​​Chapter Thirty-Two
Wren

I woke up Sunday, late afternoon, with a horrendous headache and Mom’s face bobbing above me. We didn’t speak, but I could feel Mom’s hand feeling my forehead and holding my hand. I fell asleep again, and now it’s early Monday morning when I wake. Fresher this time. Ready to face the day even if what’s left of my heart keeps rattling in my chest.

Then I remember The Mule.

I think about skipping but figure it’s pointless. I’m going to die at some point, might as well be today.

On that note, I find Jerry packing his lunch in the kitchen and ask him for a ride. We leave the apartment together, and I feel like the sidekick to an incredibly bubbly super hero.

“You know, this is kind of fun, Wrennifer. You can always hitch a ride with me. Just figured you were still going to school with that Marcus kid.”

“Mareck.”

“Yep, that’s the one.” I look at Jerry bopping in his seat to the Temptations. Poor, sweet Jerry. There’s a tiny spark of anger that’s coiled deep in my heart. I lit it when I avoided Mom in the kitchen this morning, and I watch it burn as I think of Mom’s hand on my forehead, pretending everything’s okay.

I want the blaze to run so rampant that I consider telling Jerry about his unborn kid. But instead, I just watch the show, Jerry snapping his fingers and bobbing his head and somehow directing us through early White Smoke traffic without leaving a trail of bodies in his wake.

For the first time in my life, I’m early for school. I jump out of the A/C van as fast as I can and wave at Jerry like I’m waving off an unknown attacker. I keep my eyes down and hands shoved into my coat pockets but nobody’s staring at me because at this hour, it’s just a bunch of nerds walking in with me doing the same exact thing.

In the office next to Zinberg’s, I go in and ask the secretary for my backpack. It’s retrieved and still wet from languishing in the yard for who knows how long. I take it to the bathroom and dry it out under one of the driers then hurry to my locker so I won’t have to see Mareck.

Too late.

“Miss America,” he says, but he sounds different. I’m almost worried about him since we still have five minutes until the late bell rings.

“You’re early.”

“I found a ride,” he says.

“What’d you do? Sell my bike for parts?”

“Keep cool. It’s at the trailer. I take it you’re still livid?” I’m thrown off by the question, not by the words but how Mareck asks it. It’s the eyes I realize, dead and stony in his face. There’s no light, no teasing. I could probably tell him I have a machete in my bag with his name on it, and he wouldn’t even smirk.

“What happened to you?” I ask. I forget myself and touch his arm, but he moves away.  He grabs his books from the locker and says, “Ah, nothing. Just finally got around to doing something I should have a long time ago.”

He slams the locker door in my face, and he strolls down the hall, grabs The Redhead’s waist when he meets up with her. I try to process what’s happened but that’s like eating a mouthful of rocks. So I reopen the locker. Take my books. And pray Leslie Buell finishes me off.