Imperfect Spiral Read Free Page B

wasn’t looking at the cars. I wasn’t expecting Humphrey to run into the street.”
    â€œDid you notice if any cars seemed to be speeding, or driving recklessly?”
    â€œNo. I didn’t notice anything like that.”
    â€œCould you describe the car that hit Humphrey?”
    â€œI don’t think I can describe it. It’s like I sensed Humphrey getting hit more than I saw him getting hit.”
    â€œYou didn’t see the accident.”
    â€œI know I must have seen the accident, but what sticks in my mind is sensing that it happened. Sensing the—impact.”
    Weirdly, I also seem not to have heard the accident, whichmay defy the usual laws of nature, or at least physics. But I don’t tell the officers this.
    â€œWere you distracted by something else when Humphrey ran into the street?”
    â€œNo. But I wasn’t expecting him to run into the street, so I was surprised. It all happened so quickly.”
    â€œWe understand,” says the female half of the team. “So about the car that hit Humphrey—can you tell us anything?”
    â€œNot really,” I say. “Wasn’t it the blue minivan?”
    They don’t answer my question. I guess
they
get to ask the questions here, not me.
    â€œWe’re just trying to understand the sequence of events leading up to the accident,” the man says. “Whether there was anything going on in terms of speeding, reckless driving, distractions, whatever.”
    I have no idea.
    They take pity on me and say we’re done for the night. If I remember anything, I should call them—they give me their cards. And they will probably want to talk to me more, but for now they know I need to settle down and try to get some rest.
    The phone rings as soon as Dad closes the door behind the police officers. Mom picks it up in the kitchen, then comes to the living room where I’m still sitting. She settles next to me on the sofa, puts her arm around my shoulders, and squeezes.
    â€œHumphrey didn’t make it,” she says.

5
A Matter of Habit
    Sunday—the morning after the morning after—the earth stubbornly continues to spin, and my buzzing phone forces me to give up fighting the daylight.
    I heard. Quelle tristesse. R u ok? I can’t text or call as much as I’d like to—you know camp rules.
    Becca.
Quelle tristesse
is like saying “How sad,” only more so. French really is better at some things than English, and Becca likes to sprinkle French into her speech. And into her texts. She was in super-duper-advanced-AP-plus-plus French last year when we were freshmen. They’ve already run out of French classes for her to take. She adores French.
    This summer Becca’s been at camp, the camp I used to go to, and love, as well. She’s a CIT. I didn’t want to go back as a counselor-in-training and be a babysitter for a whole bunkful of little babysittees. I didn’t think I’d be good at it.
    It’s more than that. It’s more than whether I’d be good or bad at being a CIT. CITs have to be leaders—song leaders, cheerleaders, dance leaders, team leaders. Not my thing. So I stayed home for the first summer in six years and was a babysitter for just one little babysittee.
    I’m okay. Thanks.
    The phone buzzes again:
    Vraiment?
    That means “really,” in case you’re not as
française
as Becca and me.
    Oui.
    I take French, too. I’m not as fluent as Becca, but I can keep up with her in our texts.
    Vraiment vraiment?
    I hesitate. Then I type:
    I was holding him. He might have died in my arms.
    I am so sorry.
You must be in pain.
How awful for you.
Danielle?
    Three unanswered texts; she’s wondering if I’m still here.
    Yes, thank you. I am. It is.
    Mon amie, it’s the wake-up gong. Must go. Talk later.
    I know that using your cell phone is basically forbidden at camp. I remember that if you’re a counselor,