The Boy Who Died

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. The guy in front of me twists in his seat to reveal a thick, blond mustache. “Can I borrow a pencil?” I almost laugh as I hand over my spare. What a stupid close call. He looks nothing like Ryan. I fiddle with the settings on my new camera as the last of the desks fill up. The moment class actually starts, Professor Washington stands and begins handing out syllabi. There’s no reason to stress today. I doubt I’ll be doing anything trickier than reading paragraph five on page two aloud this week. I relax into the flow of class. “In addition to the two photography expeditions I’m leading on the eighth and the twenty-seventh,” the prof says as we approach the end of class, “we have three others, to be led by an actual, working photographer. You’re very lucky.” She smiles conspiratorially. “Please help me welcome Ben Andrews, the newest photojournalist at the Ardent Weekly!” I clap politely with everybody else, but I’m too busy circling the expeditions Professor Washington will be leading. Her attendance policy is lax as long as people turn in the work, but I’m not going to lose my chance to actually go out in the field with her. A light, teasing laugh bounces off the windows, and my stomach drops to my toes. He sounds exactly like Ryan. I inhale and look up, ready to start listing differences. There are none. The man standing at the front of the class, waving his hands to try to get people to stop clapping, looks exactly like my high school best friend, plus the six years I’ve been without him. His hair is a little longer, curling around his ears instead of shaved tight to his skull. He’s grown into his hands and his ears. He wears the sort of preppy, short-sleeved button-down with a tiny pattern we used to make fun of people for. But there’s nothing else to separate him from the boy I knew. “All right, I’m not exactly Ansel Adams.” He smiles self-consciously. “I just moved here from a little town in Illinois, and—” That’s Ryan’s smile, the one he used when people told him he was so tall he had to play basketball. My stomach lurches. My heartbeat drowns out the rest of his words. Inhale for three. Hold for three. Exhale for three. Still Ryan. I pinch myself until my jagged nails break the skin. Still Ryan. I shut my eyes, rub them, and open them again. Still Ryan. My rib cage caves in on my lungs as I fight through every goddamn exercise Dana ever taught me, looking for anything that will make this hallucination go away. It has to be a hallucination. Ryan is dead. He’s dead! I saw his blood, still taste it sometimes. But if it’s a hallucination… then I’m losing my mind again. Professor Washington claps her hands, and I jump. “All right, that’s Ben. Why don’t the rest of us go around and introduce ourselves? Name, and why you decided to take this class.” She smiles. “I decided to teach photography because I think there’s nothing more beautiful than giving others the gift of art.” Oh, god, they want me to talk. To talk without throwing up. My skin vibrates as if attempting to escape from my body. “And you?” Professor Williams looks at me. So does Ryan. Ben. Ryan. I swallow. “Marcie Holt,” I manage. “Needed an art elective.” Professor Williams purses her lips and turns to the next student. Ben doesn’t. He lingers on me. There’s something in his eyes I don’t recognize. I tear at the skin around my thumbnail. “That’s it for today,” Professor Williams finally says. “I look forward to—” I lurch out of my seat, bolting for the door. It doesn’t matter what she thinks of me. I’m changing electives.