02

I had to stop myself at random intervals of the day and remind myself that I hadn't known Archer Morales at all. I didn't know why I felt the way that I did, like there was this empty hole curling in my stomach, and it was starting to scare me.

Maybe I really was going to have to go see one of those shrinks.

I took the subway home after seventh hour visual arts class with my head tucked away in the clouds, my thoughts still swarming with everything that had happened. At the end of the day, the school's principal - Mrs. Jacksone - had read off an annoucement over the intercom asking us all to bow our heads in silence for a few minutes out of respect for Archer Morales.

It had sickened me beyond belief to see that while the rest of my classmates had remained silent, the looks on their faces held anything but sorrow or remorse.

Mrs. Jacksone had also informed us over the intercom that Archer Morales' funeral was going to be held at 7:00 this Thursday evening at St. Patrick's Cathedral downtown and that there would be no school on Friday. For a day of solitude and reverence, she'd said.

I'd already known before Mrs. Jacksone had finished speaking that I would be going to the funeral. Never mind the fact that this was going to be my first funeral.

What I really wanted to do was scream at the top of my lungs and kick things and not go to a funeral, but that really wouldn't get me anywhere. I didn't even know Archer, but there was some part of me that just felt like I needed to go to his funeral.

And who knows? Maybe I'd find peace of mind or closure at the service.

Or maybe I was just going insane.

God, did I sound like an utterly confused teenager. Yay for me.

My mother, Michaela Jamison, was sitting at the dining room table with her hands folded tightly together in front of her, when I walked through the front door after four later that day.

Her slightly graying dark hair was pulled back into an elegant twist, like always, and she was wearing one of her perfectly pressed suits that she always wore to work. This was nothing new, really. But the fact that she was home before eleven in the evening was definitely something new.

My mother was a high class, hard working woman who worked very close to 5th Avenue in the business department. My father, Kenneth Jamison, was an even higher paid lawyer who worked even later and traveled even farther.

I was home alone most of the time with only my kitten, Rollo, and the old lady, Mrs. Ellis, who lived across the hall from us and who my parents occasionally tipped to keep an eye on me.

I was okay with this, surprisingly. I was introverted person in all sense of the word and silence didn't bother me.

"Mom," I said in surprise, dropping my book bag down on the leather couch in the living room. "What're you doing here?"

Mom sighed heavily, leaning forward on her elbows with a grim look on her face. "I heard about what happened."

My heart sunk in my chest and landed somewhere around my kneecaps.

"You...you mean about Archer Morales," I said slowly, my face a question mark.

Mom nodded, not meeting my eye.

Well, that was all fine and dandy, but it still didn't explain why she was home.

Almost as if she could hear my internal debating, she continued on speaking.

"I thought that you might want to talk about what happened."

It took all of my composure not to burst out laughing at her words and ask her if she'd been knocked upside the head recently.

"Thanks, but no thanks, Mom," I said, dropping myself down into a seat across the table from her. "I don't want to talk to anyone."

This prompted another one of Mom's "why-must-I-carry-all-of-the-world's-problems-on-my-thin-shoulders" sighs.

"Hadley, it's not safe to bottle up your emotions," Mom said in a gravely serious voice. "What happened is very serious, and I don't want you to..to..."

"I'm not going to kill myself, if that's what you're asking," I cut her off in a steely voice, my eyes narrowing.

This was definitely rich of her.

Mom and I embarked on stare down after my rather crude remark, both of us trying to get each other to back down first and actually talk about what was going on. This was probably why we butted heads so much - because we were too much alike in some aspects.

"All right, Hadley," Mom sighed again after a moment, leaning back from the table. "If you say so. But I want you to see one of those pyschologists at your school this week. If you're not going to talk to me, then you should at least talk to somebody else."

"Fine," I responded immediately.

Most of the time it was just easier to go along with whatever Mom was saying just to find peace of mind.

I stood up from the table and left the dining room, grabbing my things off the living room couch as I made my way towards my bedroom.

"Oh, and by the way, Mom," I called back to her over my shoulder. "I'm going to the funeral on Thursday night."

All I got back in response was, "I figured you would."

I slammed my bedroom door shut behind me and tossed myself down onto my gigantic queen sized bed topped with freshly laundered sheets and comforters. My room was definitely my "me-place", even if the windows opened out over the bustling streets of New York City and it was sort of small and cluttered. Books were everywhere and so was old school work and maybe the few random articles of clothing I hadn't bothered to throw into the hamper yet.

I had a lot of nice things, sure - like an iPhone and a laptop - but I didn't consider myself snobbishly rich or anything like that. You sort of had to come from money if you wanted to live in New York City anyways.

After pittifully attempting to do my homework, I threw all of my books and assignments off my desk and onto the floor before dashing to my bed and curling up underneath the covers. I'd taken about an hour showering, scrubbing myself down with my favorite soap and shampoo, but I was still wound up and antsy.

It was probably going to take awhile for things to go back to normal - if that was even possible - and I sure as hell knew that it wasn't going to be easy, getting back some sense of normalcy in my life.

Because I most certainly did not cry myself to sleep at night.

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