Having grown up in this town, it’s not like I hadn’t already been there like a zillion times before, not to mention how it’s the same school Zoë went to right up until the first month of her junior year. But still, every time I approached that concrete slab of a campus I couldn’t help but wonder just exactly what those founders were thinking when they named it Bella Vista. Because as far as beautiful views went, well, there weren’t any.

We navigated our way around, located our lockers (which thankfully weren’t all that far apart), and decided where we’d meet on our ten-minute break (Abby’s locker), and then again at lunch (Abby’s locker — until we secured a more solid place). And after we’d memorized all of our room numbers and their corresponding locations, we headed back home, with Jenay doing an impersonation of Ashlee Simpson that had me bent over laughing the entire way.

Well, until I saw Marc.

I stopped midstride, just stood there and stared. Noticing how his shoulders slumped low, how his dark eyes stayed guarded, and how each drag of his cigarette seemed filled with intent, like he was meant to be sitting on the hood of his car, just outside the Circle K, at precisely that moment. But just as he lifted his head and his eyes fixed on mine, Abby and Jenay each grabbed an arm, pulling me away from him and closer to the safety of home. But now, having just seen him again, I realize this will probably become like a daily occurrence. And I can’t believe I didn’t grasp that before. I mean, even though I don’t share the same opinion of him as most people in this town, having to go to the same school with him just totally sucks. Because now it’s like there’s no safe place, nowhere I can just be me without the constant shadow of Zoë. No place where I can start fresh and try to move on.

Four

Even though it probably seems like Abby would’ve been the one to secure the good lunch table, it was Jenay who succeeded. Because in the world of cafeteria real estate, long blond hair, big blue eyes, a great smile, and a nicely filled out snug white T-shirt trumps the best laid plans of a future life coach every single time.

“It must be the jeans. They’re magic, that’s why they cost so damn much,” Abby says, sliding in next to Jenay and gawking at Chess Williams and the almost equally cute Parker Hendricks, who are sitting just mere inches away.

But Jenay just shakes her head and laughs. “Don’t forget that they’ve just been demoted to lowly freshmen in a sea of hot seniors. So technically, they’re lucky to be sitting by us” she whispers, smiling triumphantly.

I slide onto the end of the bench and unzip my lunch pack, curious to see what’s inside, and hoping it’s not the dreaded leftover meatloaf sandwich that only my mom could view as a logical choice. I mean, for someone with an I.Q. ranked firmly among genius, who makes her living as an academic (aka professional smart person), she just can’t seem to grasp the fact that some leftovers were never meant for cafeteria consumption or any other lunchtime scenario that doesn’t entail complete privacy, a bib, and the luxury of eating over a sink. But as I unzip the top and peek inside, I’m relieved to see the unmistakable tubelike shape of my favorite deli wrap sandwich and not a white bread monstrosity dripping with meat juice on my very first day.

I tear open my chips and fish one out, pretending not to notice how just about every single Bella Vista student sitting within a two-mile radius is totally staring at me. I mean, if I thought things were a little rough this morning in Honors English, American History, Geometry, and French, well, most of my fellow classmates went to school with me last year too, which means they’ve pretty much gotten an eyeful ever since it all began. But now, being surrounded by all of these people who used to know Zoë, who were friends with Zoë, or who, now that she’s gone,

like to pretend they were friends with Zoë, makes me feel completely naked and exposed. Like a regretful “life art” model being stared at and scrutinized as everyone takes it all in, draws it all down, and interprets everything they see in their own biased way.

And even though I kind of expected this, that doesn’t mean I can actually handle it. And there’s just no way I can finish my lunch with everyone whispering, pointing, and gawking.

So just as Jenay starts talking to Chess, so casually and easily you’d think she’d been at it for years, and Abby scoots even closer to Parker — who she’s secretly crushed on forever — I rise from the table and move for the door, hoping I can make it safely inside the bathroom before I start hurling.

It’s weird how you can hire a bodyguard to protect you from physical harm, yet there’s no one who can keep you from emotional harm. And as great as my friends have been, doing their best to shield me from everything they can, there’s just no way they can defend me from all of the prying eyes, pointed fingers, and loudly whispered, “Omigod! That’s her! You know, the little sister!” that follows me wherever I go.

I push into the empty bathroom, dump the contents of my lunch pack into the big green trash can against the far wall, then run cold water over my hands until the nausea passes. Then I smooth my hair, straighten my shirt, and head right back outside, and straight into Marc.

“Echo,” he says, his dark brown eyes peering into mine, as his pale slim hands clasp nervously at his sides. Up close, he seems thinner, and his hair looks darker, hanging long and loose around his angular face. But he’s still amazing, only different. Less contrived, more authentic, yet also kind of lost.

I just stand there, smelling the nicotine wafting off of him, remembering how it was Zoë who got him started.

And just as he opens his mouth to speak, Abby runs up and grabs hold of my shirt. “Echo! Hey! Let’s go,” she says, tugging on my sleeve and pulling me away.

Five

Every day gets a little easier. But not because the whispering stops, or the staring ceases, or the teachers stop giving me that “Oh, you poor sad thing” look. Nope, all of that remains as blatant as ever. The reason things are getting easier is because every day I get a little better at ignoring it. It’s like, if no one else is willing to change, then I’ll be the one who does. So, I’ve simply stopped reacting. I mean, now, when people whisper as I pass in the hall, I refuse to hear it. And when my English teacher gives me that look, I avert my eyes. And when I walk through the cafeteria and everyone stops eating and talking so they can point and stare, I absolutely refuse to care. I just focus on eating my sandwich, drinking my Snapple, and watching Jenay flirt with Chess.

“Omigod, do you think he’ll ask you to homecoming?” Abby asks, just seconds after the lunch bell rings and Chess and Parker head for class.

But Jenay just gazes down at the ground, blushing and shrugging like she hasn’t even considered it.

“Homecoming? Jeez, I haven’t even thought about going,” I say, walking alongside them and gazing at Jenay, knowing that in a race between the three of us, she’s definitely the best bet. I mean, the odds are pretty much against a trifecta, at least with me in the race, and since Abby’s also like me, and has no idea how to flirt, I’m placing my wager on Jenay, for win, place, and show.

“He likes you, anyone can tell,” Abby says, smiling when she sees her blush.

But Jenay just shrugs. “Well, I guess we’ll just see what happens next weekend then, won’t we?” she says, waving over her shoulder and heading toward class.

“What’s going on next weekend?” I ask, searching Abby’s face, wondering what they could possibly be keeping from me.

But she just shrugs. “You know Jenay.” She laughs, bringing her finger to her temple and making the universal sign for looney toons. “See you after school?”

“Not today,” I say, watching her go and wondering if she heard me.

After school I have an appointment with a shrink. Though I guess when most people are seeing someone like that they usually say “my shrink.” As in, “after school I have an appointment with MY shrink.” But I don’t like to think of him like that. I mean, I can barely stand the guy, so I certainly don’t want to think of him as mine.

Besides, it’s not like I see him all that often anymore. And it’s not like he actually ever helped me when I did. I mean, okay, so this completely horrible thing happened to my family. I still can’t see how sitting in his office and sobbing my eyes out to the tune of $150 for a fifty-minute hour is ever going to benefit anyone other than him.

But my parents, being intellectually minded, called on their most sought-after colleague, who, according to my mom, actually gets away with charging twice that amount, and who “out of kindness, compassion, and as a huge favor to our family has decided to give us a deeply discounted rate.”

So because of all that, I was pretty much forced to spend every Tuesday after school, for almost my entire eighth grade year, sitting on that brown leather couch, with a beige floral Kleenex box placed squarely before me, as the Dr. Phil wannabe tried to trick me into saying the actual words, to verbalize and not euphemize what really happened to Zoë.

But even though I like to read and write, and even though I really do believe that words do hold the power to harm or heal, this was just one of those cases where words didn’t seem all that important. And no way was I giving in, just so he could feel all smug and accomplished and like he just might actually know what he’s doing.