Page 167 of We Can't Be Friends

An airbag fills what’s remaining of his windshield.

Aaron. . .

I try to move to him, but my feet are frozen. I tumble forward. My momentum has me rolling down the sloped front yard. Snow coats my body, flakes caught in my hair.

I follow Callum.

We walk next to each other. My focus doesn’t leave one inch in front of me. Cal maneuvers us, a hand on my lower back or in mine.

He doesn’t speak the entire time.

Shoving my hands under me, I stand up, rushing to where a small crowd is forming. The other car—that blew through the stop sign without stopping—reverses. Being the larger car—a truck or. . .or. . .I don’t know cars. Aaron and Miller did—their only damage is a dented front bender. They swerve, trying to drive away.

People are yelling. I see their mouths opening and closing, but I can’t hear them—my ears are ringing. Do-do they hear it too?—waving their hands in front of the truck and it stops.

He. . .Aaron needs help. The cops. Someone. Mom. Dad.

I pat myself down for my phone. I can’t find it.

I start at the beginning. That Saturday morning nine years ago.

I try to move closer to his car. Pushing and shoving through my neighbors, other students.

When I break through to the front, someone tries to restrain me.

“Chloe, you can’t go to the car. Chloe, stop.” It’s an echo, though, muffled. Do they not know I can’thear?

My arms burst through their hold on me. I rub my hands over my eyes, trying to clear the haze. Damn snowflakes.

When I lift my head, Aaron’s car comes back into my blurred vision.

Folded. The front fender is touching the back on the driver's side.

Sirens sound.

Police and fire trucks.

Ambulances.

People move, but I don’t. I stand there.

“Aaron,” I keep screaming (I think). Over and over.

Someone in uniform picks me up. They must have been trying to get my attention. I kick and flail, trying to get back to my brother.

There’s a small ice rink along the Chicago River. I can’t help but stare at it. At the kids skating in a circle, a few with hockey sticks learning from their dad’s.

Would that be Aaron now? Would he have a kid he’d be teaching to skate like he did me? Be a hockey hero to his son or daughter?

My heart squeezes. Not that it isn’t already constricted. The collar—like the spiky metal ones for dogs—that shame and guilt have on it, on me, presses in.

I close my eyes, biting my lip hard enough that I accidentally draw blood.

Cal runs his thumb over my lip to clear the blood, wiping it on his pants. He holds my chin, drawing my gaze to his. “It wasn’t your fault, Chloe.”

“It was. If I hadn’t been late, if I had been more responsible, if I wasn’t drinking the night before, then I wouldn’t have needed a ride. Aaron wouldn’t have been in that car or on my side of campus. It’s. My. Fault.”

“I’m not letting you believe that. People drive under the influence. . .”

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