“It was a beagle. His name was Arthur.”
A few seconds later, I’m outside, holding something behind my back.
There’s a pause between us.
Oliver arches a brow. “What do you have there?”
“Something I want to give you.”
“For what?”
“Just because.”
“Give it.”
I hand it over. Oliver blinks at me. “This is … Sam’s shirt…”
“Yes. And I want you to have it.”
“Why?”
“It doesn’t fit me. And I figure it’ll look better on you.”
Oliver stares at the shirt for a long time. “I don’t think I can take this,” he says.
“What do you mean? Of course you can.”
He hands it back to me. “No, I can’t.”
I push his hands away. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s only a shirt.”
“It’s Sam’s shirt.”
“And I’m giving it to you.”
“I’m not taking this—” Oliver tries forcing the shirt back in my hands, but I push it away again. We do this back-and-forth game until I’m annoyed.
I slap his wrist. “Why are you being like this?”
Oliver sighs. “Because Sam obviously wanted you to have it,” he says. “Not me.”
“You don’t know that. So just take it, okay?”
Oliver stares at me, and then back at the shirt. “I don’t get it. Don’t you want to keep it?”
“I have plenty of his things. Don’t worry.”
Oliver runs a hand over the shirt. Then he holds it tight. “Thank you.”
I smile at him. “Just don’t lose it, okay?”
“You know I won’t.”
I slide my backpack on and head down the steps, ready to go. For some reason, Oliver remains on the porch, unmoving.
“What’s the matter?” I ask. “Not changing your mind, are you?”
“No,” he says, sliding off his letterman’s jacket. “I feel like I should give you something now.” He steps off the porch, and places it over my shoulders.
“You’re giving me your letterman’s jacket?”
“I’m letting you borrow it. Until graduation.”
“I’m honored.”
We begin our walk to school. There’s a slight chill this morning, so the jacket feels nice around me.
“Remind me, Oliver, what sport did you play again?”
“I never played one,” he says. “I bought it off a senior who graduated last year.”
“So it’s all for looks?”
“Precisely.”
“I admire that.”
I nudge him on the shoulder and we both laugh.
* * *
Columns of red and white balloons are pillared along the walls, and aluminum stars hang from the ceiling as I enter the hallway. Things are returning to normal at school again. People are wearing bright colored T-shirts, playing music in the bathrooms, and throwing paper balls across the lockers. Any lingering sentiments of Sam’s death have been replaced with school spirit. There used to be a picture of him on the wall by the bulletin board. I don’t know if it fell down, or if someone removed it, but it’s gone now. There’s a stack of student newspapers in each class, and for the first time in weeks, Sam isn’t mentioned. It’s like everyone has moved on from him. Somehow, this doesn’t surprise me. I see pep rallies, soccer games, and graduation are what’s trending.
My French test goes better than I expected. I spent all night studying for it, so I’m glad it paid off. I surprise myself on the oral portion of the test. According to Madame Lia, I’ve always been a natural at pronunciation. In English, Mr. Gill is out sick for the day （an answered prayer）， so our substitute, a squat gray-haired man who squints when someone asks a question, tells us to read Animal Farm silently to ourselves. I work on my essay instead because I left my copy of the book at home. I love the topic I chose. How Octavia E. Butler’s sci-fi novels are better at teaching history because of their emotional appeal to the readers. It’s about the power of storytelling that humans have been primed for since the Stone Age when they carved pictures on cave walls. I draft three pages before the bell rings. I’ve been much more focused this week. I think it’s the crystal. I make sure to carry it with me for peace and luck.
“How did your test go?” Jay asks me at lunch.
“Pretty good, I think. Did you finish your group project?”