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"Just so you know, he used a shotgun," my mother told me from her seat on the couch. I stood at the counter holding a slice of soft bread and slathering peanut butter all over it, but at her words I paused and set my sandwich down on the plate. Frowning, I looked over at her. She sat with her ankles crossed and a crossword puzzle on her lap, her eyes narrowed a bit in concentration behind her glasses. I wondered if she really meant to start a conversation, or if she was just telling me one of the answers to her puzzle. An answer that, coincidentally, just happened to relate to the news everyone had heard before school had started today.

"What does that have to do with anything?" I asked, my brow furrowed.

She was quick to answer: "It means he couldn't have done it himself."

I turned back to my sandwich without bothering to reply, snatching the second piece of bread and jamming my knife into the jar of creamy peanut butter. Spreading it on the bread in quick, short strokes, I wondered where my mother had gotten that information. She prided herself on not gossiping with the neighbors.

I had been informed this morning at approximately 7:36 AM that my long-time neighbor and some-time friend, Carl Johnson, had finally been found after nearly ten days of being missing.

"Really?" I asked the blonde who delivered the news to me. She and I hadn't spoken since sixth grade, which was nearly three years ago. I looked over her shoulder and scanned the tables and chairs in the lunch room. I couldn't wait to talk to him again, to apologize—

"They found his body. He's dead, Sandra. He shot himself." She sounded sad. I could see there were tears in her eyes when I refocused on her face.

"Yeah, but where is he?" I asked.

"He's not here anymore! He's dead."

For a moment we regarded one another in silence. My focus turned inward and when I next became aware of my surroundings —the first bell was ringing— she had vanished.

I stayed late after school and loitered in a stairwell with four acquaintances as we discussed Carl's life. They shared memories of him and laughed and smiled and cried while I stood silently leaning against the windowsill. The memories I had of him were few and far between. I was reluctant to share my stories of him with a group of people I hardly knew.

When I got home, my mother brought up his death almost as soon as I stepped in the door. Only now, half an hour later, did she choose to share what she knew of the weapon involved.

My eyes drifted to the crucifix that hung above the heavy door to our garage and I scowled. Slapping one piece of bread on top of the other, I glued them together with honey and transferred my plate to the table. My mom starting humming Camptown Races and I hunched my shoulders, cramming the sandwich into my mouth. The sooner I choked down the chewy bread layered thickly with peanut butter, the sooner I could escape to my room. The sandwich stuck to the roof of my mouth. Taking advantage of the fact that my mouth was full, my mother stood up and came to sit at the table with me. I glanced at her, noting that she had left her puzzle book on the couch.

"Someone else must have done it. That's all I'm saying," she continued.

Why had I made a peanut butter and honey sandwich on a day like today? I could hardly choke down each bite. My throat felt clogged and I knew it wasn't because of the food. I got out of my chair and pulled a tall glass from the cupboard above the dishwasher. I could feel my mother's eyes on me. I knew it was important to her that I understood what she had just said. I couldn't acknowledge her.

Instead, I opened the fridge and pulled out what was left of the chocolate milk. Twisting off the cap, I poured it in my glass and stopped when it was exactly half full. Half empty seemed more suitable on a day like today. Laughing at my poor humor, I stuffed the milk carton back in the fridge. Tears stung the corners of my eyes.

"Sandra?" she asked as I lifted the glass to my lips. I stared across the kitchen and tried not to gulp my drink. What did she want me to say? Yes, Mom, you must be right. No one really commits suicide, it's always murder!

She said my name again, more sharply this time, and my gaze shifted to her.

"What?" I asked, and she narrowed her eyes at me, a frown pulling the corners of her mouth down. "Look, I'm a little upset about today, all right? I don't really want to talk about it anymore."

Her expression changed immediately, her sullen stare replaced with one full of excessive sympathy. I looked away, my stomach churning. She got out of her chair and came to me with her arms open for a hug, and I turned my shoulder to her. Undeterred, my mother hugged me anyway.

"Can I get you anything?" she asked as she pulled away.

"No. I'm fine. Thank you," I added belatedly. As she returned to the couch and her crossword puzzles, I brought my glass to the table and sat down. I stared at the texture of the bread on my plate and watched the crumbly surface blur as tears slid down my face.

When I first met Carl, I was in third grade and he was in fourth. I was walking home with two friends and we were amusing ourselves by kicking small chunks of ice across the skating rink behind the school. The boy ahead of us was walking with his head down, his breath pluming in the air, and more than once our makeshift pucks bumped against his boots. We were giggling together when we realized the boy had stopped moving and was waiting for us. By then we were an arm's length away from him. I didn't like the smile I saw twisting one corner of his mouth as he grabbed my friend's arm. My heart jumped in my chest and I slapped his mittened hand away.

"Don't!" I told him, my voice high.

Even through my thick winter coat I could feel his fingers wrap around my upper arm. I watched as the world tipped upside down and I exhaled abruptly as he slammed me against the ice.

I hated him for years. I was terrified of his obvious physical superiority over me but attracted to his intolerance for bullshit once I got to know him in middle school. We rode the same bus and I began to relish seeing him every day before and after school. He stuck up for me whenever the girl sitting in red six picked on me for reading too much, and he encouraged me to lift my head and join the various conversations on the bus. He was strongly opinionated and stubborn, the sort of guy who refused to back down from a fight even if he knew he'd lost. I wanted nothing more than to follow in his footsteps.

I wiped at my eyes and took another bite of my sandwich. The honey was too sweet and the bread too soft but I ate it anyway.

Description
"Just so you know, he used a shotgun," my mother told me from her seat on the couch. I stood at the counter holding a slice of soft bread and slathering peanut butter all over it, but at her words I paused and set my sandwich down on the plate. Frowning, I looked over at her. She sat with her ankles crossed and a crossword puzzle on her lap, her eyes narrowed a bit in concentration behind her glasses. I wondered if she really meant to start a conversation, or if she was just telling me one of the answers to her puzzle. An answer that, coincidentally, just happened to relate to the news everyone had heard before school had started today.

"What does that have to do with anything?" I asked, my brow furrowed.

She was quick to answer: "It means he couldn't have done it himself."

I turned back to my sandwich without bothering to reply, snatching the second piece of bread and jamming my knife into the jar of creamy peanut butter. Spreading it on the bread in quick, short strokes, I wondered where my mother had gotten that information. She prided herself on not gossiping with the neighbors.

I had been informed this morning at approximately 7:36 AM that my long-time neighbor and some-time friend, Carl Johnson, had finally been found after nearly ten days of being missing.

"Really?" I asked the blonde who delivered the news to me. She and I hadn't spoken since sixth grade, which was nearly three years ago. I looked over her shoulder and scanned the tables and chairs in the lunch room. I couldn't wait to talk to him again, to apologize—

"They found his body. He's dead, Sandra. He shot himself." She sounded sad. I could see there were tears in her eyes when I refocused on her face.

"Yeah, but where is he?" I asked.

"He's not here anymore! He's dead."

For a moment we regarded one another in silence. My focus turned inward and when I next became aware of my surroundings —the first bell was ringing— she had vanished.

I stayed late after school and loitered in a stairwell with four acquaintances as we discussed Carl's life. They shared memories of him and laughed and smiled and cried while I stood silently leaning against the windowsill. The memories I had of him were few and far between. I was reluctant to share my stories of him with a group of people I hardly knew.

When I got home, my mother brought up his death almost as soon as I stepped in the door. Only now, half an hour later, did she choose to share what she knew of the weapon involved.

My eyes drifted to the crucifix that hung above the heavy door to our garage and I scowled. Slapping one piece of bread on top of the other, I glued them together with honey and transferred my plate to the table. My mom starting humming Camptown Races and I hunched my shoulders, cramming the sandwich into my mouth. The sooner I choked down the chewy bread layered thickly with peanut butter, the sooner I could escape to my room. The sandwich stuck to the roof of my mouth. Taking advantage of the fact that my mouth was full, my mother stood up and came to sit at the table with me. I glanced at her, noting that she had left her puzzle book on the couch.

"Someone else must have done it. That's all I'm saying," she continued.

Why had I made a peanut butter and honey sandwich on a day like today? I could hardly choke down each bite. My throat felt clogged and I knew it wasn't because of the food. I got out of my chair and pulled a tall glass from the cupboard above the dishwasher. I could feel my mother's eyes on me. I knew it was important to her that I understood what she had just said. I couldn't acknowledge her.

Instead, I opened the fridge and pulled out what was left of the chocolate milk. Twisting off the cap, I poured it in my glass and stopped when it was exactly half full. Half empty seemed more suitable on a day like today. Laughing at my poor humor, I stuffed the milk carton back in the fridge. Tears stung the corners of my eyes.

"Sandra?" she asked as I lifted the glass to my lips. I stared across the kitchen and tried not to gulp my drink. What did she want me to say? Yes, Mom, you must be right. No one really commits suicide, it's always murder!

She said my name again, more sharply this time, and my gaze shifted to her.

"What?" I asked, and she narrowed her eyes at me, a frown pulling the corners of her mouth down. "Look, I'm a little upset about today, all right? I don't really want to talk about it anymore."

Her expression changed immediately, her sullen stare replaced with one full of excessive sympathy. I looked away, my stomach churning. She got out of her chair and came to me with her arms open for a hug, and I turned my shoulder to her. Undeterred, my mother hugged me anyway.

"Can I get you anything?" she asked as she pulled away.

"No. I'm fine. Thank you," I added belatedly. As she returned to the couch and her crossword puzzles, I brought my glass to the table and sat down. I stared at the texture of the bread on my plate and watched the crumbly surface blur as tears slid down my face.

When I first met Carl, I was in third grade and he was in fourth. I was walking home with two friends and we were amusing ourselves by kicking small chunks of ice across the skating rink behind the school. The boy ahead of us was walking with his head down, his breath pluming in the air, and more than once our makeshift pucks bumped against his boots. We were giggling together when we realized the boy had stopped moving and was waiting for us. By then we were an arm's length away from him. I didn't like the smile I saw twisting one corner of his mouth as he grabbed my friend's arm. My heart jumped in my chest and I slapped his mittened hand away.

"Don't!" I told him, my voice high.

Even through my thick winter coat I could feel his fingers wrap around my upper arm. I watched as the world tipped upside down and I exhaled abruptly as he slammed me against the ice.

I hated him for years. I was terrified of his obvious physical superiority over me but attracted to his intolerance for bullshit once I got to know him in middle school. We rode the same bus and I began to relish seeing him every day before and after school. He stuck up for me whenever the girl sitting in red six picked on me for reading too much, and he encouraged me to lift my head and join the various conversations on the bus. He was strongly opinionated and stubborn, the sort of guy who refused to back down from a fight even if he knew he'd lost. I wanted nothing more than to follow in his footsteps.

I wiped at my eyes and took another bite of my sandwich. The honey was too sweet and the bread too soft but I ate it anyway.