t see it,” Lucas confirms, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt up around his neck. “Greg O. threw me his egg thing, that project they were doing, and it splattered. I was looking at that, everyone was. Then some girl screamed. And when I looked up again, the ledge was empty. She’d been right there a second ago, then she . . . wasn’t.”
    His voice is thin, guarded. The same voice as when I’d said he’d practically saved a girl’s life. Don’t say that. I didn’t save her. And it