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“We’ll follow you home anyway,” the patrolman with my registration said. He handed it back to me.

I nodded and got back into the car. I drove extra slowly and carefully, but they followed me all the way back and waited while the gate opened. Then they followed me up the driveway. Mrs. Duval came out onto the portico as I drove up. Someone, perhaps her husband, had alerted her to the police car.

The two patrolmen got out of their vehicle when I got out of mine.

“What’s wrong?” Mrs. Duval asked me.

“I don’t know where I would begin if I tried to answer that, Mrs. Duval,” I said, and kept walking toward the front door.

“Is Mr. or Mrs. Porter in?” one of the patrolmen asked her.

“No, this is the home of Donald and Jordan March,” she replied. “Miss Porter is their . . .”

I paused to hear what she would say.

“Foster child.”

“Is either of them at home?” he asked.

“Not at the moment, no. Is something wrong?”

I didn’t wait to hear what they would say. I went into the house and hurried up the stairs. The image of Ryder sitting up in his coffin was still so vivid. I was still so shaken by it.

I actually went up thinking that he might just phone.

18

Changes

Once I returned to my room, I didn’t leave for the rest of the day and night. Mrs. Duval brought me dinner and threatened that if I didn’t eat everything, she’d have Jordan take me to the hospital. I ate, mindlessly chewing and swallowing. Afterward, I tried to do something else—read, watch television, go on the Internet. I even tried to practice on the clarinet, but every time I started to do something, I stopped to remind myself that Ryder was gone from my life as quickly as he had entered it. I lost interest in anything I did and slipped back into my dark depression. Before I was forced to talk to anyone else, I went to sleep.

I didn’t have to go to school the next day, of course. This was the Tuesday that Ryder and I had first planned to spend rowing on the lake, having our little picnic, and just enjoying each other’s company. When Jordan saw me, she insisted that I remain home the following day as well.

“You look very tired, Sasha. I know how devastated you are. Emotional fatigue is always deeper than mere physical fatigue. I’ll have the schoolwork you missed on Monday picked up for you,” she said. “And we’ll do the same tomorrow. You really need a little more rest before you return to your regular schedule at school.”

She had been gone all day Monday and was not home until sometime in the evening. I knew that Mrs. Duval had told her what the policemen had said, of course, but she didn’t mention it. She didn’t ask if I had gone to the cemetery, either. I had the feeling that she was tiptoeing around me, afraid that she might light one of the fuses inside me.

Later that morning, Jessica called, hoping to give me a full, detailed account of the cemetery service, but I told her I didn’t want to hear any of it. Of course, I didn’t mention that I had been there, too.

“I understand,” she said, her voice dripping with disappointment. “Everyone is so upset and confused. There’s been so little information. Can I just ask you if you had any idea that this might happen?”

“No, you can’t. Return to sender,” I said.

“Huh?”

“When mail is undeliverable, the post office writes ‘Return to sender.’ ”

She was quiet. I think I was frightening her. “You’re coming to school tomorrow, right?”

“I believe I’ll miss school again tomorrow.”

“When are you returning to school?”

“I don’t know. I could be there Thursday. I could be there Friday or maybe not until next week.”

“You are coming back, though, right?”

“I’ll be back,” I said in my best Arnold Schwarzenegger voice. She was silent again. I sensed that she didn’t know what to say.