Chapter Forty-One
Forty-one
I went back to school a month after Marcie’s death.
A month of tiptoeing around the house, listening to my mother’s grief, my father’s flat monotone.
I was nervous about returning. That I’d go back to being branded strange and withdrawn.
I didn’t even have my connection with Marcie to draw from anymore.
That morning, I dressed in my school uniform, then paused by the mirror. I should, I realized, pay tribute to Marcie in some way. I fished the bracelet out from under the bed and fastened it round my wrist.
I heard the whispers as soon as I stepped into the playground.
I noticed heads turn to look at me and eyes widen.
I even heard a gasp. I ignored them all.
I walked straight through to the classroom.
Billy smiled at me, but I ignored him. I noticed several people half rise in their seats when I arrived, as though they wanted to speak to me but didn’t know how to begin.
I realized that I was in a unique position.
I was the only person who could shed light on the tragedy that had befallen Marcie Jones.
I stood taller with the knowledge and waited for them to come to me.
No one wanted to approach me initially. I spent the morning alone as usual, staring at the front of the classroom.
I enjoyed how kind the teachers were. They pulled me back at the end of lessons and told me I didn’t need to do the homework, that I could stay inside at lunchtime, that I could go home whenever I wanted. Eyes followed me wherever I went.
A pack of three approached me first. Olivia, Jessica, and Helena.
Marcie’s three best friends. They made their move at lunchtime, dragging their feet, arranging their faces into sad expressions that didn’t quite hide the hunger in their eyes.
I pretended not to notice their approach.
“Iris,” Olivia whispered. I jerked my head up. “Are you OK? We heard what happened.”
I stifled a sob, and she put her arm round me. With this preliminary contact came more. Soon, I was swarmed with people. It was the first time I had ever been the subject of such intense scrutiny. They clamored for answers like starving dogs, feeding off whatever scraps I threw for them.
“It was awful,” I said over and over again. “Just awful. She was just there one moment and gone the next.” I pictured Marcie’s face as I said it: the surprise, the shock, the horror, the fear.
“We’re so sorry for your loss, Iris.” Again, and again, and again. Whispered like a prayer.
The feeling was electric. I’ve craved it ever since.