Page 8 of Catch the Sun

Max doesn’t look at me as he shoves the pack of cigarettes into his pocket, grabs an armful of textbooks, and trudges behind them.

While the rest of the students disperse from the halls, I peer down at the writing etched onto my skin in violet ink. I tilt my arm from side to side as the numbers shimmer with glittery specks under the fluorescent lights.

A friend.

I haven’t had one of those in over a year. Not since everyone abandoned me after the news broke about Jonah. My mother, Candice Sunbury, owned a well-loved equestrian farm and was a highly respected horseback guide before the entire Nashville area put my family under the proverbial microscope and dragged our name through the mud. And yet, that was nothing compared to what we went through in those subsequent months.

Vandalism. Threats.

Even violence.

I had to carry pepper spray in my book bag as I walked the school hallways during the remainder of my sophomore year, after a friend-turned-enemy shoved me down on the school’s running track so hard, I dislocated my ankle.

We didn’t press charges. Mom was too busy trying to bail Jonah out of jail to worry about a busted ankle.

And that was fine by me. The last thing I wanted was more negative attention.

Sighing, I drop my arm and make my way over to the vending machine to retrieve the Dr Pepper as I try to shove the barrage of bittersweet memories aside.

Sliding a few dollar bills into the machine, I make my selection and glance at the wall clock, already knowing I’ll be late to class. Not a big deal—I’m sure no one will even notice.

I watch as the soda can jerks forward and prepares to fall.

But then it comes to a stop, making a grinding sound and jamming before it can slide loose.

Of course it does.

I kick the machine a few times, begging for the can to wriggle from itsentrapment. I smack it with my hand. I even growl at it, hoping it will sense my rage and slither free with fear.

Nothing.

Great.Even the Dr Pepper loathes to be associated with me.

Closing my eyes, I press my palms and forehead to the glass face and inhale a long, tired breath before blowing it out with a miserable groan.

I make a quick stop at the water fountain before plodding to my next class.

***

Monster.

It’s a book written by Walter Dean Myers that we’re reading for English class, and it’s exactly how I feel when people look at me these days.

Even my teacher, Mrs. Caulfield, has punitive action in her beady eyes as she wields a metaphorical gavel and aims it right at me. My thoughts scatter, and I imagine her adorned in a judicial robe while slamming the gavel down on her desk as stacks of assignments go flying.

“Guilty on all charges,” she announces to the classroom.

Everyone claps and cheers as I’m handcuffed and hauled away in an orange jumpsuit.

Fair enough; I love the color orange and the sentence is valid.

I’m guilty.

I’m guilty for not believing in his innocence like Mom does.

I’m guilty for still loving him, despite it all.

Most of all, I’m guilty for not loving him hard enough to keep him from pulling that trigger. He must not have felt the strength of my heart or known how much I’d miss him. He made a choice that night and it wasn’t us.

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