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dismissed.
6. FACT: Students were asked to report to regularly scheduled classes beginning with second period at the end of this assembly.
    When Jenkins mentioned Macie’s name, she slid from her seat on our bleacher near the front, took the cup of tea out of Katherine’s hand, swallowed a quick sip, handed it back without looking at any of us, and strode toward the waiting mic in Jenkins’s outstretched hand.
    “I don’t know what to think about this . . . loss.” Her voice was low but strong. “I don’t know what to think about anything, but I do know how I feel about this. I feel angry. I feel robbed. I feel cheated of knowing our friend. I may not know what to think about this loss, but I sure know what I want to do about this loss.”
    The gym was silent. There were people sniffing. Looking down. I saw the volleyball girls from the bathroom clasp hands; the redhead had tears running down her cheeks.
    “I’ve spoken with Principal Jenkins this morning, and we are going to hold a suicide-awareness seminar during lunch hours on Thursday. This afternoon at the student council meeting I will be bringing a proposal to set up a memorial scholarship fund in Leslie Gatlin’s name for a senior whoenters college specifically to pursue the mental health fields, so that her parents can always remember with heads held high the impact that Leslie had here at our school; that because she lost her life, other lives will be saved.
    “And finally, we will begin talks to institute class credit for shifts at the TeenReach Hotline—Seattle’s teen suicide prevention line—to make sure that there is an ear for every student in need at this school, freshman or senior, black or white, boy or girl, gay or straight.”
    Macie grew silent again and slowly surveyed the assembly before looking down at the mic in her hands for a moment. “Maybe you’re like me, and you don’t know what to think of all this. Well, today I want you to feel with me,” she said, banging a clasped fist against her chest, her voice rising. “And then tomorrow I want you to come back to this school and I want you to do with me. I want you to help me do things to make sure that this will not happen again. Not on our watch. Not at our school. Not at Westport. Never again!”
    Over a thousand teenagers roared in the way that only a thousand teenagers can. It sounded again like the roof might fall into the gymnasium.
    I realized that Katherine wasn’t sitting beside me anymore. She had slipped away somewhere. But off at the far end of the gym, by the doors that led to the athletic offices, I caught a glimpse of Coach Stevens. He was silent, standing there as I walked toward him.
    I stood in front of him for what seemed like forever.
    “Beth?” he said. Only it was a question. And in that question, everything I was afraid of came blazing to the surface. Coach Stevens reached out his arms to hug me. “I know you loved my niece,” he said, so softly I thought for a moment that I’d imagined it.
    Slowly, I looked back over my shoulder. Macie, Brad, and Jillian were standing in the circle painted in the center of the gym, watching me.
    I turned back to Coach Stevens, frozen, my mind racing. He just stood there with his arms out—an invitation, really. I wanted to run into them, to hug him, to tell him the whole story, to let him know that it would be okay. To cry onto his warm-up jacket until the tears ran out.
    Instead, I turned toward the exit in the corner by his office, and for the second time that day, I ran.

8. JAKE
    When Jillian and I were little, before we could speak words you’d recognize, we spoke our own language. Dad told me about it one time when we were painting the new cabinets he’d put up in the garage.
    “What would we say?” I asked him.
    “Who knows?” he said with a chuckle. “But you were definitely communicating. The two of you would laugh and sing and jabber and talk yourselves to sleep. Sometimes it would take hours.