The Boy Who Fought With Bones

Marcie

I sling my backpack over my shoulder and step out of my apartment onto the sunny breezeway outside. Early September in Virginia retains most of the heat of summer, so I wipe instant sweat off my forehead before my brown curls can catch in it. This semester is going to be different. That means not showing up looking like a drowned rat, even if I doubt anyone in my photography elective is going to care.

Birds sing as I lock the door then test the knob to make sure it actually locked. A voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like Dana, my therapist, reminds me I'm not supposed to be indulging those instincts. I'm safe here. The only person I've been in danger from since setting foot on the campus of Ardent University is myself, and she's getting out of my way this year. I unlock the door, lock it again, and walk away without testing the knob.

My heavy backpack bounces against my shoulder. I don't want to have to return to my apartment between classes, even if it's technically on campus, and the weight of my books reminds me exactly what kind of day I'm in for. A long one. My very first semester with a full course load. I massage my shoulder and shrug on the second strap to even out the weight. Nursing textbooks aren't light.

But I'm not worried. All summer, I talked with Dana and the guidance office. Both of them asked me a dozen or more times if I was sure a full slate of classes wouldn't lead to what they called "a repeat of last time" and what I call "honestly, a pretty minor mental breakdown, considering." But I am not thinking about that. I'm thinking about the fact that I told them I was sure so many times that they both believed me, and now I have my very first college elective to look forward to. My outlook feel light and bright, and I take a second to categorize the feeling like Dana taught me.

Hope. I smile and stride down the wide, cobblestone path cutting through the main quad toward the art building. This is going to be a good year if it kills me.

Emerson Hall, a glass-covered building that hosts most of the art classes, welcomes me through its wide-open double doors. If I'd lived a different life, most of my classes would've been here. But after months in the institution, I wasn't able to face the idea of grim professors judging my performances like the musclebound nurses judged my fingerpainting and macaroni necklaces for any sign I was a danger to myself or others. I haven't even entered the building since then. It's light and airy, like I remember from the tour Ryan and I took so many years ago. As always, his name hits me like a spear to the chest. I suck in a deep breath and plunge forward.

The photography class is on the far side of the building from the door in a room covered in windows. A handful of desks sit haphazardly around the room, and a middle-aged woman wearing a blazer with elbow patches looks up from one of them as I walk in.

"I'm Professor Washington," she says. "I love an early student. Really shows the dedication you need to get the shot in the real world. Take a seat, and we'll wait for the rest of the stragglers to wander in."

I nod and surreptitiously check my watch as I claim a desk near the back. Twenty minutes early. Dammit! I tried so hard to arrive a chill, normal five minutes ahead. I'll just do better tomorrow.

Minutes tick away. Professor Washington scribbles in a tiny notebook balanced on her desk. I pull out my laptop, then the simple camera suggested for the course. A few more students filter in. As always, they're all a few years younger than me. Between my reduced course load and the six months I lost to the institution, I'm entering my sixth year attending Ardent. At least I've got kind of a young face. I never lost the baby fat in my cheeks, and I like to keep my hair braided back away from my face in a way my roommate, Heather, says makes me look like an orphan on Ellis Island.

A guy sits in front of me, and my breath catches. His hair is the exact same golden blond as Ryan's in the summer. My rib cage squeezes, crushing all the air out of my lungs. My hands shake. I clutch the edges of my desk to try to still the tremors.

Dana's voice, easy and certain, pours over my thoughts. Breathe. Three reasons he's not Ryan.

I inhale. The guy in front of me is shorter than Ryan's 6'3" by a few inches.

I exhale. Ryan lived in goofy graphic T-shirts his mom picked up for him at the local thrift store, and this guy is wearing a kind of ridiculous blazer.

I inhale. The guy in front of me has thick, muscular arms. Despite his height and his few seasons on the basketball team, Ryan hated sports and barely had enough muscle to lift some of his older cameras.

And the most important one? The Dana in my mind taps her pencil against her clipboard.

Ryan is dead. The guy in front of me isn't Ryan because I watched Ryan die, and I remember every second like it was yesterday. I exhale shakily and relax my grip on the desk.