It's been two days since Mom picked me up in her navy blue Subaru from Em's house. She had news that Elliot did, as the doctors had originally thought, break his neck. Since then, I've done some research on broken bones in little kids, and my brother's chances don't look very good. Emma says she knows how I feel, but there's really nothing she can do to help. Sympathy is nice, but it's not going to magically heal Elliot.

Monday at school was basically just me going through the motions and everyone else whispering about me and giving me the occasional sympathetic look. My usual cheery, talkative self wasn't there. I've only directly told Emma the details about what happened on Saturday, but there's a ninety-nine percent chance that she's already told everyone else in the school. Today is Tuesday, and I've slogged through two hours of world history class, and an hour of biology, english, Spanish, and art— which isn't really a class— before being released. I can't go home yet, though, even though I'd like to. The school paper meets today, and for the first time, I have absolutely no desire to go to the meeting. Chances are that they'll want me to write some type of article on the "drastic tragedy of yours," as Mr. Milligan, my bio teacher, called it.

Em joins me at the stairway before we go downstairs to Room 304. "I promise I'll stay for the whole meeting this time," she says seriously. "And if they try to make you write anything that you don't want to..." she mock-punches her left hand with her fist. I laugh. I've known my best friend since first grade, and I doubt she could hurt a two year old. I quickly stop laughing. I could hurt a two year old, given my recent actions.

This sobering thought keeps me quiet for ablest a full five minutes— crazy, right— until my brooding is interrupted by a firm hand on my shoulder. "Brooke," the person says. I turn around to face Mr. Hanson. His face is stern, and I inwardly hope that I didn't do anything wrong. Then again, our school's principal is pretty stern most of the time anyway.

"I need to speak with your for a moment," he says roughly. "Follow me." I nod even though he's already walking back out the door, and shrug to Em before following. Mr. Hanson leads me into a room opposite the hallway from where Emma is waiting to hear from me. He sits down in a student's chair and gestures for me to do the same. I try to keep a casual look on my face instead of showing any sign of intimidation. Mr. Hanson folds his hands seriously on top of the small desk. It looks ridiculous to have the large principal sitting delicately at an average student's desk, but I'm definetly not going to laugh.

"Brooke," he says again, clearing his throat. "I recognize that you were present last Thursday and witnessed my lively discussion with student Beckett Youderain. Quotation I agree quietly before he continues. "Even though you are one of the most trusted columnist in the school newspaper, I would greatly appreciate it if you would not publish a story based off of Thursday's events."

I mentally go over what the principal just said. "You want me to not write up an article on your debate with Beckett?" He nods, stands, and walks out of the door.

"You may return to your meeting."

I let out a deep breath. Em meets me at the door of Room 304. Mr. Hanson has already left, to go upstairs to his office, probably. "They haven't started yet," she says quietly. "We were waiting for you." Em, being the best friend that she is, most likely has already figured out that I didn't get in trouble for anything, but I tell her what happens before we go inside anyway. She laughs. "Obviously he doesn't know how word spreads around here. You don't even have to publish it for the entire school to already know. Word travels fast," she adds dryly. I agree. Maybe he oh-so-dignified principal didn't want his little "scandal" to become known, but I don't even have to publish it for that to happen.

Mrs. St. Paul pokes her head out of the door. "I don't want to interrupt whatever drama is going on out here," she starts, clearing her throat. "But you two really need to come inside so the meeting can start." We both apologized and follow the middle-aged lady to our seats, Emma's in the back and mine in the front. Mrs. St. Paul calls the meeting to order. Elisha, a nerdy freshman, starts recording minutes from his spot in the front row. No one really knows why we do this, we just do. And we hardly ever read off the minutes, either.

"This week, we need to prepare for our Thanksgiving edition of the paper. I'd like to introduce Beckett Youderain to delegate tasks and give an overview of what we expect from the articles next week." She smiles, removes her green-and-black speckled glasses, and sits down off to the side of the room.

Beckett stands up now, from the very front row. The rest of the six rows in the classroom are scarcely peppered with other students. He looks out at everyone, then stares straight at me. I don't really know what to do, so I just stare back. Finally, after what was probably only a few seconds but what felt like minutes, he turns his attention back to everyone else.

"Thanksgiving, as we all should know, is a time of giving thanks for everything that we have a take for granted in our normal life. This week," Beckett says officially, "I want all of our upperclass journalists to find an everyday situation, even a not-so-good one, and put it in a positive, good light. Instead of thinking about the bad that happened, make it imperative to choose to write about the good, the benefits that will come from it."

I flip open my binder and jot down a few notes, a skill perfected through countless hours in history and english class. Seriously, I could probably have learned to master at least three musical instruments in the time that I have spent listening to my teachers lecture. Think about good in articles, I write. Don't dwell on bad/negative. It sounds like something from one of those self-improvement books, in a way.

Beckett pushes his wavy brown hair out of his face before continuing. "We need at least four articles revised by an editor, typed up, and submitted to the senior editors before next Friday. That is, not this Friday but the week after that, just to clarify. Does anyone volunteer to write an article?"

I look around. Only three other people are raising their hand. Shrugging, I raise mine in the air too. This sounds like an interesting assignment, and it'll add to my journaling experience. Variation is good, I guess. Beckett tells us to put our hands down now, and he writes the four names in a little black notebook that he seems to have procured from nowhere.

"Sean, Judy, Damita, Brooke," he says, addressing the four of us. "Just so you know, this article can be about something you witness, something some one else tells you about, or a personal experience. Thank you, and you can see me later if you have more questions." Suddenly, I feel like I've been socked in the gut. Hard. The last time I wrote anything newspaper-related was when I left Elliot alone on the trampoline. And now I'm supposed to think that that was a good thing? I put my head down onto my desk to distract from the sudden small tears threatening to call attention to me. Beckett finishes up his talk and probably assigns me another task for the next week, but I don't hear him. People start leaving the classroom around me. I hear someone else walking towards me.

"Hey, Em," I mumble, not looking up. My best friend doesn't respond, though. Instead, I hear a boy's voice.

"I'm not your friend Emma," he says. I lift my head up from where it was during in my arms. Beckett stands in front of me, thin arms crossed in front of his chest. "What's wrong?" he asks quietly.

I glance around before sitting up and quickly wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. No one else is in the classroom, not even Emma. Evidently she saw Beckett coming towards me and decided that I could fill her in later. I sigh, but don't say anything yet. This kid may want to be all sympathetic and find out "what's wrong," but I have about ninety-one percent of me that doesn't want to willingly tell him.

For various reasons.

Beckett squints at me for a second, apparently confused by my lack of answer. "No one else hurt you," he says after a few moments pass. "It was something you did yourself that you regret."

I start. This is weird. "How did you figure that out? Somebody already told you, didn't they," I accuse. "You know what's going on, and you just want me to admit it!"

The wiry sophomore, though, smiles ever so slightly before responding, For the first time, I notice surprising small dimples in his thin cheeks. "No one told me anything." He slides into a seat in front of me and turns around so we face each other. "You can be the first, if you want to," Beckett adds kindly. He seems much more mature than a teenage boy should be, almost like a mentor. That, also, strikes me as odd, but I brush it off.

I sigh again and fix my eyes on the ceiling where school-related posters and random colored strings are taped haphazardly. "Fine. I...I made my brother break his neck." Beckett draws in a quick breath, his eyebrows raised. "He..." My voice breaks, but I keep going. "He was on the trampoline and I left him alone. All because of my stupid writing, now he might die!" I stop myself before I can start crying again. I'm done with crying for a long time now, especially in school, and even more especially in front of people. "He's in the hospital right now. The doctors say that since he was under ten years old— Elliot is five— he doesn't have that great of chance of making it out alive."

"So you are the one who hurt him, according to what you just told me, am I right?" Beckett asks. His blunt statement stops me in my tracks. He sits very still, as if help upright by a puppet string. My string must have obviously been snipped in two with scissors, though, judging by my terrible posture.

Thinking about this new claim makes me realize how dumb I sounded, going on about my life. I collect my thoughts before responding slowly. "I didn't exactly hurt him directly. It was more of a chain reaction. It wasn't my fault."

The dark-haired boy grins and stands up from the desk, nearly whacking his side on the top as he jumps up. "See? It wasn't your fault. Now remember that next time you try to blame yourself for your brother's injuries." This feels like a breath of fresh air to me. I've known all along that I was not what directly hurt my five-year-old brother, but confirmation from another person makes it seem much more real. Somehow it is officially no longer my fault.

"Wait." A sudden thought stops me again. Even though I should most likely already know the answer to this and just haven't realized it yet, I have to ask. "If I'm not the one who hurt Elliot, then who did? It;s not like he was trying to break his neck."

Beckett looks me straight in the eye before shrugging. "I'll pray for you. God is always there when you need help." Then, as if nothing ever happened, he waves casually to me and walks out the side door.

Only about ten seconds pass before Em jogs into the room. I still haven't moved from the desk. She takes hold of my arm and hauls me up anyway. "Get your bag," my best friend says. "You can fill me in on the way home."

We make the late bus that will drop both of us off about two blocks from my house. Emma leads me to the back of the long orange school bus and sits down. I plop down on the seat beside her and slide my backpack underneath the two seats in front of us. Em folds her hands together in a professional I'm-getting-the-truth-whether-you-like-it-or-not kind of way. "Spill," she commands..

I look at her warily before telling her first why I was crying and what the new student Beckett Youderain said to me. Neither of us even knew he was a student here until last week, but Emma had already formed a not-so-good opinion of him. My story doesn't seem to help much.

"He tried to get you to believe his religion stuff?" she exclaims indignantly. I smile briefly in my head. Indignantly, the word of the day in English class yesterday, seems to be the perfect way to describe my best friend right now. Indignant. Em huffs. "Don't listen to that kid. Your reputation will be flushed down the drain, if you do."

I nod. "He's... different." The word that I was thinking of isn't one that I'm about to say out loud to Emma. Inside my head, though, I finish the sentence. He's... calming. In some obscure way, being around Beckett makes me feel calm, almost peaceful, inside. Em only hears the first description and she agrees fully with me on that.

"The only question now, after the subject has been carefully reviewed by the leading journalist and her courageous sidekick, is if the subject is different in a good way or different in a bad way?" Emma proclaims in a newscaster-like voice. I laugh. She gave a very valid question, just in a funny way. I pause before answering. Em watches me intently but jokingly while she waits for my response.

"Different good," I say. My best friend opens her mouth to respond. I cut her off before she can say anything. "He's not like the other annoying, loud, or clueless kids that you, Emma Rogers, would usually call different." I hesitate again, searching for words. Indignant won't help right now, I think dryly. "When you're around him, it's kind of peaceful. Not in a cheesy way. When he was talking to me, he made me realize how wrong I was in what I was thinking." Emma lifts up a finger to stop me. I keep going, anyway. "Here's the catch. Beckett didn't just say that I was wrong. He helped me realize it myself. Yeah, that sounds really advice-novel-ish, but still." I put it together in my mind while I talk. "Beckett let me say that I was wrong instead of forcing it down my throat, or embarrassing me. It was still embarrassing," I admit as an add-on.

"In... a good way," Emma says slowly. I nod again at her, gauging her response. She shakes her head instead, swishing her red pixie cut from side to side. "You've got it all wrong. Don't fall for it." With that, Emma promptly turns away from me and stares blankly out of the small window for the rest of the bus ride.