Chapter 6
Sophia’s letter did not ask me to forgive her.
She wrote that she had seen herself take the necklace, heard herself accuse me of stealing, and watched me hit the ground. She said she had told her parents I pushed her first. The video made her admit she had lied.
I read the page twice.
At the end, she wrote, I don’t know how to undo what I said about your mom. I know she heard it. I’m sorry to both of you.
I showed the letter to Mrs. Reyes.
She read it carefully, then handed it back.
“How do you feel?”
“I’m glad she knows what she did. I’m still angry.”
“You’re allowed to be.”
“Do you believe her?”
“I believe she wrote it. What she does next will tell you more.”
I put the letter in my desk drawer. I did not reply.
Logan sent messages almost every day. At first he apologized. Then he asked me to tell the school he had barely touched my hand. When I did not answer, he wrote that his parents were furious and I could make things easier.
I showed the messages to Ms. Porter.
She told his parents and the school he was not to contact me about the investigation. The messages stopped.
That weekend, Dad took me to the jeweler who had repaired Mom’s necklace. The missing stone could be replaced with one the same size and cut. The jeweler showed me how the setting had bent beneath Sophia’s shoe.
“If I replace it, will you be able to tell?” I asked.
“I’ll be able to tell you where the new stone sits,” she said. “Most people won’t see a difference.”
I turned the necklace over in my hand.
“I want to leave it empty a little longer.”
She wrapped it gently and gave it back.
Dad did not try to persuade me. On the ride home, he asked whether I wanted to visit the office where the SUV photograph had been taken.
“I was there,” I said. “I remember.”
“There’s something inside I’d like you to see.”
The office belonged to the foundation Mom had created. I had been meeting with its staff once a month, learning what they did, though I had kept those visits private.
Dad took me into a conference room where a large board held photographs of students who had received help from the fund over the years. Some had written letters. Others had sent graduation pictures.
“I never brought you in here before,” he said. “Your mother wanted you to have a life of your own first. But you’re old enough to decide how much you want to know.”
I walked along the board. Mrs. Reyes’s name appeared on several letters. She had followed students from their first year at Bellmont to their last, asking how they were doing long after they no longer needed financial help.
“She never told me about them,” I said.
“She thought their stories belonged to them.”
At the end of the board was a photograph of Mom at the school garden’s opening. She stood beside a row of small trees. Under it was one sentence she had written for the foundation: Every child deserves room to grow.
I read it aloud. Dad stood beside me, his eyes on her face.
“She was afraid people would treat you like a source of money,” he said. “I was afraid too. I let that fear make me keep too much from you.”
“I was angry when I first found out.”
“I know.”
“I understand why you waited. I wish you’d trusted me sooner.”
“So do I.”
I took a photograph of Mom’s words. I wanted to remember them on days when school felt louder than anything good we did.
The following Monday, Sophia returned. I saw her at the end of the hall. She did not approach me. When another student whispered something about the helicopter, she told him to stop.
I kept walking.
At lunch, Eli and Nia sat with me. Eli asked if he could bring more students to help with the garden. Mrs. Reyes had told him she could use them.
“Of course,” I said. “She’ll put us all to work.”
Halfway through lunch, a student from my English class came over. He looked embarrassed.
“I repeated the thing about the SUV,” he said. “I didn’t know the truth.”
“You didn’t know,” I answered. “You still repeated it.”
“You’re right.”
He returned to his table.
Nia watched him go.
“You’re getting good at saying what you mean.”
“I’m tired of being afraid of it.”
After school, I went to the garden with Eli. Mrs. Reyes gave each of us a shovel and showed us where to plant.
I had dirt on my hands when Logan appeared at the gate. He stopped when he saw Mrs. Reyes and Eli beside me.
“I need one minute,” he said.
“I’ve read your messages.”
“Then you know I’m sorry.”
“I know you wanted me to change my account.”
He looked toward the ground.
“My parents said it could affect college.”
I put the shovel down.
“You hurt me, Logan. Then you asked me to pretend you hadn’t.”
“I was scared.”
“So was I.”
Mrs. Reyes came to stand near me. I did not need her to speak.
May you like
Logan nodded once and left.
My hands trembled after he was gone, but I had said everything I needed to say.
