who has interrupted our silent reading time. When the door is pulled open, a

Transcription

1 The Dead Girl's Desk by Keely S. There s a knock on the door, and the Asian kid in the front of the classroom jumps up to get it. All of us look up boredly from our books to see who has interrupted our silent reading time. When the door is pulled open, a tall woman that I recognize as our guidance counselor, Ms. Parker, walks into the room, click click clicking on her high heels. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a tight bun, and serious brown eyes bore into us from behind her glasses. She whispers a few words to our teacher, Mrs. Oliver, who nods intently. She has our full attention now. Most of us have closed our books and are focused on the front of the room. The classroom is filled with whispers of speculation. Maybe this is about the graffiti in the bathroom, says someone under their breath. Or the guy who accidentally set himself on fire at the pep fest last week? guesses another of my classmates. It s probably policy review, this jock, Jace, mutters from the desk next to me. My eyes are fixed on Ms. Parker as she turns to address the class. No, I say, I don t think so. She has a different feel to her today. She clears her throat, and the room falls silent. I m sorry to inform you... she begins, as if she s delivered the same speech a hundred times already. 1

2 Ah, I think. So that s what this is about. Someone s dead.... that your classmate, Kacy Morris, has passed away. It takes my mind a moment to register. Kacy? Kacy Morris? I struggle to muster a mental picture of my deceased peer. Nothing. I see my classmates turning to look at the empty desk in the back row of the classroom, and I do the same. I remember this small, brown haired girl sitting there. I suppose her name was Kacy. I have no specific feelings to associate with this girl, I realize. She wasn t a friend, an enemy, or anyone of significance. A memory enters my head of a slight girl, dwarfed even more by the podium, standing in front of the room informing the class about something that was of no particular interest to any of us. My own speech had been about violins, but the subject of hers is lost to me. Her cause of death is, at this time, unable to be disclosed. I take another glance at the desk. Less than 24 hours ago, the girl was there. I try to remember what she was doing yesterday as she sat, whether it was tapping her fingers on the desk, or maybe reading, or braiding her hair. Suddenly, it seems very important. Funeral services will be held on Saturday at 5:00 pm. I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn around to see this girl Shay looking at me, a mess of curly yellow hair framing her plump face. Hey Quin, can I borrow a pencil? Mechanically, I reach into my pencil case and extract a chewed, number two pencil, and hand it back to her. Thanks, she whispers. I just nod. 2

3 Something about the normalcy of the exchange feels innately wrong. If anyone is in need of additional support, Ms. Parker continues, I will escort you to the guidance office. She pauses for a moment and looks expectantly at us. When nobody moves to join her, she offers a pinched smile, then click click clicks out of the room to deliver the news of Kacy s demise to the next class, exiting in the same manner as if she d just finished briefing us about the school s no-hat policy. The room is silent for a moment. Then, Mrs. Oliver speaks from her desk, not even bothering to stand up. I ll give you a moment to reflect, she announces flatly as Ms. Parker no doubt instructed her to. Then, she turns to her computer and starts loudly typing an , her fingers flying across the keyboard. The rest of us sit silently, staring down at our desks. Some kids pull out their phones and start texting in their laps. I, on the other hand, remain frozen. I look over my shoulder again at the empty desk and marvel at how utterly unremarkable this Kacy was to me, how I didn t know stupid little things about her like her favorite color, what sort of music she liked, whether she was a cat person or preferred dogs. I think about how I never will, how all the details of her life are sealed off like a classified document, because Kacy Morris is dead, and she ll be in the ground by Saturday at 5:00 p.m. when she should be curled up in her room doing homework. By now, Mrs. Oliver has lethargically made her way to the front of the room, and presumably, instructed us to open our textbooks, as I can infer from the rustling of crisp pages that suddenly fills the classroom. Slowly returning 3

4 to reality, I reach beneath my desk for my book, and feel only cold metal. Mrs. Oliver, I call quietly, I don t have a textbook. She regards me with vague irritation. Go take one from an empty desk, then, she says, adjusting her spectacles. I stand up, and the desk glows like a beacon. I make my way towards the one desk in the room that lacks an occupant, the one that belonged to my now-permanently absent classmate. My hands shake as I pull the tattered textbook from its cradle. I hold it close to my chest as if it s the most precious thing in the world, this book that was Kacy s. All eyes are on me as I sit down and open the book. The cover hits my desk with a dull thud. I run my hand gently across the cool, smooth book and think about how just yesterday, Kacy s own hands turned these pages. Her hands once, warm and pink, are now cold and gray. It is at this moment that another, utterly random memory hits me with striking clarity. Just a month ago, I d attended the swing dance at school, and, as I d waited, leaning against the wall, for my friend, Steffi, to finish fixing her makeup in the bathroom, a boy and girl walked by me, arm in arm. I d regarded them with vague interest, having nothing else to occupy my attention. The girl wore a lilac-colored dress that swished as she walked. Her brown hair was curled, but was beginning to fall flat. Her face was lit up with a shy smile, and her cheeks were pink with the excitement of a high school dance. I think she s in my English class, I remember realizing as they disappeared down the hallway, their laughter fading behind them. I knew the boy from health class, I d thought. His name 4

5 was Adam, or Aaron, or something along those lines. He was the kind of guy lots of girls were crazy about. The girl from English, who d usually seemed rather unremarkable, looked surprisingly pretty all dressed up. I could see why he d chosen her. Mrs. Oliver s signature monotone slowly brings me back to reality as she begins to read aloud The Telltale Heart. My classmates settle in for another mundane English period. But instead of listening, I find myself noticing my classmates, really noticing them for the very first time, as if the fog that obscured my vision for so long has finally cleared. At this moment, as I scan the room, suddenly, my peers become not just The Asian Kid, not just Jace the Jock, or Fat Shay, but people. They are people, just like me, with lives and realities as vivid, as important as mine. If it s Jace who dies tomorrow, I realize, an entire other world will die with him. The impact of Kacy s death is ebbing already, having faded within a mere fifteen minutes. Yet, in having seemed utterly ordinary all her short life, she s managed to teach me how very much each and every person matters. After the bell rings, as we re packing up our stuff, I take a deep breath, knowing what I want to do. Slowly, I turn around to face the girl behind me. Shay, I ask, What s your favorite color? 5