It Be���S

The room is as cold as a secret, but nowhere near as dark. I

see their faces clearly, and I recognize them, and it’s strange
because they’re all looking directly at me, too, as the door closes
firmly behind me.
It smells like hunks of clay in here. I know the smell because I
took an art class in this room last semester. It’s a damp, earthy,
springing aroma that adds to the weirdness of things.
The others are sitting at a round tabletop near the chalk-
board. It’s the table where the art teacher, Ms. Hanover, lays out
samples during class. I’ve never seen it empty of artwork before.
It’s not totally empty now. In the middle of the paint-flecked
wooden surface stands a deck of cards and a small brown box.
And everyone’s hands, resting loosely around the edges.
There are four people seated, plus two empty chairs. They
are all juniors and seniors.
Janna Collins, co-captain of the Spirit dance team, holds out
one hand, palm up, indicating that I should join them. Her hair
hangs perfectly, a dark curtain around her face. No bangs, just a
part down the middle like one of those seventies pop singers my
sister got really into right before she went off to college. Totally —-1
randomly, I picture Janna’s would-be album cover—featuring —0

40
 pom-poms and a really short flouncy skirt. My sister’s voice
pops into my head: She’s got the looks all right, but can she sing?
I shake off the thought and slide into the chair Janna indi-
cated, which is next to Simon Rogers. He’s a year ahead of me,
a junior. I don’t know him well at all. He’s on the chess team
or math league or something geeky like that, and he was voted
junior class treasurer, so he must have a lot of friends.
The others are Celia Berman and Patrick O’Halloran. Celia’s
a junior, and that’s all I know, although she has clay under her
fingernails and brown stains on the tips of her fingers so maybe
she’s in art class, which tells me she’s not a lost cause. Patrick’s
a senior. He plays football and runs track or cross-country or
something, I think. He’s a big deal in the school sports world,
which is far on the other side of what I know.
They all look at me. Celia picks at the remnants of clay on her
hands. Simon drums his fingers on the table. Patrick remains
perfectly still, hands folded. Maybe it’s an athlete thing. Janna
gazes at me, quiet and steady, and the whole thing gets weirder
by the second.
“Hi,” I say.
No one answers.
All told, this is one of the more surreal things that’s happened
to me this week. Which is saying something.
The deck of playing cards on the table is the traditional kind,
with the familiar red design on the back. My eyes stray to it,
over and over, and away from everything—everyone—else.
The small brown box is similar to the file on our kitchen
-1— counter where my mom is supposed to keep her recipes neatly
0— organized and printed on index cards. Really, most of them are

41
in a Tupperware case on the middle shelf of the pantry, torn
loose leaf out of magazines or scrawled on scraps of paper
where she or my sister jotted something down while watching
TV or surfing the internet.
I’m scared to speak again, into the silence. It isn’t really
silent, though, because outside the art room door, I can hear
lockers slamming and kids talking and sneakers squeaking and
the after-school bell ringing for reasons I’ve never understood.
Does it ring every forty-two minutes all night long?
I reach into my pocket and pull out the index card I found in
my locker this morning, with its cryptic message. I read it again,
for the thousandth time, fold and unfold it. Try to remind myself
that I was summoned here, and there must be a purpose. Plus,
they all outrank me by like a dozen rungs, popularity wise. So
I keep my mouth shut and sit and wait and try not to think too
hard about things like pickup trucks and funerals.
The door blasts open, bringing a fresh wave of outside noise.
“I’m so sorry, guys. So sorry. I got held up after class. I mean, geez,
once Mrs. Markey gets on a roll there’s just no stopping her.”
My throat clogs instantly at the sound of his voice. Oh God.
Oh God. It chokes me like a prayer, although I stopped believing
in God six and a half days ago.
Matthew Rincorn tosses his gorgeous, sculpted self into the
empty seat next to me. “Why is nobody talking?”
Still no one speaks. Janna reaches for the small brown box
and flips it open. Sure enough. Index cards. A very thin stack.
“Geez, you guys,” Matt says. “Are you trying to freak him out?”
“It’s a ceremony, Matthew,” Janna says super seriously. “Get —-1
with the program.” —0

42
 “You sadistic freaks,” Matt says. Simon and Celia start to
laugh.
Matt touches my shoulder. Actually touches me. I get goose-
bumps all over. “Hi, Kermit,” he says. “Welcome to the Minus-
One Club.”

-1—
0—

43
 Se�e� Ho��s Ear��Er

There’s something abnormal about how normal everything is.

The noise in the hallway is the same as always, annoying and
constant and full of people laughing and sparring and going
over algebra notes, as if there isn’t a cloud in the sky. There’s
still a stain that looks vaguely like Cheez Whiz crusted on the
linoleum at the base of my locker. My locker still opens with
the same three-digit number; my fingers do it without me even
having to think about it. The guy with the locker next to mine—
Stew—still smells like falafel and mint.
I’ve already resigned myself to the fact that today is going to
suck. On the upside, it would be hard for any day to suck as bad
as every single day of the past week of my life. Logic suggests I
should be on an upswing.
I fiddle in my locker longer than necessary. If I leave now, I’ll
be ten minutes early for first period. Usually I’m racing along
with the last-minute crush. I’ve never been early to school. But
it beats another day holed up in the house, losing all sense of
time and listening to Mom cry.
Here’s how it happened.
Saturday night: Terrible awful no good very bad car crash. —-1
Sunday: House phone rings in the wee hours, pulls me to the —0

44
 surface of a dream in which Tom Holland is doing unspeakable
things to me with his mouth. I’m pissed at the interruption. Then
Mom starts screaming really, really loud, this harsh, blood-
curdling noise, and I pee myself in my half sleep because I know
something hideous has happened.
Monday: A mess of hollow noise.
Tuesday: Sitting in the funeral home lobby, wanting nothing
but to talk to my sister, who I’ve barely talked to in half a month
and will never talk to again.
Wednesday: Viewings. Family in from out of town, taking my
face in their clammy hands.
Thursday: Graveside. Damn. Throw a rose. God damn it.
Friday: How many times can you hear the words I’m sorry
before your mind begins to implode?
Saturday: Watch TV under the covers in the den. All day.
Mom comes in every half hour to kiss me and I suppose to make
sure an intoxicated pickup truck driver hasn’t crossed a double
yellow line and smashed my Toyota Corolla into the two-foot-
thick trunk of an oak tree, causing my instantaneous death.
Sunday: TV again. No tears. Tears would be too simple.
Monday: Today. My first day back at school since IT happened.

-1—
0—

45
 Ho�d�Ng Up

Alex comes up to my locker as usual. He squeezes between me

and Stew and launches into the laundry list of everything I’ve
missed in the past week, school gossip wise. “Hey, I’m really
glad you’re back,” he goes. “I’ve been having these weird con-
versations with Cindy and it’s going pretty well, I mean, weird,
but pretty good, right? And I wonder what you think, you know, I
mean about me asking her out and everything, but then of course
there’s Crystal who’s always standing right there with her, giv-
ing me the stink eye, and maybe you could fend her off this time
while I talk to Cindy, and see if she, you know . . .”
I stare into the green metal abyss, at the fishhooks that are
supposed to be holding up my jacket, which I’m still wearing. I
shrug out of it and hang it inside.
“Hey, man,” Alex says. “How you holding up?”
I slam my locker. “What does that even mean?” People keep
saying it to me and I don’t know how to respond.
Alex flinches backward, bumping into Stew, who doesn’t seem
to notice. “I don’t know,” he says. “It’s just what you say.”
“Sorry,” I mutter. I pinch the bridge of my nose as if it’s going
to help something. —-1
—0

46
 “It’s okay,” he says.
“Maybe I should just go back home.”
Alex groans. “No. You have to stay, man. I need you. This
whole thing with Cindy is killing me. Oh, crap. I shouldn’t say
things like ‘killing me,’ huh? I’m such a dick. I’m really sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
“I feel really bad now.”
“Don’t. It’s not like what you say is gonna make it worse.”
He runs his hand through his hair. “Well, just give me a little
time, and I’m sure I can come up with something. You know I
can’t keep my trap shut. I’ve finally perfected exactly how wide
I need to open it to fit in my foot.” He lifts up his leg really high.
I can’t help but smile. “Finally. You nailed it. It’s taken you
years.”
Alex settles a hand on my shoulder. “Seriously, you’re like my
brother,” he says. “You know, so whatever I can do.”
The little surge in my chest is full of things. I’m grateful,
because he is a good friend, even when I’m not treating him
like it. I’m pissed, because he’s not my brother; I don’t have a
brother. I had a sister, but now I don’t and the vacuum of that is
everywhere.
“Okay.”
We walk in silence down the hallway toward my first-period
class.
“Just be normal,” I tell him. “Say ridiculous crap.”
He looks offended. “Why do you gotta diminish me, man?
Every raindrop off this tongue is solid gold.”
-1— “You’re mixing metaphors again.”
0—

47
 “Mix Master Flash,” he says. “Wikka-wikka,” which is sup-
posed to be the sound of a DJ mixing a turntable.
I roll my eyes. “You’re a freak.”
“Right back at ya.” We slap hands and bump shoulders and
then peel off our separate ways to head to class.

—-1
—0

48
 Afte� Fir�� Per�oD

The narrow sliver of Scotch tape happens to be exactly at my

eye level. It pokes out through my locker vent. Inside, there’s
a blur of white. Someone has stuck something in there. For no
good reason, my fingers start to shake. I get my locker combo
wrong and have to do it again.
A small white card, with a neatly typed message:

You don’t know us, but we know you.

Sorry about your sister.
As much as it sucks, we can help you.
Art room. Today. 2:45.
Be there.
Or don’t.
Whatever.
(This card is biodegradable. Crush it and flush it. Now.)

I flip the card over. The back is white, except for a small nota-
tion in the top left corner:

-1— -1
0—

49
 No�

Janna opens the wooden box and extracts a thin stack of

note cards. She hands them to Patrick who hands them to
Matt who hands them to me. I’m still not over the fact that
Matt Rincorn knows my name. My shoulder is warm where he
touched me.
I look at the cards. The top one is typed, like the one I found
in my locker.

RULES

1. Tell no one else about us.

2. We never talk about IT.
3. Ever.
4. Ever.

The rest are handwritten. Six cards, total. I flip past the
blank one.

My dad died in a sailing accident.

They never even found his body.
—-1
Patrick O’Halloran —0

50
 My twin sister had leukemia since we were seven . Last year,
I gave her my bone marrow. She still died.

Celia Berman

My grandpa was like my dad. He was old, but he was

my only family. He had a stroke, and now he’s gone.
Simon Rogers

My mom wanted me to learn how to drive in a snowstorm. I slid

off the road and wrecked the car. She died in the accident.
Janna Collins

My mother died of pancreatic cancer.

Matthew I. Rincorn

The final card is blank. From the box, Janna pulls a blue ball-
point and slides it across the table to me. Patrick pushes it the
rest of the way until I can reach it.
“Are you in?” he says.
My fingers fumble around the pen like I’ve never held one
before. I’m five years old again, and writing is new. Everything
is new. The first words I ever wrote were with crayons on trac-
ing paper, set on big fat letters my sister wrote for me to copy.
There’s nothing to trace now. The footsteps I’ve always tried to
walk in are fading in front of my eyes.
-1— I squeak out the words, one by one. It’s the first time I’ve had
0— to do anything but think them:

12

51
 My sister was killed by a drunk driver.
Kermit Sanders

“Okay,” Matt says. He takes the card out of my hands, and I

dry them against my pant legs. My card goes into the pile with
the other cards, and back into the box. Patrick whisks them
away and they disappear into the outside pouch of his back-
pack.
“This meeting is hereby in session.” Janna pounds her fist on
the table. “What happens in the room stays in the room.”
“I swear,” the others intone in unison.
What’s going to happen?
“Kermit,” Janna scolds. “You have to swear.”
“I swear.”

—-1
—0

13

52
 No- Li��� Te��s Ho�d'e�

Simon reaches for the deck of playing cards and begins to shuf-
fle. “Did anyone see my op-ed in the Cryer about getting solar
panels on the cafeteria roof?”
“No one reads the school paper except for you, doofus,”
Janna says.
I saw the article. Should I say I saw the article?
Simon deals everyone five cards, facedown. “Y’all are a bunch
of newsless know-nothings.”
Celia sniffs. “Pop culture is so passé.”
“Oh my God,” Janna says. “Why must you be so pretentious?”
Celia sniffs again. “Because it’s fun.” She cracks a smile as her
clay-stained hands deftly shift the order of cards in her hand.
“Why must she?” murmurs Matt. “Pot. Kettle.” Janna shoots
him a dirty look that morphs silly when she sticks her tongue out.
“News is not pop culture,” Simon grumbles. “It’s news.”
“I read it.” My voice is small in the room. “It was good.”
Simon looks at me. “The game is no-limit Texas Hold’em. It’s
ongoing. We’ll stake you a dollar up front. If you run out of pen-
nies after that, it’s your problem.”
-1— Patrick sends a tube of pennies rolling toward me. It rocks to
0— a stop right in front of me.

53
 One end of the penny tube is dented, giving it the tapered
look of a tiny brown penis. I fold my hand around it and fight the
urge to giggle.
In my head, Sheila’s voice goes, Oh my God; you’re such a
little perv.
Don’t I know it.
I use my nail to flick up the penny penis head—ha ha—and
tear back the wrapper.
“You ever played Texas rules before?” Simon asks me.
“Just regular poker.”
“Draw?”
“I guess.” I know the various poker hands. Full house. Straight.
Flush. I just don’t always remember what order they go in.
Simon rattles off the basic rules, which include something
about flops and rivers. Cards will be turned over. I’ve seen this
on TV. It’ll be okay.
“You got it?” he says.
I shuffle my cards into order by suit. “Um, which is better, a
straight or a flush? I always forget that part.”
“Straight’s not better than anything,” Matt pipes up. “That’s
how I remember it.” Everyone but me laughs.
I want to laugh, too, but I can’t. “Okay.”
“Got it now?” Matt Rincorn smiles at me. At me. In response,
my mouth does something that I hope comes across more like a
smile than drooling.
Matt was hot even before he came out last year, but after that
his hotness, like, quadrupled. Sexy and strong and brave. The
only out gay guy in our entire high school. Quite a few schools in —-1
the area have actual GSAs and such, but not ours. We live in the —0

15

54
 vortex between three megachurches, and it shows. Matt coming
out made him practically a legend.
I’m not the only anything. Not the only Black guy—not even
the only biracial—not the only blue belt, and nowhere near the
only Christian. (If I can still call myself one since my heart lives
in sin.) I’m probably not the only guy who secretly crushes on
Matt Rincorn.
Turns out, I’m not even the only one with a dead sister. I
glance at Celia, who’s stacking an impressive amount of pennies
on the table out of a plastic sandwich baggie. Everyone else does
the same. The sound of pennies clicking on fake wood has an
eerie rhythm, like the chorus echoing in my head.
Sheila is dead.
Sheila is dead.
Sheila.
Is.
Dead.
It sounds harsh to keep repeating it like that, but I constantly
need to remind myself.

-1—
0—

16

55