I, however, felt as if I’d been given an electric shock.
And not in a romantic Oh, he touched me! kind of way. Other girls in my class might have been sighing over him, but I definitely did not like Mr. Mueller, nor did I want him touching me. I did not even want him touching cookie crumbs that might have fallen upon me.
It wasn’t until I got home that afternoon that I saw it.
Mr. Mueller just touched Pierce Oliviera’s bare knee, then licked his finger. HOT!!!!!!
This was followed by tons of comments on the various social networking sites to which this remark was posted, such as She’s so lucky and What did she do to deserve THAT? and Who the hell is Pierce Oliviera?
These remarks actually managed to sink through the thick glass of my coffin. They made me feel uncomfortable, not only because they raised old demons (I had been managing successfully to avoid any trips to the guidance office lately), but because then Mr. Mueller asked — in front of everyone — a day or two later, if I’d like to start coming in for some private tutoring sessions.
Things only went downhill from there.
Mr. Mueller just asked Pierce Oliviera if she wants private tutoring! She’s so lucky! He’s SO hot!!!!
“I don’t understand,” Mom said. “Mr. Mueller told me at his parent-teacher conference with me that he offered to tutor you because you’re behind in so many of your classes, and you said no. Why would you do that?”
“I already have tutors,” I said. I did, too. Dad made sure I had tutors for nearly every subject. Not that it helped. You had to care for tutors to make a difference.
“But Mr. Mueller seems so nice,” Mom would say.
I should have said something then. Mom, I should have said. Mr. Mueller isn’t nice.
The problem was, she wouldn’t have believed me. That the guy gave me the creeps wasn’t proof of anything.
Especially since Mom wasn’t the only one who thought Mr. Mueller was God’s gift to the Westport Academy for Girls. All the moms were giving their daughters cards and tins of homemade cookies to present to Mr. Mueller to show how much they appreciated him, and basketball season was long over.
Mr. Mueller would always beam with pleasure when he’d find these on his desk, and say chidingly (but really, you could tell he was delighted), “Girls! You didn’t have to do this!”
Until my ex–best friend, Hannah Chang — who’d really filled out over the summer that we hadn’t been speaking and who’d become the Westport Academy for Girls basketball team’s star player and one of the most enthusiastic attendees of Mr. Mueller’s private tutoring sessions — left a note on his desk that actually made him frown.
I know because Hannah was in the study hall I had with Mr. Mueller and sat at the desk in front of mine. I’d watched her write the note, then leave it for him. I’d even watched as Mr. Mueller opened it.
He hadn’t beamed with pleasure because of it, though.
Not that I’d thought anything of this. Hannah left notes on Mr. Mueller’s desk all the time. They were always elaborately folded and decorated with tiny heart stickers. On my birthday, Hannah had even left me a note, on special stationery that had horses all over it. I’d found it when I sat down at my desk.
Happy Birthday, Pierce! Hannah had written in her big loopy cursive. She’d drawn a picture of a dancing cupcake with a candle on top. Have a great one! Love, Hannah.
Even as cut off as I’d made myself from the rest of the world back then — What’s the point? was my attitude. We’re all just going to die and then not be let on the boat — I couldn’t help but be a little touched. Hannah might not have treated her horse, Double Dare, as well as I thought she should have.
But Hannah cared about people. And because she cared, she made people care about her.
Hadn’t I heard that somewhere before?
Anyway, in spite of her having called me crazy back in the tenth grade, I still liked Hannah Chang.
Which is why I will always blame myself for what happened to her.
I was having breakfast with my mom the morning after I saw Hannah leave the note for Mr. Mueller. Mom, who was reading the local paper, suddenly gave a little cry, then covered her mouth with her hand.
“Mom?” I looked at her curiously over my herbal tea. My neurologist had warned me not to self-medicate with caffeine, because of my bad dreams and insomnia. Mom joked that if my dad ever stopped self-medicating with caffeine, the world would become a much less dangerous place. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” she said, lowering the paper. Only it wasn’t nothing. Because her face was pale.
“Mom,” I said. “What is it? Tell me.”
“It’s just…” It was obvious that the last thing in the world she wanted to do was tell me.
It was also obvious that she knew she had to.
“It’s just that it says a girl named Hannah Chang died of a drug overdose last night,” Mom said, holding up the paper. “But I’m sure it’s not the same Hannah Chang —”
I choked on the sip of tea I’d taken. When I was through coughing, I said, “Let me see that.”
Local Girl Dies in Apparent Suicide, the article on the front page of our town paper screamed. Hannah’s face, smiling in her school uniform, stared up at me.
Mom hadn’t seen Hannah in nearly two years, because of my retreating into my glass coffin since the accident. Hannah had changed a lot during that time.