Say Something by Jennifer Brown

said. I handed the medal and letter back to her. “That’s, um… great.” I tried to muster up a smile to reassure her, but found that I couldn’t do it. What if I didn’t want to move on just yet? What if that medal reminded me that the guy I’d trusted most in this world shot people, shot me, shot himself? Why couldn’t she see that accepting the school’s “thanks,” in that light, was painful to me? Like gratitude would be the only possible emotion I could feel now. Gratitude that I’d lived. Gratitude that I’d been forgiven. Gratitude that they recognized that I’d saved the lives of other Garvin students.
    The truth was most days I couldn’t feel grateful no matter how hard I tried. Most days I couldn’t even pinpoint how I felt. Sometimes sad, sometimes relieved, sometimes confused, sometimes misunderstood. And a lot of times angry. And, what’s worse, I didn’t know who I was angry at the most: myself, Nick, my parents, the school, the whole world. And then there was the anger that felt the worst of all: anger at the students who died.
    “Val,” she said, her eyes pleading.
    “No, really,” I said, “It’s cool. I’m just really tired is all, Mom. Really. My leg…”
    I pushed my head deeper into my pillow and folded myself into the blankets again.
    Mom bowed her head and left the room, stooped. I knew she would try to get Dr. Hieler all worked up over “my reaction” at our next visit. I could imagine him sitting in his chair:
“So, Val, we probably should talk about that medal…”
    I know Mom later put the medal and letter away in a keepsake box with all the other kid junk she’d collected over the years. Kindergarten artwork, seventh grade report cards, a letter from the school thanking me for stopping a school shooting. To Mom, somehow all those things would fit together.
    That’s Mom’s way of showing her stubborn hope. Her hope that someday I’ll be “fine” again, although she probably can’t remember the last time I was “fine.” Come to think of it, neither can I. Was it before the shooting? Before Jeremy walked into Nick’s life? Before Dad and Mom started hating each other and I started searching for someone, something to take me away from the unhappiness? Way back when I had braces and wore pastel-colored sweaters and listened to Top 40 and thought life would be easy?
    The snooze alarm sounded again and I pawed at it, accidentally knocking the clock to the floor.
    “Valerie, come on!” she yelled. I imagined she had the cordless in her hand by now, her finger poised over the 9. “School starts in an hour. Wake up!”
    I curled up around my pillow and stared at the horses printed on my wallpaper. Ever since I was a little kid, every time I got into trouble, I’d lie on my bed and stare at those horses and imagine myself hopping on one of them and riding away. Just riding, riding, riding, my hair swimming out behind me, my horse never getting tired or hungry, never finding another soul on earth. Just open possibility ahead of me into eternity.
    Now the horses just looked like crappy kids’ wallpaper art. They didn’t take me anywhere. They couldn’t. Now I knew they never could, which I thought was so sad. Like my whole life was all a big, dumb dream.
    I heard clicking against the doorknob and groaned. Of course—the key. At some point, Dr. Hieler, usually totally on my side, gave my mom permission to use a key and come into my room whenever she pleased.
Just in case
, you know.
As a precaution
, you know.
There was that whole suicide issue
, you know. So now anytime I didn’t answer her knock she’d just come right in anyway, the cordless in her hand, just in case she walked in and I was lying in a pool of razor blades and blood on my daisy-shaped throw rug.
    I watched as the doorknob turned. Nothing I could do about it but watch from my pillow. She crept in. I was right. The cordless was in her hand.
    “Good, you’re awake,” she said. She smiled and