The space between us

Chapter 8;Rebound

_Stacy’s POV

Liv’s hand is on my elbow, fingers digging in. “You have to let go. Staying like thiswon’t bring him back.”

“I’m not trying to bring him back,” I lied.Damn it really hurt.The lie tastes like copper.

School smells like bleach and old paper and that weird lemon cleaner the janitors use on Thursdays. Same as always. But the air hits different. Thinner. Like someone sucked the oxygen out when he stopped idling in the parking lot.

Xavier probably never had a locker here. Never sat through attendance. He graduated 3 years before me, GED and a greasy job at Smith’s.Drove a Mustang that coughed more than it purred.

But my brain didn’t get the memo. My eyes still sweep the east exit brick wall. Still expect a hoodie. Arms crossed. Eyes on the ground until I’m close enough, then they’d flick up. Check me. _You good?_ No words. Just that look.

He’s not there. Hasn’t been for 21 days.

“See?” Liv says, following my gaze. “Empty. Now can we go inside before we’re late?”

I nod. Walk. Invisible was the plan. Invisible worked until I realized invisible people still get hurt. They just bleed where no one’s looking.

*1st Period. English.*

The door creaks. Same sound as yesterday.

Mrs. Delgado’s already writing on the board. Blue marker. Her handwriting loops like she’s teaching kindergarten, not seniors. Lavender perfume hits me before I even sit down.

Third row, second from the window. My seat. The one where I could see the parking lot without turning my head. Where I’d watch for a Mustang that wasn’t supposed to be there.

Mrs. Delgado turns, marker cap between her teeth. “Attendance. Carter,Stacy?”

The class is quiet. 22 kids waiting.

My throat locks. I’ve said “here” 12 years straight. But today the word gets stuck. Because “here” means I showed up. And showing up without him feels like betrayal.

Liv kicks me under the desk. Not gentle. Her heel catches my shin.

I gasp. The sound breaks the lock. “Here,” I croak.

“Speak up, Miss Carter,” Mrs. Delgado says. Not mean. Just tired. She’s been teaching 20 years. She’s seen this before.

“Here,” I say louder. Fake volume.

She nods, marks the sheet. Then her eyes drift to the window.

“You can go to the bathroom if you need,Stacy,” she says softly. Only I hear it.

I shake my head. Because if I leave, I’ll start crying. And if I start crying, I won’t stop until noon.

Whiteboard: The Great Gatsby - Chapter 7. Who do you love?

Mrs. Delgado writes it slow. Like each word hurts her. “Today we talk about cost,” she says. “Gatsby loves Daisy. But what does that love cost him? His time? His money? His life?”

Hands shoot up.

“It cost him everything!” says Chloe from the front. “That’s romantic!”

“No, it’s stupid,” says Marcus. “She didn’t even choose him at the end.”

“Maybe she was scared,” says Ella. “Love is scary.”

Mrs. Delgado nods at each one. Encouraging. Then she turns. “Miss Carter. You’ve been quiet. What does love cost you?”

Why was she always looking in my direction?

22 heads turn. 22 pairs of eyes.

My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

I could say: It costs you sleep. I’m averaging 3 hours a night.

I could say: It costs you food. I haven’t eaten a real meal in 2 weeks.

I could say: It costs you a brother who looks at you like you’re a stranger now.

I could say: It costs you the version of yourself that believed people stay.

Instead I said: “I don’t know.”

The words drop flat. Like stones.

Mrs. Delgado’s face does this soft thing. Pity, but trying to hide it. She writes under the question: Silence can be an answer too._

“It can,” she says. “But silence can also be a cage. Don’t lock yourself in there,Stacy.”

I stare at my desk. At the scratches. At the initials someone carved in 2019.

Group work.*

“Partner up. Discuss Gatsby’s green light. What does it represent? 10 minutes.”

Chairs scrape. Girls laugh. Boys groan.

Liv scoots her desk next to mine. But she’s not really here. Her phone’s under the desk. Thumb moving fast. Probably texting Tyler. They’ve been “talking” since September.

“Earth to Stace,” she whispers. “You alive?”

I shrug.

“Okay, that’s not an answer.” She nudges my book. “Green light. What’s it mean?”

I stare at the page. The words swim. “Hope,” I say finally. “Or delusion. Depends on who you ask.”

Liv blinks. “That’s… actually good. Write that down.”

I don’t. I draw a small circle in the margin instead. Then another. Then another.

Mara leans over from the front row. “You two need a third? I’m solo.”

Liv opens her mouth to say yes. I cut her off. “No.”

Mara’s face falls. “Oh. Okay.” She scoots back fast.

The seat next to me stays empty. Not because someone’s absent. Because everyone thinks I’m acting strange.Not since I started wearing his hoodie to school and not washing it. Not since I stopped answering “how are you” with anything but a shrug.

Liv watches me draw circles. “You’re spiraling,” she whispers.

“I’m fine,” I whisper back.

“Liar,” she whispers back.

We both shut up. Because she’s right and I’m too tired to fight her.

The sound of the bell rips through the room. Chairs shove back. Books slam.

“Homework: 2 pages on Daisy’s choice,” Mrs. Delgado calls over the noise. “Due Friday!”

Everyone moves. I don’t. I wait until the room is half empty. Until the noise is a dull roar instead of a scream.

“Miss Carter?” Mrs. Delgado’s voice is quiet now. She’s wiping the board, but her eyes are on me in the reflection of the window.

I look up.

“You okay?” she asks. Real question. Not teacher-question.

I nod. Because nodding is easier than talking.

She sets the marker down. Walks over. Stops at my desk but doesn’t touch me. Smart woman. She knows I’d break.She’d known Xavier.Even sometimes asked if we were dating.

“He used to wait for you,” she says. Nods toward the parking lot. “Right there, under that tree. Engine running. Didn’t matter if it was 100 degrees or pouring rain. He just… waited.”

My throat closes.

“I always thought that was love,” she adds. Then softer: “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

I stand up fast. Book clutched to my chest. “I’m fine,” I say. Too loud. Too fast.

I walk out before she can answer. Before my face can c***k.

Chaos. Bodies everywhere. Shoulder bumps. Laughter. Someone’s playing music from their phone speaker.Photograph by Ed Sheeran.Xavier’s favorite.He’d have the song on repeat saying it was his source of comfort.

I move with the current but don’t touch anyone. Elbows in. Head down. Counting breaths. In for 4, out for 6.

Locker 118 bangs open next to me. I flinch so hard my book slips.

“s**t, sorry!” A freshman scrambles to pick it up. Hands it to me, eyes wide. “You good?”

“Yeah I am,” I mutter. Take the book. Walk.

My heart’s hammering like I just ran a mile. Because for half a second I thought it was him. Hoodie. Knuckles. That look that said I got you without saying it.I’m going insane.

But Xavier never had a locker. He had a garage. Oil under his nails. A cot in the back that smelled like metal and old coffee.

I stop at the drinking fountain. Don’t drink. Just let the cold water run over my fingers until they go numb.

“Carter!” Someone yells down the hall. “You dropped this!”

A pencil skids to my feet. I don’t pick it up. Let someone else do it.

*Math.

Mr. Chen writes equations like he’s angry at them. Fast, sharp, chalk snapping.

“Quadratic formula,” he barks. “Who remembers it?”

Silence.

“Carter” he points at me without looking. “Board. Now.”

I wonder if I got cursed.Why was I suddenly visible today.

I stand up. Legs shaky. Walk to the front. Chalk dust on my fingers.

-x = -b ± √(b²-4ac) / 2a

I write it perfect. Handwriting neat.

“Now solve,” he says. Steps back. Arms crossed.

The problem stares at me. Numbers and letters. Logic. Clean.

My hand moves. Writes the wrong answer. Deliberately flips a sign.

Mr. Chen sees it instantly. “Check your work, Miss Carter.”

I stare at the mistake. At the red line he’ll draw through it.

“Did you hear me?” he snaps.

“Yes, sir,” I say. But I don’t fix it.

He sighs. Long, loud. “Sit down. We’ll talk after class.”

I sit. Stare at the wrong numbers.

For the first time, being wrong feels better than being right. Because right means I’m present. And present means I remember the sound of his Mustang idling in the lot. _Vrrr… vrrr…_ Two taps on the dashboard when I got in.

Tap…..tap.Means I’m safe.

I’m not safe anymore. So why should I be right?

*Last period before lunch.

Mr. Alvarez talks about Vietnam. About boys who didn’t come home. About letters that arrived after funerals.

“War isn’t just bullets,” he says. “It’s absence. It’s waiting. It’s learning to live with a hole where someone used to be.”

The class is quiet. Even the boys in the back stop throwing paper.

“What do soldiers carry that isn’t in their bags?” Mr. Alvarez asks.

“Guilt,” someone says.

“Fear,” says another.

“Regret,” says Aisha.

I don’t raise my hand. But I think it: _The weight of someone who left so you wouldn’t have to._

Xavier didn’t go to war. He just went 6.2 miles away to a garage with no windows. But absence is absence.

Mr. Alvarez writes on the board: _Some battles are fought by staying. Some by leaving. Both cost you._

I copy it down. Underline _leaving_ three times. Hard enough to tear the paper.

Then I cross it out. Scribble over it until it’s black.

Because I don’t want to understand him. Not yet. Understanding feels like letting him off the hook.

Bell.*

Freedom for 30 minutes.

Everyone bolts for the door. Sunlight. Noise. The smell of cafeteria fries.

I don’t move. I sit until the room is empty. Until Mr. Alvarez is stacking chairs.

“Miss Carter” he says, not unkind. “Lunch is happening out there, you know.”

“Yeah,” I say. Stand up. Book to my chest. Armor.

I walk out slow. Past the window where he used to tap the glass during 3rd period. Past the parking lot where oil stains mark where his Mustang used to sit. Past the east exit brick where his shadow used to lean.

My feet know the way to the courtyard. To the bench. To the place where I’d eat fries and pretend 6.2 miles was nothing.

But my brain is still in Room 204. Still in Room 112. Still hearing _tap tap_ on a dashboard that doesn’t exist anymore.

First, I have to survive the classrooms.

Because school without him isn’t school.

It’s just 7 hours of remembering a boy who never even walked these halls, but somehow became all of them.