Absent (Katie Williams)

waving a half-signed attendance sheet. In a matter of seconds, the room is empty.
    Empty but for us dead kids.
    Evan, Brooke, and I look at each other across the detritus of the meeting—shredded tissues, the origami flower, a forgotten pen.
    “Sad enough to jump,” I say. “That’s it, isn’t it? She was saying I killed myself.”
    I wait for them to deny it. They don’t. Evan reaches out to touch my arm, never mind that we can’t touch each other. But I don’t want comfort, his or anyone’s. I take a step back.
    “I wouldn’t do that,” I say. “Even if I were sad enough to think of it, I wouldn’t be so . . .”
    “So what?” Evan asks.
    “So weak.”
    Evan drops his hand to his side. My eyes follow its trajectory, and I picture a girl standing on the edge of a roof. I picture her stepping off, one foot and then the next, and then an empty space where she had been. I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head. I feel like I’m falling now, the sick swoop of gravity in my throat and gut. My eyes land on Usha’s empty chair, thrust out farther than the others.
    “Usha thinks I jumped,” I say. “Did you see her face?”
    “Paige,” Evan murmurs.
    “It doesn’t matter what Morello tells them about accidents. They’ll all keep saying it. It’ll go around the whole school. Everyone will hear it.” Lucas will hear it, a mean little corner of my mind whispers. “Oh, God. Do you think it’ll get back to my parents?”
    “No,” Evan says immediately. “No way. It’s just kids gossiping.”
    “But what if it does? It could. As long as they think . . . they all think . . .,” I sputter out.
    “I thought you didn’t care what they think,” Brooke says quietly.
    I pick Brooke’s words up and pull them to myself like flat sheets of armor. “You’re right. I don’t care at all.”

2: THE BURNERS’ CIRCLE
    “I’M NOT EVEN THE SUICIDE TYPE,” I SAY.
    “The suicide type?” Evan raises an eyebrow.
    “You know. Black-haired girls with blond roots and notebooks full of poems with the word crepuscular in them. Or guys who wear all beige and won’t talk unless it’s about their Japanese sword collection, and then they won’t stop talking.”
    “I don’t know,” Brooke says. “You kinda look like the type to me.” She stares pointedly at my feet.
    “What? They’re just boots! I like all the buckles.”
    “I think maybe there isn’t a suicide type,” Evan says.
    We’ve gathered to the side of the hallway, clear of the students rushing from this class to that. Brooke stands at the drinking fountain, her hand pressed to the spigot. A testo from the wrestling team lumbers up and pushes the button, making the water arc straight through Brooke’s palm, unimpeded, into the steel drain. This is not to say that Brooke is translucent. In fact—tight-jeaned, liquid-eyelined,licorice-whip of a ponytail—she appears solid as anything. But the water pierces her hand all the same. The testo bends to drink, taking only a sip before he backs away with a grimace.
    Brooke cackles. “Look! My hand makes the water taste funny.”
    Evan shakes his head. “Don’t start trouble.”
    But all Brooke wants to do is start trouble, just as much as Evan wants to prevent it, just as much as I don’t care what either of them does.
    “He’s the third one in a row who wouldn’t drink.” Brooke turns to the bustling hallway and cries like a barker, “Water here! Get your fresh water!”
    “It’s just a rumor,” Evan tells me. “They’ll get tired of it once someone starts a new rumor.”
    “But even if they stop gossiping about it, they’ll still think it,” I say. “That’s how I’ll be remembered: Paige the Jumper. Paige the Suicide Case.”
    “Look on the bright side,” Brooke says. “Eventually they’ll all graduate.”
    “I was going to graduate, go to college.” I sigh. “Maybe no one told the schools that I died. Maybe they’ll still send the letters. Maybe they’re holding a spot for me somewhere.”
    “Where did you apply?” Evan asks.
    “Oregon State, Washington State, USC.”
    Brooke has stopped with her drinking fountain and is staring at me strangely. When I meet her gaze, her eyes flit away. Maybe I shouldn’t talk about colleges in front of Brooke. Even if she hadn’t died, she probably wouldn’t have applied anywhere. According to the gossip, her interests were in activities other than the academic. What happens to a girl like Brooke after high