All These Lives by Sarah Wylie Page B

thing she was going to add to the many we’d heard. But she didn’t say anything. Not one word. We sat there in silence for five minutes, and then I said I had to go, and that was it. Those five minutes were all we’ve ever said about Jena.
    These days, since I have less to say—and because she can —she greedily swallows all the empty silences, the commas, the periods, and the question marks. I guess she just has a lot to say. Or maybe she does it because she doesn’t like the way air swishes around in your eardrums when nobody says anything, and so she fills the silence with too many words.
    “I just feel like I’m ready to make a big difference, you know?”
    I nod. 12:30 . Half an hour before Jena’s appointment.
    “By the way, have you ever noticed that classrooms are practically a dictatorship? I hadn’t either, until I started talking to Rachel. I mean, I was skeptical at first, but think about it—we start class when the teacher gets there, we stop when he’s ready to stop, assessments are totally up to the teacher. They say we have a test on Monday, and we have to take a test on Monday. I say, Enough is enough.”
    Before, when Lauren used to get all passionate like this, I would try to avoid her. There’s just something about her franticness that stresses people out. But now, her speech is calming. It plays like background music to my thoughts, something normal and familiar. My eyes float across the room to the table closest to the cafeteria line.
    Ben Hershey, Khy, and Erin are sitting together again, and this time Ben has on his basketball uniform. I barely used to notice them last year, but now I’m constantly looking over, waiting for them to miss her.
    Lauren doesn’t speak for a second, and when I look back at her, she’s staring at me, one eyebrow raised.
    “What’s wrong?” she asks.
    “Nothing.”
    “You should really consider what I’m saying,” Lauren says. “You’re complacent, too. I mean, what do you care about?”
    “I don’t know,” I tell her, and swallow to make my throat less tight.
    “Exactly. You should really figure it out, Dani. Or you’ll become just like everybody else.”
    Right then, Erin turns and looks over her shoulder. For a split second, she looks annoyed, since I’m not trying to hide the fact that I’m staring. But then she turns back around and keeps on eating her lunch.
    Lauren is still talking, because she gets to worry about that: being unique , making a difference, and the politically correct term for hugging trees.
    We’re so different, I don’t even know why we’re friends.
    *   *   *
    “Where have you been?” Mom corners me as soon as I step into the house. “It’s six-thirty.”
    “I was at the public library,” I say, and it should be a lie, but it’s not. I took the bus there after school, found a quiet corner, and fell asleep reading a book ingeniously titled Felines, Our Friends . I didn’t want to be home alone if I got here before they did, and then I didn’t want to know if there was bad news. “I have this big math assignment.”
    “That is unacceptable, Dani. Is it too much to ask that you tell people where you’re going?” Mom rants.
    “Sorry.” Avoiding her eye, I ask, “How did the meeting go?”
    Mom sighs, and I can hear the tiredness in her voice. “Well. Her blood work could have been better. He wasn’t thrilled with her white blood cell count.” She starts spewing numbers, and I wonder if now is a good time to tell her I’m this close to failing math. The bottom line is that we’re still waiting on a marrow match.
    I leave Mom calling Dad to inform him that I’ve been found.
    Jena’s not on the couch, not in the kitchen, not at the dining room table. I go upstairs to look for her, just to double-check that she still exists. I wait outside her room, my ear pressed against her door. If it’s something I don’t want to see, then I won’t go in. If it’s completely silent, then I haven’t