Absent (Katie Williams)

did.”
    “No, you didn’t.”
    He raises his eyebrows.
    “I mean, are you sure you did? Because I don’t think—”
    “I made it pretty clear.”
    Had he? I think back to the smirks that might have been smiles, the mockery that might have been flirtation. And then, there was that moment in the burners’ circle. If you were meeting me, he’d said, I’d make a point of being here.
    And what had I said to that ridiculous burner, that annoying joker who was Wes Nolan? I’d make a point of losing track of time.
    That’s what I’d said.
    All my time is gone now. I won’t get to chart the crookedness of another boy’s smile. I won’t get to leap giddily from teasing gibe to gibe. I won’t get to walk down the hallway with him like Kelsey did today, everyone noting, They’re together. Those two. I won’t get to fall in love. I’ve never been in love.
    I turn to Wes and ask the question I don’t want to ask, the question I have no right to ask, the question that I’m already asking: “If you liked her, if you liked Paige, what are you doing here with me?”
    “Kelsey,” he says, and I’m surprised by how the sound of her name on his tongue suddenly hurts me. “Whatever it was, it doesn’t matter anymore.”
    “That’s right. She’s dead now.”
    Wes reaches out, and I take a step back, his fingers grazing the place where I’d been. This time, the problem isn’t that he’s thinking my name, but that he isn’t.
    “I can’t—” I say, and I don’t know how to finish. I can’t what? What is it that I can’t do with Wes?
    Besides nothing.
    Besides anything.
    I turn and walk away from the hurt in his eyes, the light in her eyes, too, that girl under the tree.

    As I march Kelsey out of the school and across the parking lot, here are the things I don’t care about: I don’t care that I’m making Kelsey skip class. I don’t care that I made her break things off with Wes. I don’t care that she might like him. I don’t care that he might like her back. I don’t care that he’s not following me. Her. Whoever. I don’t care that he might have liked me. I don’t care about him. I don’t care about myself.
    I’m walking faster and faster in Kelsey’s tippy-top boots, until she’s across the road and I’m back where I belong, up on the school roof. The parking lot stretches out in front of me. One time, not so long ago, it must have been a field, not a parking lot. What happens to the grass when they lay all that tar over it?
    I’ll tell you what happens.
    It dies.
    I stare down at the blacktop.
    Something catches my eye.
    A movement.
    Something.
    Nothing.
    I blink.
    Harriet Greene.
    There she is, right down there in the parking lot. She stands on the accident site, at the end of the curling tire tracks. She looks around her, bewildered, turns in a slow circle.
    “Harriet!” I shout.
    Then, she’s gone.
    Blink again and she’s back. This time, though, she’s flickering, like a guttering candle. She’s there, then not, there, not.
    There.
    I glance over my shoulder, taking in the distance back across the roof, back to the door, down through the school. She could disappear again any moment. There’s not time to get down there, not time for the stairs.
    I take a shaking breath and step up on the ledge.
    I don’t look down at the ground below me. I know what I’ll see if I do, that little patch of tar darker than the rest. Instead, I steel myself. Instead, I do what they all said I did.
    I jump.
    This time, I’m awake for the fall. Each set of windows I pass blazes with reflected light, like a flashbulb. I have enough time to think, Thirty-two feet per second squared, before I land in a heap, the ground jarring up through whatever part of me has been left in this world. I stand, but find I can’t manage to hover, not after the shock of that fall. I limp forward, toes skimming through the asphalt. Harriet is still there in front of me (thank God), only yards away.
    She’s seen me now. She’s shouting something. But the volume is turned off. I can see her, but there’s no sound.
    I wave my arms, gesture to my ears. “Harriet! I can’t hear you!”
    Her silent shouts become more frantic. She points back at the school, then at herself. I’m almost there, close enough to see that she’s saying the same thing over and over, but she’s flickering again, and I can’t make out the word her lips are forming.
    Then she’s gone.
    I stand at the end of the tire tracks, follow