I finally see Grace in the afternoon. I’m so relieved that she’s here that I go straight to her and actually give her a hug, which I’m sure surprises her.

  “I’ve got some of your things in my locker,” I say as I step away. “From Jason’s memorial, you know. I thought you’d want them back.”

  She shrugs, then looks away. “Yeah, I guess. I’ll get them later.”

  “How are you doing?”

  She sighs. “I don’t know . . .”

  “You’re not still—”

  “Don’t talk about it here,” she snaps.

  “Sorry.”

  “I’ve already had to tell too many people that it was all a hoax.” She looks over her shoulder. “It won’t help matters for me to be seen talking with you.”

  “Okay.” I step back, feeling dismissed.

  “Sorry,” she says. “I guess I’m just being paranoid.”

  “Yeah, me too, actually. This hasn’t been an easy day.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Have you seen Seth?”

  “No, but I talked to him this morning.”

  I feel relief ripple through me. “So he’s okay then?”

  “Once again, that depends on how you define okay.”

  “He’s alive.”

  “Yeah, if you can call it that. Apparently he was out getting stoned last night.”

  “But is he still planning—”

  “Why don’t you call me on my cell?” she suggests. Then she gives me her number again, and for a second time I write it down on my palm.

  “Hey, Grace,” says Carlie as she comes up to join us.

  “Hey,” says Grace back. “Well, I gotta go.”

  “You want a ride home, Morgan?” asks Carlie as Grace heads down the hall.

  “Sure. But do you think you could drop me off somewhere?”

  “Yeah. Where?”

  I pull the large envelope out of my bag. “I need to give these photos to Jason’s mom.”

  “Oh.” She nods as if she understands. “No problem.”

  “Thanks,” I tell her. “Seriously.”

  “I need to make up for being such a lame excuse for a friend during the last few weeks,” she says as she fishes her car keys from her oversized bag. “I’m glad you don’t hate me.”

  “Life’s too short to hate,” I say as we go outside.

  “Yeah,” she agrees. “Have you noticed how everyone at school is being so nice? It’s like this thing with Jason made people stop and think about something besides themselves for once. But I gotta wonder how long it’ll be before kids go back to their old selves.”

  “Did you read Jason’s column?” I ask.

  “Yeah, it was great.”

  “He never picked on kids,” I say as we get in her car.

  “Jason was one in a million.”

  “And now he’s gone.”

  “Yeah.”

  We drive in silence up to his house. I’m grateful that Carlie doesn’t want to talk just now. I don’t think I could take it. It’s like that dull ache is just gnawing away at me again. I miss him so much. I wonder if I’ll ever stop missing him—if this pain will ever end.

  Once we’re there, Carlie offers to stick around and give me a ride home. But I tell her that I don’t mind walking, especially since it’s all downhill from here anyway.

  “Call me,” she says. “Let me know how it goes.”

  I tell her that I will. Then, bracing myself, I walk up the familiar path that leads to his front door. I feel my heart beginning to race as I wait.

  His mother opens the door. “Morgan?”

  Her appearance surprises me. She doesn’t look a bit like the Mrs. Harding that I know. Her hair, which is usually styled to model perfection, looks like she just got out of bed. And instead of her usual designer suit, she is wearing sweats. And without makeup, she looks about twenty years older.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “Is this a bad time? I should’ve called first.”

  She shakes her head. “No, no, it’s all right. I know I look a mess, but I remember now that I told you to come by.”

  “Really,” I say. “If this is a bad time . . .”

  “No, come in. Please, come in.”

  The drapes are drawn and the house is quiet. And I suspect, by the pillow and blanket on the couch, that she’s been sleeping in here. She quickly removes these things and invites me to sit down.

  “I brought the photos,” I tell her, feeling like such an intruder. I don’t know why I came today. Why didn’t I just wait? It’s obvious that this poor woman is really suffering right now.

  She reaches for a pair of glasses on the coffee table. “I’d love to see them,” she says.

  I remove the large envelope from my bag and take out the photos and hand them to her.

  “Oh my,” she says as she looks at the first one. “This is very good.” Then she lays it on the coffee table and looks at the next one. One by one she goes through the small stack, laying them out like a fan across the coffee table. And then we just sit there in silence and I wonder if I should go now. Then I remember the newspaper.

  “I brought you something else,” I say as I pull the paper from my bag. “It’s last week’s paper. I thought you might like to have it.” I open it up. “Jason’s editorial is here. It’s really good.”

  She takes the paper and eagerly begins reading it. And I just sit there and feel uncomfortable. Why don’t I just leave? Finally she finishes it and sets it aside, then looks up at me with tears in her eyes. Now I feel criminal. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought her the newspaper. Or maybe I shouldn’t have come at all.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her as I begin to choke up as well. “I didn’t want to make you feel bad—”

  “No, Morgan, don’t mind me.” She reaches for a handkerchief and waves her hand at me. “I do this all the time. And, really, the photos are wonderful.” She picks up one of my favorites and studies it again. “You are an excellent photographer.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you think this one could be enlarged?”

  “Sure. Of course. I can do it for you. How big do you want it?”

  “They suggested having some photos of Jason for the service tomorrow. So that people can see him, you know.” She leans over and picks out a couple more. “Do you think you could enlarge all of these?”

  “Sure,” I say. “No problem. I can do it first thing in the morning, if that’s okay.”

  “I’ll pay you, of course. For your time and materials—”

  “No,” I tell her. “I’d rather do it as a gift.”

  “You were always such a good friend to Jason.” She sets the photos aside and just looks at me now, almost as if she’s really seeing me for the first time. “I could never understand why you two didn’t date.”

  “We sort of tried it once, but it kind of ruined everything. Being friends was better.”

  “Yes, I suppose I can understand that. Jason thought highly of you.”

  I swallow hard now. “I really miss him.”

  She nods. “I know.”

  “It’s still hard to believe I’ll never see him again.”

  “It is hard.” She glances at the school newspaper, then looks quickly away, as if she wants to forget about it.

  “And I know you must be feeling it way more than I am.” I look at the dark shadows beneath her red-rimmed eyes. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Harding.”

  “I’m sorry too.”

  I think I should probably go now. But I feel so bad for her, just sitting there, staring at the photos of Jason. She looks so lonely and lost.

  “I just don’t understand why he did it,” I say. “Of all people, Jason seemed to have it so together.” I shake my head. “I mean, my life, compared to his, has always been a real mess. It just doesn’t make sense. Why would he give up like that?”

  Her eyes take on a new intensity now, as if she’s considering something, and then she speaks. “He didn’t mean to do it, you know.”

  I’m not sure I’ve heard her right. “He didn’t mean to do it?”

  She shakes her head. “No. It was just a horrible mistake.”

  “A mistake?” Now I’m getting worried. Has this thing with Jason messed with her mind? “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he didn’t really want to die.”

  I nod as if I understand, although I’m not sure that I do. Not entirely. “You mean that if he had it all to do over again, that maybe he wouldn’t have done it?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Yes, that’s what I’m trying to believe too.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  Well, I’m not sure how to respond to this. In some ways she’s sounding kind of weird right now. So I just nod and pretend that I understand.

  “He was upset that day,” she says. “He was worried about his grades and felt sure that he wasn’t going to get into Princeton.” She made an exasperated face. “I never cared if he went there. What difference does it make where you go to school, really?”

  “I don’t know.” I wait for her to continue.

  “He and his father argued that morning. Gary told Jason that it was up to him, that if he wanted it badly enough he should be able to pull his grades up and do what it takes to get in. ‘You’re a Harding,’ he said—as if that really meant something.” She exhales loudly, like she’s attempting to blow away the pain.

  “I know that Jason was concerned about college,” I admit.

  “Did he talk to you about that?” She seems eager for a response.

  “Yeah. We talked about lots of stuff.”

  “Did he tell you his problems?”

  Now I feel like total slime. “The truth is, I usually upstaged Jason in the problem arena.” I take in a quick breath, fighting to hold off the tears. “I was probably so obsessed over my own life that I wasn’t much of a listener, especially lately. Even on that day”—I choke now—“on the day that he—he did it, he had e-mailed me, saying he needed to talk. And I was so busy with my own stupid life that I never even saw the e-mail. I didn’t even reply.” Now the tears are coming again, fast and hard.

  Mrs. Harding picks up a box of Kleenex and comes to sit beside me on the couch. She puts an arm around my shoulders. “We’re all blaming ourselves, Morgan. I guess it’s natural.”

  “I just feel so horrible about it.” I wipe my nose. “Jason was always there for me. He was a great listener. And then when he really needed me, I wasn’t even available.”

  “No one is perfect.”

  “I know. I just wish I could go back and do it all over again.”

  “So did he.”

  “So did he?” I turn to look at her face. “What do you mean? How would you even know that?” I want to ask her if Jason has been speaking to her from the grave, but that would sound disrespectful, not to mention mean.

  “I haven’t really told anyone all this. Well, other than Jason’s father. But, as I mentioned, Jason had been down about the pressure that his father had been putting on him to get into Princeton.” She nods to the school newspaper. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that was part of his reason for writing that column. It had been an ongoing battle at our house.”

  She stands now, pacing as she continues to speak, almost as if I’m not in the room. “Jason had even said something about the pressure that very morning, something that should’ve clued me in, but I missed it. It was right after their big argument. He told me that everyone would probably be much happier if he wasn’t around anymore. And he said that if he were gone, our family wouldn’t have to be embarrassed by him anymore. Of course, I never took this seriously. Why would I?”

  “People say things like that,” I tell her. “But it doesn’t mean they want to take their own lives.”

  “I certainly didn’t think so at the time. Now I wish I’d been paying more attention. He came home from school around noon and seemed pretty down. He told me that he wasn’t feeling well, but when I asked him for specifics, he was vague. Then he went straight to his room and turned on his music, and I really didn’t think much of it. I’d ordered a bunch of flowers and had come home to get them planted that afternoon. So I went outside and worked until it was time to fix dinner. I never once thought to go check on him. Why would I?”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “I fixed a simple dinner. His father had a council meeting and wasn’t planning to get home until late. They’ve been working on that initiative. So it was just the two of us. But when I went upstairs to tell him to come down, he said he wasn’t hungry. Well, I wasn’t too pleased that I’d gone to the trouble to fix dinner and he wasn’t even hungry. But I still didn’t think anything was wrong with him. Not really.”

  I nod and wait for her to continue.

  “But later on that evening, I began to feel this little thing, kind of like a nudge in the back of my head, and I felt I should go up and try to talk to him, to see if he was really sick or just feeling unhappy about the argument he’d had with his father. So I knocked on his door, and after what seemed several minutes, he told me to come in.” She pauses and I can tell by her expression that she’s seeing it all over again, playing it back through her mind’s eye.

  “But he told you to come in?” I repeat, wanting to make sure that I’m getting this correctly. “So he was still conscious?”

  “Oh yes. He was very conscious. And agitated. I asked him if he was okay and he kind of laughed, but not in a humorous way. Then he said that he’d never felt better. And yet, I could tell by looking at him that this wasn’t true. He was perspiring and shaky and his face was flushed. I told him he looked unwell. But he assured me that he was okay and that everything was going to be just fine. His music was still playing. Not so loudly, though. I suggested he get some rest. And he promised me that he would. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’ll get lots of rest tonight.’” She reaches for her handkerchief again, blotting the tears that are slipping down her pale cheeks.

  I don’t know what to say, but I’m hoping she’ll continue. I really feel like I need to hear all of this. And maybe she needs to tell someone.

  “So I went back to my bedroom. I had the TV on and was reading a book and waiting for Gary to get home. I have a hard time going to sleep when he’s not home. And it was nearly midnight when I heard someone tapping on the bedroom door. I was surprised to see that it was Jason and now he looked seriously ill. He said he was in pain, his stomach hurt horribly and he needed help. I thought perhaps he was having an appendicitis attack. My brother had suffered one when he was about the same age. So I immediately got on the phone and called 911. They asked me for his symptoms and I was trying to get him to explain it to me and he seemed confused, and then he told me that he’d taken too much Tylenol. Well, I felt kind of silly then, calling 911 because he’d taken Tylenol and gotten a tummy ache. But the woman on the other end demanded to know exactly how many pills he’d taken.” She just shakes her head now, as if she can’t bear to say the next words.

  “I think the news said between eighty and ninety caplets,” I offered.

  “Yes, that’s what he told me. I was so shocked at this. I had no idea why he’d do such a thing. But even so, I wasn’t terribly worried. I figured Tylenol couldn’t really hurt a person.” She sighs. “Then the woman asked how long ago he’d taken them and Jason told me he’d taken them that morning, right after he and his dad had argued. Nearly eighteen hours earlier. I asked if I should bring him to the hospital, but she said that an ambulance was already on its way. In fact, it arrived about the same time she told me this.”

  Somehow this story is nothing like what I’d imagined. I had envisioned Mr. and Mrs. Harding finding Jason unconscious, then rushing him to the hospital. It strikes me as strange that he was fully aware at the time.

  “Then what happened?” I ask, no longer able to be patient.

  “They took him straight to the ER,” she continues. “I was allowed to stay with him. But it was too late to pump his stomach. They had him on IVs and machines, but somehow I could tell by the doctor’s face that it was very, very serious. That’s when Jason told me that he didn’t really want to die. That he’d only taken the Tylenol to shake everyone up. He figured he’d get to a certain place, then go to the hospital and have his stomach pumped. He’d only done this to show us that he couldn’t take the stress and pressure anymore. He wanted to get at his dad . . . to make him understand . . .”

  She chokes up, and now I put my arm around her shoulders, and I wish for something to say, something to make things better and to comfort her. But I have nothing. Mostly I am in shock. It was hard enough to hear that Jason took his own life last week. But to hear that he was sorry about it, that he regretted his choice and didn’t really mean to die . . . well, this is something completely different.

  “There was nothing we could do,” she says. “Nothing the doctors could do. The poison from the acetaminophen was already in his system. His liver was damaged beyond repair. He died at around three in the morning. His father got there before then. But Jason was in such pain that it was hard for them to talk much. Still, I think that Jason forgave his father. And I know that he was sorry. His last words were, ‘I’m sorry.’”

  Now I am sobbing again and it feels like I won’t ever be able to stop. It’s just so sad and it hurts so bad. Why did this happen?

  Finally we both stop crying and I feel like I’ve been run over by one of those big rollers that they use to press the blacktop flat and smooth. It’s like I’m just empty.

  “I’m sorry,” says Mrs. Harding. “I probably shouldn’t have told you all that. Gary didn’t want to tell anyone the details. Out of respect for Jason, we had meant to keep everything as quiet as possible. That’s why we’ve made no comments to the news.”

  For some reason this bugs me. “But why?” I ask.

  She looks somewhat confused. “I’m not sure exactly. But Gary thought it was best. The less people know about it, the better.”

  Okay, I might be sticking my foot into it now, but I have to say this. “I think that’s wrong.”

  She blinks. “Wrong?”

  “Yes. And I’ll tell you why.” So I explain to her about the suicide pact and how even though I’ve come to my senses, there are others who haven’t, including her own neighbor Seth Blum.