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  There was no answer, nothing but a strange, sad sort of peace that swept over the pain and stilled the roar. No more names and strange looks … no more wishes from his mother that maybe —just maybe—he would play the drums. No more longing through a northwest-facing window … All of it … all of it was over now. One final time the Christmas song filled his heart and he was carried away on the words …

  Truly He taught us to love one another … His law is love, and His gospel is peace … Chains shall He break, for the slave is our brother … and in His name, all oppression shall cease …

  All oppression … all oppression … all oppression.

  Ceased.

  For all time ceased.

  Twenty-Five

  AN HOUR AFTER THE PAPER HIT THE SIDEWALK SATURDAY MORNing, the news spread through the tree-lined neighborhoods and cheerful North Atlanta suburbs surrounding Fulton High. They’d lost one of their own. Michael Schwartz was dead. Victim of a hanging.

  An apparent suicide.

  Manny Hawkins set down his morning paper and turned dry eyes out the window at the sunny day outside. Shouldn’t it be raining, he thought? Wouldn’t that be apropos on a day like this? He stared at the headline … let it seep into his heart and mind.

  “Fulton High Junior Hangs Himself.”

  The air inside Manny’s two-bedroom condo was stuffy. Too stuffy. He stood and took long strides toward the patio door. Once it was open, he breathed deep. Two breaths, three. Until the nausea began to subside. He’d had Michael in his class the last two years. English Comp I and II. The kid seemed normal enough. Quiet, a little dark in the wardrobe department, but nothing too out there. Nothing gothic or deathlike. No signs that this past Friday night he’d ride his bike home from band practice and hang himself in his bedroom.

  Manny pushed himself back to his kitchen table and sat down again. The breeze through the open door was good, a reminder of life. The life that still reigned all around him. He scanned the article, catching quotes from the boy’s mother and father. The two were separated—nothing too unusual. His father commented through a family friend stating only that the family “appreciated the prayers and support from the community.”

  His mother told police the teen left no suicide note, nothing but his flute on his bed and the music to “O Holy Night” open beside it. Manny narrowed his eyes and tried to look past the morning sunshine, to a place where he might find some understanding, some rationale for Michael’s death. But there was no such place, no such understanding.

  Lately he’d stayed more to himself at work, kept to his office and his classes and spent little time in the hallways. But once at the beginning of the year he happened into the space outside his classroom in time to see Jake Collins and a bunch of football players laughing and pointing. Not a group laugh or a good-time laugh, but the sort of laugh that was directed at someone. As the memory came back, it settled like rocks in his gut.

  The kid was Michael Schwartz. Slinking out of the building at the other end of the hallway, his face downcast, shoulders slumped. Flute case tucked beneath his arm. In that moment back in September, Manny had known that whatever he’d just missed, it had to do with Michael. Call it mockery or bullying, but it had happened.

  And Manny had done nothing about it.

  He looked back at the paper, at the school photo beneath the headline. The face was the same one he’d seen at the end of the hallway that day. Michael Schwartz, the kid being laughed at. Manny stared at the eyes of the kid he’d failed. The kid they had all failed. There was no sign, no way of believing that behind those eyes was enough suffering to make the guy put a rope around his neck.

  Manny stared back out the patio door. He had a reason for not saying anything about the incident in the hallway. He was busy… his next class was arriving… he had notes to review and lessons to tend to. Besides, kids had changed since he first started teaching. Bullying was normal now. Jocks like Sam and Jake picked on everyone… it was practically understood. There were exceptions, but most of them were mean. Plain and simple.

  Manny sighed and folded up the newspaper. Who was he kidding? He couldn’t expect the kids at Fulton High to turn out for the spring musical. These kids were rich and privileged and completely self-absorbed. They didn’t care about anyone but themselves. In fact, most kids at Fulton made teachers long for retirement. They were bad enough to make the staff seriously worry about the future. Last year two kids had killed themselves. This year it could be more.

  A breeze wafted through the apartment and brought with it the single exception, the reason he would return to school on Monday, to a building with one more empty seat… the reason he would keep teaching theater and plodding through rehearsals for a program that would be nonexistent after this year. The reason was strong and sure, because he’d seen it with his own eyes. Seen the kindness and the transformation. The miracle, even. He couldn’t write off the entire student body, because the reason for his hope fell on the shoulders of two of his very own students.

  Ella Reynolds and Holden Harris.

  ELLA DARTED DOWN THE STAIRS, CHECKING HER BLUE LEATHER purse as she ran. She needed her wallet and her phone. She was supposed to meet LaShante in fifteen minutes. The two were buying Christmas gifts for kids at Holden’s church. Last Sunday the church had placed a giving tree in the foyer, chock-full of paper ornaments. Each one represented a boy or girl in the community who wouldn’t have Christmas presents unless someone stepped in to help.

  This year, Ella wanted to be one of those people.

  She’d called LaShante an hour ago and explained her idea. LaShante’s dad was president of a bank. She and Ella never wanted for anything. “But I’ve never thought about buying presents for strangers,” she told her friend. “What do you think?”

  “Girl, are you kidding me? That’s the best idea ever.” LaShante’s smile was audible in her voice. “I’ll be ready.”

  As Ella reached the kitchen, she saw her mom reading the newspaper at the long stretch of brown granite that made up the kitchen bar. Her mom looked small and frail, less confident all the time. Ella breezed into the kitchen and grabbed an apple. “Bye.” She still had no interest in talking to her mom at length. They had nothing in common. “I’m going shopping with LaShante.”

  Her mom looked up. “Michael Schwartz … you know him, right?”

  Ella stopped and turned toward her mom. The water was running, her apple poised above the sink. “What about him?”

  Her mom looked down at the open paper and then up at Ella again. “Did you know him well?”

  Images from last night flashed in Ella’s mind. Michael with his flute case tucked under his arm, struggling with his bike lock and bearing the brunt of Jake’s meanness. Ella set the apple down on the counter. “What about him?”

  “I’m not sure if it’s the same Michael you know …” Her mom hesitated. “But a Michael Schwartz from Fulton High … He killed himself last night.”

  It was like someone had pulled a plug on all the blood in her body. She grabbed onto the counter and opened her mouth to speak, to say there wasn’t any way Michael Schwartz—her Michael Schwartz—had killed himself, and that there had to be a mistake because he had a performance coming up with the school band and LaShante wanted to hear him play the flute.

  But no words would come.

  She bent over a little and found a single breath, enough to push her around the kitchen counter to the place next to where her mom was still sitting, a sad, uncomfortable look on her face. Ella slid the paper over and stared at the headline. And there he was … there was Michael, with the warm brown eyes and hopeful half smile. “No.” The word came quietly at first. “No!” She dropped her purse and raked her hand through her hair. A few quick steps toward the stairs and she spun around again and returned to the newspaper. “Not Michael!” “Ella … I’m sorry. I thought —”

  “No!” She didn’t want her mom’s pity. How could this happen? She forced herself to focus on the newspaper,
on the headline above Michael’s photo. “Fulton High Junior Hangs Himself.” “No, Mom … no, this can’t be real.” She shoved the newspaper and clung to the nearest bar stool. Why hadn’t she pulled over and forced him to take the ride? She could’ve talked to him, told him not to worry about Jake Collins because the guy was a jerk and Michael wasn’t. Michael was a kind soul—he was one of the only friends Holden Harris had, right? And now …

  Now he was gone, and there was nothing she could do about it.

  The tears came in a rush, and she squeezed her eyes shut. “Why…? What’s wrong with people?” The question came out as a wail, and before she knew what was happening, she felt hands on her shoulders and the smell of her mom’s perfume filled her senses. “Ella … I’m here.”

  Ella wanted to fight her mother’s comfort. She hadn’t cared about Ella’s senior year … hadn’t asked about her participating in the school play or wondered why Jake didn’t come around anymore. And she didn’t care about Holden Harris. But here … now … more than anything in the world, Ella wanted her mom to love her. She couldn’t bring Michael back, couldn’t give him a ride or hug him or tell him everything would be okay at school on Monday. It was too late for that.

  But it wasn’t too late for this.

  “Mom …?” Ella turned and for the first time in longer than she could remember, she clung to her mother, clung to what little life they still shared together. And then —like she’d done once in a while when she was a little girl —Ella buried her face against her mother’s shoulder and wept.

  HOLDEN LIKED HAVING HIS COUSIN KATE LIVE WITH THEM. SHE was happy, always happy. And she treated him like a friend. The way a friend should be treated. Plus he liked that Kate loved pancakes with whipped cream for breakfast. Even on a rainy Monday-morning school day like today.

  “Can I sit beside you, Holden?” Kate tugged on his sleeve when he was already sitting at the kitchen table looking at his PECS cards.

  Kate had pretty, light blonde hair and blue eyes, and sometimes Holden thought that looking at her was like looking into a mirror because he had the same exact shade of blue eyes and tan skin too. From the Atlanta summers. Holden smiled at his little cousin. Yes, Kate. You can sit by me, and we can share our whipped-cream pancakes together.

  “Okay.” Kate pulled up the closest chair and sat down. “It’s a happy Monday, know why?”

  Why? Holden heard the music begin to play. Pretty strings and melodic harps. This was a happy day, Kate was right. The music was already more beautiful than on most days …

  “Because I’m living with you now, and that means I won’t miss my mommy and daddy that much.” Kate’s eyes twinkled because they had a mix of happy girl and Jesus love tucked inside. Twinkly eyes. “Know what else?”

  What? Holden put his PECS cards to the side. His mom was making the pancakes. He could smell them, warm and sweet, and the smell mixed with the music. A happy day for sure.

  “I’ve got a SpongeBob lunch box. And that’s the best kind of all.”

  I like SpongeBob. He’s always smiling. “Right.” Kate giggled. “Just like you, Holden. Even when you’re not smiling, I can see your smile. Know why?” Why?

  “Because it’s in your heart all the time.” She leaned closer and her voice fell into a whisper. “I can see your heart, Holden. I always could see it.”

  Yes, that was the other thing he liked about his cousin Kate. She could see his heart. He nodded. “I thought so.”

  Too bad his dad wasn’t here to share the day with them. But his dad would come home one day and until then if he needed his dad then push-ups would happen. Because “That’s right, Holden, just like that. That’s a push-up, except when you’re older you’ll keep your back straight. Very good … like the big boys. If you can do that at three years old, you can do anything. Absolutely anything, Holden. Push-ups will make you big and strong like me, buddy. Thatta’ boy. Keep doing that and no one will mess with you ever… ‘’

  They were going to pray in a minute for the warm, sweet pancakes, but first Holden wanted to pray for Kate. Dear Jesus, I really like my cousin, Kate. She sees the smile in my heart. And so, if You could, please take care of her real good, and make sure she stays safe and healthy. I know You can hear me, and I know You’re here at the table with us. You love me, this I know. Thanks for that. Your friend, Holden Harris.

  The music played soft and soothing through breakfast and pancakes and extra whipped cream. When it was over, Holden smiled at his mother. His wonderful mom. Thanks, Mom. That was the best ever. He patted Kate’s blonde little head. Plus having Kate here was the best ever.

  It was 8:10 and that meant school, because school meant leaving at 8:10 whether Kate was here or not. But at school something was different this day. He prayed for the kids as they got off the bus. Cheryl with the crutches and Dan in the wheelchair and the other kids and the bus driver. Because the sign at the church said “Pray in the Spirit on all occasions with all kinds of prayers and requests. With this in mind, be alert and always keep on praying for all the saints.” That’s what the sign said. And then “Ephesians 6:18.” Keep on praying …

  So Holden would keep on. Every hour.

  But after all the praying and after walking to his class in the special-ed wing, Holden noticed something. The rain wasn’t only outside, it was inside. And it was on all the faces of everyone in the halls. Rainy eyes and wet cheeks. By the time Holden met up with Ella for lunch, the drums were beating. Slow and steady in the background, but ready to get louder all the time. Drums meant he needed his dad, and maybe push-ups would help.

  Something was wrong. Kids were at lunch at 11:53, and usually no one came to lunch until 11:56 and that was off schedule, so something was definitely wrong.

  He walked beside Ella toward the hamburger line, because Monday was hamburger day. The drums were quiet, not too loud. So he started to sing. Just to himself and Ella, but it was music that made the drums go away most of all.

  “Jesus loves me, this I know …” The words came fast and they bumped into each other like a train wreck.

  “Holden …” Ella stopped walking and looked at him. Her eyes looked rainy too. “Do you know something’s wrong today?”

  Yes, Ella, I know. Because everyone’s rainy today. But I’m not sure why.

  “Are you singing?” Ella’s lips turned into the beginning of a sad smile.

  I’m singing our favorite song. Can you hear the words? Holden looked at her, and he could see the little girl she used to be. Sing with me, okay, Ella?

  ” ‘Jesus Loves Me.’ That’s what you’re singing.” Ella didn’t look around to check if anyone watching her. She just looked into his eyes and sang along. “Jesus loves me, this I know … for the Bible tells me so.”

  The song lasted all through lunch, even when they weren’t singing. Later Holden walked to Theater and he passed Locker No. 3447 at 2:02 p.m., but no Michael. Something was wrong because Michael was always there, coming out of Algebra II and passing Locker No. 3447 at 2:02 p.m. Every day he was there, because that was the schedule, except days when Mr. Wiggins went late and then it was maybe 2:04 or 2:06. Holden stopped and looked at Locker No. 3447.

  What was the problem? Where was Michael today? He was never sick, except once in September, and that was only after he had a cough for three days. So maybe he was sick and maybe that’s why he wasn’t here. Holden checked his watch. Two-oh-five and getting later all the time. Michael wasn’t here today.

  Holden lifted his face to the window. It wasn’t rainy anymore. Sunshine was spreading through the clouds and suddenly Holden could imagine Michael plain as if he were here next to Locker No. 3447. He was happy today, Holden was almost one hundred percent sure. Yes, Michael was happy and spending the day with people who loved him.

  Because this was a happy day, and the music was happy even with all the rain. “Jesus Loves Me” happy all through the halls and the classrooms and all through Ella and him. He was the Prince, after all. Not the Beast
. And this was a happy Monday.

  Just like his cousin Kate had said over pancakes that morning.

  DAN HARRIS HAD BEEN OFF THE ROUGH SEAS OF THE ALASKAN Peninsula for five hours. Long enough to get back to port, gather a suitcase full of clothes, and head to the airport. Holden needed him. That’s all Tracy had to say in her phone call yesterday, and since they were headed into dock for supplies anyway, he informed his captain he needed a week and he booked a flight.

  One of Holden’s friends had committed suicide over the weekend.

  “I’m not sure how much he understands. Ella told me he was singing ‘Jesus Loves Me’ all day at school.” Tracy sounded weary and hopeful all at the same time. “And this morning—before he knew anything about the suicide, I caught him talking to little

  Kate.”

  “Talking?”

  “Yes.” A ripple of forgotten laughter slipped into her voice. “He was talking, Dan. She was telling him about her SpongeBob lunch box, and Holden said, ‘I like SpongeBob. He’s always smiling.’”

  “With actual words.”

  “Yes. I know.” She laughed again, the unbridled girlish laughter of a mother no longer consumed with fear. “He’s changing, Dan. You have to see for yourself.”

  Ella would bring Holden home that afternoon, so Tracy could pick Dan up at the airport. Between Kate’s arrival and the loss of a classmate, and the renewed friendship with Ella, Holden had a lot going on. As a father, Dan had missed much of Holden’s life. Most of the time he didn’t mind, because he didn’t think Holden noticed, and because his limitations only broke Dan’s heart.

  A son who wouldn’t look at him? Who couldn’t talk or make eye contact or laugh with him? A son who was unreachable, untouchable, no matter what Dan tried, no matter how he begged God?

  Better to stay at sea praying for the boy and making money, so that one day the therapy and treatments and training sessions might by some miracle pay off. But now… now maybe God was answering them, after all. And every hour at sea, every dollar hard fought from the depths of the ocean, would all be worth it. If only Tracy was right. If they were really getting their Holden back.