She pauses and I count my heartbeats until she slowly pivots to face me.
“James Cohen died in a crossover car accident,” she says.
“I thought you didn’t know anything about it.”
“I didn’t, but sue me for being curious. I looked it up online. A car lost control. Went over the median. He died. It’s very tragic, but what I don’t get is why he matters to you.”
Slack-mouthed, I stare at her. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew?”
“I figured you’d tell me what happened when you were ready.”
When I was ready...but am I? I try to take in air, but my lungs constrict. “I was there. I watched it happen.”
I was two car lengths behind him. He switched into the fast lane of the expressway and so did I to avoid trash and then it happened. No warning. No advance notification. A semi barreled over the grassy strip and hammered the car in front of me.
My eyes dart everywhere, seeing the floor, the school’s painted cement wall, but all my mind captures is the way the glass in the back window of James Cohen’s car fractured like millions of spider webs. The deafening sound of the impact. The way my heart squeezed past my throat. The way my muscles locked as I slammed on the brakes and the desperate prayer I would survive.
God answered my prayer but not James Cohen’s.
My breaths get shaky and I blink as my eyes burn. I haven’t cried yet. Mom said I should cry.
Stella’s careful with her steps toward me. Those gray eyes have softened, but I spot worry in them. “You aren’t related to him?”
I shake my head, the panic inside of me halting my ability to speak.
“You didn’t know him before the accident?”
Another shake and I stare at the brown-speckled linoleum floor.
Then she’s there—in front of me. The toes of her shoes bumping into mine. A delicate sweep of soft fingers against my cheek and I lean into her touch.
Stella sidles closer, her small frame brushing against my body. The sweet scent of honeysuckle surrounds me like a blanket.
“You’re the one,” she whispers. “The one they talked about on the news. The unnamed Good Samaritan.”
The one the reporters are dying to talk to. The assumed hero who carried out a dying man’s wish. But I’m no hero. I’m a fraud.
I’ve got to tell somebody. I have to release it. Otherwise my soul will join James Cohen in the ground. I’ll still be breathing, my heart will still be beating, but I won’t be fully alive...just the walking dead.
“I couldn’t stop the bleeding.” My voice is hoarse, hardly sounding like my own. “I tried, but it was coming from so many places. He asked me to take his hand...”
My entire body trembles and Stella wraps her arms around me, holding me tighold frotly, holding me together, and I bury myself in her.
“It’s okay, she says strongly. “It’s okay.”
If only that were true.
14
Stella
I hold Jonah’s hand as we walk down the hallway to the guidance counselor’s office and I’m more than aware that he’ll regret this moment by tomorrow morning. People gawk as we pass. The girl with the purple hair, the girl who pulled her lunch out of the garbage can in third grade because some stupid boy threw it in there not understanding that’s all she’d eat for the day, is clutching the hand of the guy everyone knows and likes.
Jonah doesn’t notice the stares now. With his shoulders rolled forward and his hand gripping mine like I’m the sole thing keeping him from falling off a cliff, he’s lost in his own world. He blames himself for a death that couldn’t have been stopped.
How can I judge him for being so messed up? How many of us honestly see death face to face? Jonah has and it’s changed him. I sneak a peek at him from the corner of my eye. Yes, Rick’s right, people can possibly change. It sucks that it takes something so awful to make it happen.
I expect Jonah to release me when we get to the office, but instead he joins me. The secretary’s eyes flicker between us, and Jonah says, “I need a few minutes alone before class.”
“Okay,” she answers. “Your parents told us what happened. Why don’t you go into the sick room and lie down. I know Mrs. Collins would be willing to talk with you if you wanted.”
He says nothing to her, but he squeezes my hand. Knowing that this will probably be the last time I’ll be so close to him, I squeeze back. Instead of the smile I was hoping to see in return, Jonah lets go of my fingers and cups my face with both hands.
The heat from his skin radiates into mine and I swear his warmth rushes into my bloodstream. My heart stops as he angles my head to look at him. His thumbs sweep over my cheeks and the air around us crackles.
Crap, I just got dizzy.
“Are you Miss Vaughn?” says a female voice behind me.
Jonah lowers his hands and I slam my fingers onto the counter so that I don’t drop to the floor. Um, am I? “Yes.” That sounded correct.
When I have the slightest control over my voluntary motor functions again, I glance behind me and spot—all blonde and all professional—Mrs. Collins, our school’s in-house social worker. She assesses me, then Jonah. “Are you okay, Jonah?”
He nods. “Just need a few minutes.”
“Of course.” She flashes a friendly grin. “I don’t believe there’s anyone in the sick room. We can talk later if you’d like.”
I hear Jonah’s footsteps retreat, but I keep my sights locked on Mrs. Collins. I don’t trust social workers.