Patrick Carman - Thirteen Days to Midnight

I arrived in the parking lot full of cars after the morning bell on purpose, just in case I changed my mind and wanted to cut school after all. It felt like all the blood had been drained out of the world while I was away.

The sky was overcast and heavy. Around here, clouds can take in water for weeks on end, then drizzle for twenty-five or thirty days in a row, slowly delivering back what theyve stolen. Looking up, I had the feeling we were in for a long month of misty rain.

Ten out of ten cars in the Holy Cross parking lot were crap for a simple reason: Holy Cross was a dying school. Enrollment had been in a freefall for years, and theyd dwindled to 137 souls in four grades by the time I got there as a gangly, foul-mouthed sophomore. Ive since cleaned up my languagemainly because it bothered Mr. Fielding so muchbut I still remember the gorgeous sound of a well-placed F-word rolling off my tongue.

Two years ago they finished building South Ridge High, a brand new 1,300-student public high school with state-of-the-art everything. Its high-tech and pristine athletic facilities are housed a mere mile down the road. When that place fired up its lights for the first time, most of the best athletes, brainiacs, and teachers took off. What was left were kids with parents whod gone to Holy Cross before them in the eighties, back when three hundred kids packed the halls between classes.

Just so were clear from the beginning, me and my friends hate South Ridge High, especially the defectors who used to be Holy Crossers. Were a wad of chewing gum on the heel of mighty South Ridge, and they never let us forget it.

As I stared at the clunkers in the parking lot and felt the oppressively low clouds closing in, school was the last place I felt like spending the day, especially given all that had happened. I was just about to turn around and head for the 7-Eleven when I was spotted by Miss Pines, a mostly pretty, often tired-looking fiction writer who taught second period English and was eternally late for every class.

Jacob Fielding, nice to have you back, said Miss Pines, flipping shut her cell phone as she kicked her car door shut. Miss Pines, the only black teacher at our school, almost always wore yellow, and today was no exception.

I was so sorry to hear about Mr. Fielding, she continued. She was one of the strictest teachers at Holy Cross, but she could be nice when the situation called for it. Miss Pines looked at me sort of sideways, a habit she had that always preceded a question. How you holding up?

Better than this place, I said, only half joking. How about you?

Im fine. Late as usual, but fine. I got that trait from my mom. She was tardy for everythingchurch, work, dinner on the table. You know I didnt show up on time for school but three times my whole freshman year? I blame her for all my problems.

Good thing I dont have that difficulty, I said. The mom thing, I mean.

Maybe so, said Miss Pines, nodding thoughtfully as if she really might think this was true. She tilted her head again. Still expecting Father Tim back tomorrow night?

As far as I know.

Holy Cross was in need of cash and it was Father Tims job to get it, which meant driving from Salem to Seattle to meet with the bishop. In a small school its tough to keep that sort of thing secret, especially when one of the students (thatd be me) is living in the church house now.

Hows the novel? I asked. As far as I knew, Miss Pines had been working on the same manuscript for about ten years.

Same as when you asked me last time. Not finished.

Miss Pines moved on, yelling over her shoulder that she was really late, which meant I was late, which meant Id better get moving.

I lingered in the parking lot a little longer, staring at the countless weeds poking through cracked concrete, thinking about what had kept me away from school for a whole week. Mr. Fielding, my foster parent, was dead. There was no Mrs. Fielding, which complicated matters. And then there was the fact that I loved the guy, and the additional detail about how we were together when it happenedonly he died, and I didnt.

I heard two quick taps on a horn, which shook me out of my misery, and knew without looking that Milo was coming up the long driveway in his egg-white Geo Metro. He pulled into an empty spot in front of me and lurched to a stop, got out, slammed the door, and, leaning hard on the rim of the windshield, folded his arms across his chest. He looked me up and down like I was a prowler from South Ridge about to layer the school in graffiti.

Youre not seriously going in there looking like that?

Glancing down at my school uniform, I saw he had a point. It was pressed to wrinkle-free perfection. Milo slacked on the school dress code wherever legally possible. Hed tried black eyeliner, army boots with missing laces, and a string of ill-advised piercings (ears, nose, eyebrow). In every case, hed been sent home by Father Tim with the same message: Not in my school.

Nice to see you, too, Milo. Glad you missed me.

I dropped my heavy backpack on the wet pavement and began rolling up the white sleeves of my shirt.

Aright, lookIll cut you some slack because, you know, because of everything thats going on. But Im not the one who went dark for a week. Thatd be you. Milo picked at the silver duct tape holding the windshield of his car in place. Rust was winning an all-out assault on both front doors, the trunk was held down with a twisted bungee chord, and both bumpers had fallen off. And dont tell me you dropped your cell phone in the john again. Im not buying it. What have you been doing with yourself?

I loosened my tie a few notches and picked up my bag. There were no lockers at Holy Cross, so the bag was stupidly heavy, loaded down with books and homework Id not been able to touch for days.

Well? Are you gonna answer me or do I have to beat it out of you? asked Milo.

Go ahead, hit a guy while hes down. I had the excuse of a lifetime for going dark, but I still felt bad for flaming out on my closest friend at Holy Cross.

Hed dug up the corner of the tape and began pulling it with his fingers. Youre beating yourself up pretty good without my help, he mumbled.

Im quite a bit taller than Milo, but Im also rail-thin. Milo, on the other hand, is short and solid, a ferocious wrestler. Hed have no problem kicking the crap out of me if he ever wanted to. But right now, he was just trying to pull me back into the land of the living. I got that.

Sorry, okay? I just needed to be alone. I was on lock-down at the church house, getting my head straight. It actually felt pretty good, being off the grid for a week.

Its cool. Milo lifted his head as he kicked the gravelly parking lot. Im sure it aint easy. But you cant just disappear like that. People ask about you. They expect me to know something.

Let em wonder. I dont care anymore.

If you werent in such bad shape already Id put the Holy Cross on your grieving head. The Holy Cross was like a headlock, only you held the guy in reverse and rapped his forehead with your knuckles. Hell of a move if you could pull it off without getting bitten in the process.

Dont go easy on me. Im fine.

Dont tempt me.

I smiled. Things were back to how theyd always been between us. Id met Milo first, before anyone else at Holy Cross, at his parents bookstore. You ready for this place again? asked Milo, pushing the long strip of duct tape back in place with the heel of his hand.

Probably not. But the church house is creepy quiet, especially with Father Tim out of town. Hes not coming back until tomorrow night and the old guys are downright depressing. Better here than watching dust collect on Bibles.

A dull silence hung between us. How do you talk to your friend about death and lonelinessand guilt?