I didn't want to attend the memorial.

For one thing, I knew Evan's face would be plastered all over the place. His smiling baby picture greets me on the front of the pamphlet I was handed at the door. In spite of myself, I peek at the pages inside, showing collages of when he was four, seven, nine, twelve, sixteen.

It ends at sixteen.

While some people see a smiling blond haired boy, all I see is the pale faced blue lipped cadaver hanging from the stage. I just can't get that face out of my head. It haunts my every waking thought. It has haunted my every waking thought for the past week and a half. Really, it's no surprise that I didn't want to attend the memorial, that I wanted to stay shut away from the world in my own room and home, locked away in my own distressing thoughts.

But not attending the memorial wasn't an option.

First, it was a school-sponsored event, meaning that everyone and their parents would be here. It would have been weird, dare I say suspicious, if I didn't show up. Second, it was a challenge Amber gave me. And I know that if I don't accept her challenges, I might never get better. So here I am, walking through the school doors for the first time in ten days, my little ankle boots clicking softly on the shiny floor. It can barely be heard over the din in the foyer. The space suffocates me, crowded with people as if the entire town came to pay their respects to the dead boy. They might also all be here to condemn me.

I really, really hope I'm wrong about that. And I intend to find out if it's true.

I'm grateful to have my mom by my side. Her long, flowing pants, covered in a black-and-white print, fall into stride beside me, taking smaller steps than usual. Without her, I would not be able to endure all the stares cast in my direction.

That's the other reason I didn't want to come. Whispers follow me through the halls, through the hulking double doors and back into the dreaded auditorium. I could have gone my whole life without returning here. From the arching ceiling, lights illuminate rows upon rows of folding seats, covered in red upholstery.

Red — the color of blood. Evan's blood.

It's as cold as I remember, sending goosebumps up my arm. But this time, I don't have quite the same fear weighing me down as I enter because it is far from empty. Almost every seat has someone occupying it, and I'm struck with a brand new concern. What if someone sees through the mask of tears and puffy, chafed skin on my face?

It's not certain you did it. Remember what Amber said? All negative thoughts can be balanced with truth. That's what I'll do, even if the truth is what I fear.

I have never been so happy to see a familiar face waving to me. Zoe sits in the middle of the third row to the front, far closer than I would have picked. Still there's an empty seat between her and Priya.

Mom gives my hand a squeeze, and I drag my gaze from the packed room to hers.

"Why don't you join them?" she whispers.

I step away from Mom, and instantly, I feel as though all eyes are drawn to me like a magnet. I swallow, keep walking down the sloped aisle until I reach the third row from this stage.

The stage. All I can see is Evan's body hanging from the ceiling. I blink rapidly as a sensation over takes my body, the feeling of life being there and then fizzling out.

The feeling of life passing from this world.

My feet stumble on the floor, which slopes down toward the stage. I grasp the nearest seat to steady myself. It happens to be the first chair in the row that my friends are in, so I use the back of the chairs in the next row to pull myself along, past the many people already seated. Vaguely, I hear myself murmur "sorry" and "excuse me" all the way until I plop into the seat beside Zoe.

"You came!" Zoe exclaims.

Would be pretty suspicious if I didn't. I obviously can't admit that out loud, so I just nod in response.

"We've missed you at school," Priya says. Autumn nods emphatically though she doesn't speak. The usual smirk on her lips is gone. She actually looks deadpan serious, not like she's bored or sharing a silent joke.

"Thanks." I offer a weak smile.

"How've you been?" Priya asks.

"It's like you've vanished from the planet," Autumn adds. "We're all just a bit, uh..." Her eyes settle on Priya.

"We're all just a bit worried," Priya finishes. The two girls glance at Zoe. I wonder if Zoe updated them on the last time she saw me, or if they even know that Zoe stopped by my house a few days ago.

"I'm okay. I mean, as okay as I can be under the circumstances."

I don't know if what I said is even close to the truth. There's no reference point for me to compare "okay" or "normal" to under these circumstances, in my current mental condition. I just have to cope the best I can and realize that it's the best I can do.

"When do you think you'll be coming back?" Priya asks.

"I'm not sure," I say absently.

"Take all the time you need," Zoe says. "There's no rush."

"If you ever need someone to talk to in the meantime, we're here for you," Priya says.

I nod absently. In the ensuing awkward beats that pass, filled with the background chatter of loose conversations around us, my friends exchange glances. I try not to pay attention to the worry on their faces, the silent desperation of trying, yet failing to engage with the old Madelyn. They just got their first reality that I'm not normal. What they don't realize is that I was never normal.

Mrs. Williamson strides across the stage, drawing my attention. A jade-green suit lies stiff and structured on her slim frame, and the color pops against her glowing medium brown skin. She's tall, and her heels ensure that she towers over everyone in the room, from student to hovering helicopter parent. The voices of the crowd dim with the lights, until only a spotlight remains on Mrs. Williamson.

The stage lights make her brown skin glow. She brushes a curl from her afro out of her face, leaning toward the microphone perched on the podium. The crowd falls silent.

"Welcome, everyone." She inhales a breath, smoothing a shakiness that just barely undertones her words, before leaning back toward the microphone. She doesn't throw on a bright smile as usual. Instead, her dark matte lipstick emphasizes her sorrow. "We and the Barnes family appreciate that you all showed up at this memorial to pay respects to this student that we so tragically lost."

From behind, I hear a whisper. "Pfft. The thing is mandatory."

My head turns in spite of myself, but all I see are a row of eyes glued to the stage. A whirring sound filters through the air. I face forward, and movement flashes in my vision.

A body descends from the ceiling, attached to a frayed yellow rope, his sneaker swinging inches from Mrs. Williamson's afro. I blink, terror washing through me. My lips part in a scream when the whirring cuts out to silence. I jump, blinking at the screen that now hangs behind our principal.

It was only a screen, I tell myself. Only a screen.

It registers that my hand is clutching fabric. When I look down, I realize that I'm clutching Priya's muscled arm, covered in a hoodie sleeve.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

"Yeah," I murmur. I swallow my panic, trying to be present in the moment, trying to focus on the screen, not the image that had been so crystal clear only moments before.

Two faces smile from the screen. On one half, Evan is an infant, dressed in a giraffe onesie and holding a rattle. His tiny grin displays a single tooth on his bottom gums. On the other side, he's still dressed as a giraffe, except he's much taller and leaner. Beneath the picture, it says, "Halloween 2022."

Only one year before, he was still dressing up in costumes.

The principal continues talking while I zone out, overcome by sadness. Could this really be my doing? I snuffed out such a promising, joyful life.

We don't know that for sure yet. We will find out more soon.

Information is power. Information has the power to quell the unknown and all the terrors that may be. Even if that information proves that I am the killer, isn't it better to know that now, rather than to be stuck in this state of not-knowing?

I zone back in as Mrs. Williamson says, "and now, I would like you all to hear from Mrs. Barnes. She has a few words to say."

As Mrs. Williamson strides off the stage, a sniffling woman approaches the mic. An overwhelming sense of familiarity sweeps through me. I'm certain I've seen her before, and when my eyes shift to the boy on the screen behind her, the resemblance is startling. Mrs. Barnes and her son have the same down-turned eyes and blonde hair, the same protruding jaw over their narrow necks. The biggest differences are Mrs. Barnes' hair falls in stiff curls around her shoulders and there are hints of wrinkles on her pale skin underneath her makeup.

Mrs. Barnes scans the crowd, her eyes passing over me. I shrink in my seat.

Does she hate me for taking her son from this world?

Mrs. Barnes reminisces about Evan, how he always had a flair for the dramatic. He used to do theater at Eralyn Academy and even won some competitions, proven by the slides of him holding up trophies and wearing way too many medals around his neck. But he wasn't only dramatic and charismatic; he had brains, too. His special ability enabled him to tell the exact chemical makeup of the air around him simply by smell. This helped him to excel in science subjects.

"When he was a boy, Evan wanted to follow in his father's footsteps and take over our pharmaceutical business." Mrs. Barnes' sob-ridden voice rings through the air, eerie in the still auditorium. "But several years ago, he thought his skills would be better used studying planetary space science."

The longer I sit there listening, the harder it gets. I feel suffocated by memories of a past I never even lived, suffocated by this woman's sorrow. As horrible as this sounds, I'm relieved when she leaves the stage, hunched over and crying into a tissue.