If Xander was ever scared, he didn’t show it. These, of course, were the words Baby wrote on his memorial page. It was required by the Apple Valley School of Fine Arts (AVFA) for the friends of dead students to write a few words (paragraphs) about them. They were also encouraged to make an art piece (Yeah, sure). Of course, they didn’t use the word dead. They called it passing on. Pushing up daisies. Bought the big one. Killed himself. The school definitely didn’t use that last one. Baby and her friends didn’t say it much, either. It was like ripping open a wound that hadn’t even healed yet. Every time she talked about it, Callie cried, which was not her intention. So, Baby kept her mouth shut. Xander shot himself. The most dramatic way possible. If she wasn’t so busy being emotionally scarred, she’d laugh at the absurdity of it all. (1) Best friend kills himself; (2) Another best friend is admitted to Apple Valley Psychiatric Hospital (AVP); (3) Another friend eggs her house. Now she was standing in front of her student body to deliver a speech. A speech about her dead friend. Nice. She stared at her classmates, considering her options. She could cuss out the whole school then run. That may result in expulsion, which was a small price to pay for freedom. She could just start crying. Then she’d be sent to AVP, which meant she would see Callie, which would be better than the whole school calling her “The dead kid’s friend”. Nobody at AVFA was very creative. How ironic, for an art school. Baby was a fan of irony in all forms. She’d riddled her life with it. She’d written the definition in all her notebooks, art pieces, half-written poems. She savored metaphors like the butterscotch candy her grandma used to give her. She bit her thumb. She listened to the chatter of the students in the seats. She tried to pick out Jackson’s voice. It had been nearly a week since he and his girlfriend Bonnie threw eggs at her window. She had to climb a ladder to clean the yolk off. (Dad wouldn’t help.) “Miss Dunham?” Baby started at Mrs. Garrison’s voice. Her English teacher smiled at her. She had a blotch of red lipstick on her teeth, which were already tinted yellow. Baby momentarily considered telling her, but decided against it. “Yeah. Just...nerves.” Baby cleared her throat. (Nerves = An immense hatred of her fellow students) “Oh, don’t worry. We’re here to comfort you, and remember your loss.” Baby’s lip twitched. That was the fakest concern she’d ever heard in all her 17 years. “May God be with you, Diana.” “It’s Baby, and I’m an atheist.” Mrs. Garrison gritted her teeth. “Yes. Of course, Baby.” Baby walks out onto the stage. The crowd grows quiet. “Xander Roberts was my best friend.” She said calmly. “And you all killed him.” Emily Morrison, Grade 8 Hixson Middle School, Mrs. Carrie Bishop
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