Five Minutes More by Darlene Ryan

name, but I don’t answer.

twelve
    We’re working on quadratic equations in groups of three or four with our desks pulled together when Ms. Henry from the office comes to the classroom door. “D’Arcy, you’re wanted in the office,” Mr. Kelly says from the doorway.
    I stand up and try to swallow past the huge lump that’s suddenly in my throat. Ms. Henry says something else to him. He nods and closes the door. “Take your things,” he says to me.
    I fumble with my notebook, trying to get it closed. My pencil hits the floor and rolls away. Seth snags it with his foot. I jam my stuff into my backpack and head for the door. It seems to get farther away every step I take. Everyone’s looking at me.
    The hallway’s deserted. I start down the stairs to the main floor. My mind is jumping all over the place—anything to avoid thinking about what’s going to happen when I get tothe office. I can see my mother talking to Mr. Connell as I get to the bottom step, and I have to grab the banister because suddenly I have spaghetti knees. She turns, sees me and turns back to Mr. Connell to offer her hand.
    I stay where I am, clutching the railing with one hand and my backpack with the other, until she walks over to me. “Get whatever books you need,” she says. “We have to go home.”
    â€œWhat happened?” I ask.
    â€œWe’ll talk about it when we get home.”
    â€œTell me now.”
    She shakes her head and doesn’t look at me. “When we get home.”
    We don’t talk in the car. I wrap my arms around my backpack. I don’t know what’s wrong, so I make a list in my head of what I know it can’t be. No one else I care about is dead. The house hasn’t burned down. I don’t have a terminal disease. Then I remember a joke my dad liked to tell. What happens when you play a country song backwards? Your wife comes back. Your dog’s alive. And your truck works.
    As soon as I’m inside the door, I drop my stuff and turn to her. “Okay, what is it?”
    She takes off her jacket. “Come sit down.”
    â€œNo,” I say. “You’re stalling. Whatever it is, tell me or I’m going back to school.” I back up to the door.
    â€œAll right.” She’s still looking everywhere but at me. “The police have officially...they’re ruling your father’s death a suicide.”
    The room begins to spin around me. I slide down the door until I hit the floor. “All because the car went off the road?That doesn’t mean anything.” My voice sounds garbled, like I’m talking underwater.
    â€œIt’s more than that.”
    â€œWhat?”
    She shakes her head.
    â€œTell me.”
    She stays silent.
    â€œFine. I’ll go to the police station and someone there will tell me.” But I don’t get up because I can’t.
    â€œHe wasn’t himself,” Mom whispers.
    â€œTell me,” I say louder.
    â€œHe’d been drinking. There weren’t any skid...the mark from...from the gas pedal was...his shoe...he didn’t have his seat belt on.”
    â€œNo. He didn’t...he didn’t drive into the river on purpose. People who do...who do that, they’re depressed. He was fine. He was happy.”
    She reaches for me. I jerk away and bolt for the den. There are papers on the desk—bills and cards left over from the funeral. I sweep them all onto the floor. “D’Arcy, what the hell are you doing?” Mom is in the doorway.
    â€œPeople that...they leave notes. If he did that, where’s the note?”
    Mom closes her eyes for a second. “Not always,” she says softly.
    I’m breathing fast and hard and it’s making me dizzy. I grab a desk drawer, drop a handful of pens onto the carpet and then dump the drawer on the floor. “There’s nothing here. You see? Nothing.”
    I pull out another drawer, push