“Christy Bruter,” I said, “has been accepted to Notre Dame University and plans to study psychology. She wants to work with
trauma victims and is already co-writing a book about her near-death experience. Christy has placed a softball in the time
capsule.”
Jessica leaned forward again. “Jeff Hicks had just come from the hospital seeing his new baby brother for the first time the
morning of May second. He was running late to school, but was thrilled when he left the hospital, excited to have another
boy in the family. He even suggested a name for the baby—Damon, after a favorite football player. In honor of Jeff, his
parents named the baby Damon Jeffrey. We placed Damon Jeffrey’s hospital wristband in the time capsule on Jeff’s behalf.”
“Ginny Baker,” I said. I took a deep breath. There was so much I wanted to say about Ginny. Ginny, who’d suffered so much.
Who’d keep suffering. Who couldn’t be here because she was busy trying to find ways to finish the job Nick started. To punish
herself for the bullying she felt she’d set in motion. “Ginny was winner of the Lads and Lassies contest when she was two
years old. Her mom says she was always putting on talent shows and taught herself how to twirl the baton when she was only
six. Ginny has elected…” I paused, trying not to cry, “not to put anything in the time capsule.” I lowered my head.
We went on like that—taking turns offering trinkets and stories about Lin Yong and Amanda Kinney and Max Hills and the others.
Mr. Kline’s widow sobbed out loud when we placed a quarter in the time capsule on his behalf, symbolizing his habit of tossing
quarters at students who answered questions correctly in his class. One of his daughters kept her face buried in the folds
of her mother’s dress, immobile.
We got to the last one and I walked back down the steps to my seat. I tried not to make eye contact with anyone—the sound
of noses blowing was too deafening.
Jessica stood at the podium alone then, her feet planted firmly, her nose red but her eyes fierce. Her blond hair wisped in
the wind like cobwebs.
“There are two others,” she said into the microphone. I frowned, counted on my fingers. I’d thought we’d gotten them all.
Jessica took a deep breath.
“Nick Levil,” she said, “loved Shakespeare.” I held my breath. When had Jessica talked to Nick’s family? Why had she? Did
she do it without me on purpose? I squinted at the bench. Sure enough, Nick’s name was there, last on the list of victims.
I made a small noise in the back of my throat and covered my mouth with my hand. This time I couldn’t keep the tears from
falling, especially when she dropped Nick’s old battered copy of
Hamlet
, the one he’d read passages of to me so many times, into the time capsule.
I barely heard her say, “Valerie Leftman is a hero. More courageous than anyone I’ve ever known—a bullet the least of the
scary things I’ve seen her face this year. Valerie single-handedly saved my life and stopped the shooting of May second, 2008,
from being worse than it already was. And I’m so blessed to be able to call her my friend. Valerie has placed a book of drawings
in the time capsule.” She produced my black spiral notebook and dropped it in on top of Nick’s
Hamlet
. My reality and Nick’s escape… one on top of the other.
At first nobody clapped as Jessica thanked the crowd and took her seat. But then, building up like water coming to a boil,
smattering applause broke into steady clapping. A few people—those who had themselves under control—stood in front of
their chairs.
I turned my head and looked: Mom and Dad were both clapping and wiping their eyes. Dr. Hieler was standing in front of his
chair, not bothering to wipe his.
Mr. Angerson stepped back up to the podium and got us back to the business of graduating, of getting on with our lives.
I thought about the suitcase that lay opened on my bed. My things, nearly packed. The picture of me and Nick sitting on that
rock at Blue Lake nestled under the underwear and extra bras. The copy of
The Gift of Fear
that Dr. Hieler had bought me, with an admonition to “stay safe.” The stack of calling cards Dad had wordlessly pressed into
my hand last Saturday when he came to pick up Frankie. The college catalogs I’d gotten from Mrs. Tate.
I thought about the train that I would catch in the morning—destination unknown—and how Mom would probably cry at the
station and beg me once again not to go, at least not without a plan. And how Dad would probably look relieved as I watched
him grow small through the window as the train pulled away. And how I wouldn’t blame him for it if he did.
I imagined the things I might miss while away. Would Mom and Mel get married without me there? Would I miss seeing Frankie
get his first job, maybe lifeguarding at the neighborhood pool? Would I miss the announcement that Briley was pregnant? Would
I miss it all and, hearing about these things, would I feel that they deserved at least that much, my absence during those
happy things?
“You sure about this?” Dr. Hieler had asked me at our last session. “You have enough money?”
I nodded. “And your number,” but I think we both knew I’d never call it, not even if I woke in the shadows of a musty-smelling
hostel, my leg aching and Nick’s voice echoing in my ears. Not even if my brain finally allowed me to remember the hazy image
of Nick putting a bullet in his brain in front of my bleary eyes. Not even to say Merry Christmas or Happy Birthday or I’m
fine or Help me.
He’d hugged me and rested his chin on top of my head. “You’ll be fine,” he’d whispered, although I wasn’t sure if he was whispering
to himself or to me.
And I’d gone home and packed, leaving the suitcase open on my bed, next to the horses in the wallpaper, which were—as they’d
always been, of course—completely motionless.
First and foremost, deep thanks to Cori Deyoe for taking a chance on me, for being my mentor and friend, for giving me the
courage to put fingers to keyboard time and again, and for always being my loudest and best cheerleader.
A huge thank-you to T. S. Ferguson for believing in my story, for teaching me so much about the craft of storytelling, for
patiently answering an insane amount of questions, and for making me dig deeper than I ever knew I could. Also thanks to everyone
at Little, Brown who read and helped shape this book, particularly Jennifer Hunt, Alvina Ling, and Melanie Sanders. Also,
special thanks to Dave Caplan for the amazing cover design.
Thanks to my writing friends, Cheryl O’Donovan, Laurie Fabrizio, Nancy Pistorius, and my girls at Café Scribe—Dani, Judy,
Serena, and Suzy—for being there for shoulder-lending when the “I can’ts” set in.
Thank you to my mom, Bonnie McMullen, for not only telling me, but showing me daily that anything in life is possible. And
thank you to my dad, Thomas Gorman, for always telling everyone whatever story I’m working on is the best one out there. Thanks,
as well, go to my stepparents, Bill McMullen and Sherree Gorman. Also to my extended “mom” and “dad,” Dennis and Gloria Hey,
and “sister” Sonya Jackson, who told me decades ago that this day would come.
To my husband, Scott, there aren’t words big enough to say thank you for your enduring belief, support, and love. And to my
children, Paige, Weston, and Rand, thank you for your patience and inspiration. I feel so hopeful about any future that includes
you three at the helm.
And finally, deep love and thanks to whoever’s pulling the strings “up there.” Jack, I ’spect it’s you. I owe you a big smooch!