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talk to me, you bastard! She’s never going to be the same again!
    Nothing will ever be the same. That stupid Gabe can’t hold his liquor. Give him a few drinks and he acts like a fool. He’s just like David. I can take it or leave it. Booze ain’t the only way to get high. Pills are better. If the cops stop you, you can swallow the evidence. I sat in jail one time on ten tabs of acid and a bunch of speed and nobody could tell. Frank came down there and bailed me out, then we get outside and he acts like he’s going to slug me. So I gave him a little tap to remind him: I ain’t a kid anymore. I want respect.
    The only person I can really count on is my mother. Or I could before this happened. I mean, I always knew she loved Gabe the most, because he was the baby and everybody made a big fuss about him. But my mom always acted like she loves me too. Now she don’t say nothing. She just stares straight ahead, and when I ask her something, she looks like she don’t even know me.
    I’m going to tell James: You didn’t just kill Gabe. She’s dead. You killed my mother. I’m going to make him pay for all the damage he’s done. People think they can mess with you and walk away.
    James won’t be walking when I’m through with him.

14
    Carolyn Sanders
    Maybe this assembly will calm the kids down. Gabe’s death has burst their protective bubble. If he can die, it can happen to them. No wonder they’re so sad and angry.
    The school nurse is talking to them about drinking and driving. Beth means well, but she oversimplifies; she makes alcohol sound like a splinter. Pluck it out and the problem’s all gone. Unless you’re an alcoholic like Gabe. Most people didn’t see him that way. They thought he just drank a lot of beer, like half the senior class.
    The coach is glaring at me from the back of the hall. Decker was dead set against this assembly. We got into a screaming match in the principal’s office. He said, “You’re trying to make a hero out of a cheap little punk!” I could’ve punched him.
    I said, “Gabe wasn’t a hero and he wasn’t a punk. He was a hometown boy and these kids loved him. You didn’t like him because you couldn’t make him jump.”
    The coach hates my guts too. He thinks I’m a bleeding heart liberal. He thinks talking about feelings and problems is stupid. Got a problem? Here, bite on this bullet. He’d had trouble with Gabe’s brothers and holds a grudge.
    My introduction to Gabe was in freshman English. I thought he’d be like David and Gerald, whose idea of making their marks was carving their names into desk tops.
    Gabe was different. He was funny and bright. He spoke up in class and liked to make people laugh. Which was classic, because his home life was so tragic. Over the years, I’ve met with his parents several times. I preferred talking to his mother, although she’d always defend him. You couldn’t have a discussion with Francis; you’d have a fight. He thought that school was a waste of time and that I was a prime offender.
    I’ve just asked the kids to share some memories of Gabe. Hands are waving in the air. “I remember the time Gabe,” Ray Jackson begins, and all the girls are smiling and crying.
    The more people talk, the worse I feel, as if all those words were landing on my chest. I can feel the kids watching me. They know I’m upset. That scares them. They want me to tell them that everything will be all right. In class I had them write down their feelings. One of them asked me, “Does spelling count?”
    Not for much. “Not today,” I said.
    After ninth grade, I didn’t have Gabe again until this year. At first he seemed to enjoy the class. I helped him with his reading and writing. He had some kind of a learning disability, so I recommended testing. “There’s nothing wrong with me,” he