Shimmer by Alyson Noël Page A

him myself.
    Tugging hard on his arm as I said, “But you tried. You tried to stop it. I saw you—I heard you—I was you!” Practically screaming at him, so desperate to free him so that I too could be released from all this.
    But Bodhi wasn’t having it. He just shook his head, eyes blazing with anger, voice laced with bitterness, when he said, “Oh, really? And just exactly what is it you heard, Riley? What is it you actually said when you were me?”
    I squinted, having no idea what he was getting at—I mean, hadn’t we experienced the same thing?
    Following the length of his pointing finger all the way to the place where it played out again.
    A bell, a boy, a girl …
    Finally realizing the truth:
    The real reason no one reacted when Bodhi and I both screamed those words—the real reason we were so easily ignored.
    We hadn’t actually spoken them.
    Hadn’t uttered anything at all.
    Those words never found their way out of Bodhi’s mouth, much less past his heart.
    I didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to even begin to try to comfort him.
    All I knew for sure is that anger and guilt mixed together made for a pretty strong brew—one that could trap a person forever.
    “I was gonna say something that day, I had it all planned out, but then, at the very last moment, I chickened out and put it off until Monday instead.” His voice was solemn as he continued to stare straight ahead. “Figured I’d take the weekend to get up the courage to try and convince her that she was smart and beautiful and unique and cool, and that nothing those other kids said was the slightest bit true. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I knew she didn’t like me. Or at least, not in the way I liked her. I was just some stupid, runty freshman, and she was the exotic, older new girl.” He swiped his palm across his face, across his eyes, and I quickly looked away, pretended not to notice. I just waited patiently beside him, sensing he might need a moment or two before he was ready to continue.
    “I just wanted her to know I was on her side—but, as it turns out, I never got to say any of that because Monday never came. Or at least not for her, anyway.”
    I stood there beside him, watching a family entrenched in a grief so big and raw, it threatened to consume me as well.
    “I guess she couldn’t take it anymore, felt she had nowhere to turn. And so…” He looked at me, eyes filled with sadness as the words reverberated between us. “I went to her funeral.” His shoulders slumped. “And I used to leave a flower in her mailbox every day on my way home from school, or at least until they moved, anyway.”
    “And those other kids? The bullies?” I asked, feeling almost as awful as he did.
    He looked at me, shaking his head in a world-weary way. “Things were different back then. A slap on the wrist, an anti-bullying seminar in the school auditorium, and a whole lot of nonsense about how kids will be kids.”
    “And that’s why you’re stuck, then?” I scrunched up my nose and peered at him. “Because you think you were accountable?”
    “I participated with my silence.” He shrugged. “I was accountable. I did nothing to stop it.”
    To be honest, I had no idea what to do at that point—had no idea what to say. So, I did the only thing I could think of, I squeezed his hand tighter and imagined a small golden bubble of love and forgiveness shimmering all around him, remembering how it’d worked once before, and hoping it would work once again.
    And when he looked at me, well, that’s when I saw it. Saw the hate and anger being edged out by the small glimmer of silence displayed in his gaze.
    “Hold on to it,” I urged. “Hold on to the silence for as long as you can. There’s no room for the bad stuff in there.”
    And the next thing I knew, he was back. Answering the thought in my head about whether he’d ever seen her again, when he said, “The Here & Now is a big place, Riley.” He looked away, running