Copyright 2026 by DJ Rawlings

The Day After

I push my bicycle with one hand and hold the back of Meg’s seat with the other. She knows how to ride by herself. I am not helping her balance. I just need to know she is still there.

The winter air burns my nose. Our tires crunch over the sand and rock left along the side of the road. Neither of us speaks. There is nothing to say. John is dead. The police took him away in a black bag. Our house belongs to us again.

I keep waiting to feel guilty. Instead, the morning seems brighter than yesterday. The sky is the same washed-out winter gray, but I can see farther. I can breathe all the way down into my stomach.

That feels wrong.

At the corner where our routes split, I stop Meg. “You remember what happened?”

Her fingers tighten around the handlebars. “Erin, you told me. We went to the playground.”

“And?”

“We walked home after midnight.”

“What happened to John?”

Her gaze drops to the pavement. “He got drunk and shot himself.”

“Good.”

Her eyes rise to mine. “What if they ask again?”

“You tell them the same thing.”

“What if they say they know we’re lying?”

“They don’t.”

“But what if they say it?”

I move closer and straighten the strap of her backpack. “They’re allowed to lie to make people talk.” I heard that somewhere. Maybe television. Maybe it is not true, but it sounds true.

“You don’t change the story just because an adult says something in a serious voice.”

Meg nods.

“Say it.”

“I don’t change the story.”

“No matter what.”

“No matter what.”

I release her bicycle. “Go.”

She pedals to the elementary school without turning around. I wait until she disappears at the corner. Then I ride as fast as I can.

My legs feel too powerful for my body. I stand on the pedals and race the wind, cutting between patches of puddles. My muscles are buzzing, and I cannot decide whether I want to scream, laugh, or throw up.

I beat the first school bus into the parking lot.

Mike is waiting under the big elm tree near the gym. His backpack lies at his feet. His hands are buried in the pockets of a black jacket, and his dark hair hangs over his eyes.

He watches me lock my bike. Mike watches everyone. Most people never notice. I always do.

He gestures to the back of the gym. We walk there without speaking.

The brick wall blocks the wind, but the grass is wet under our shoes. The dumpsters smell like spoiled milk and cafeteria grease. It is where we go when we want to fight without teachers telling us to use our words.

Mike drops his backpack. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Police were at your house.”

My head snaps his way.

He shrugs as if he has only mentioned the weather.

“I saw the lights.”

“When?”

“Late.”

“How late?”

He studies me a beat too long. “I don’t know. My brother woke me.”

Mike’s only brother is older, sleeps in the basement, and stays out most nights. He is almost never home and probably never wakes Mike.

I stare at him.

He stares back.

Mike never appears nervous. That is one of the things I like about him.

“Don’t ask me about it,” I say.

“All right.”

That is all. No demand. No fake concern. No adult voice asking me to describe my feelings.

We walk into school together and separate at my math classroom. The room feels warmer than usual. Too many bodies. Too many voices. I take my seat near the middle and open my notebook.

Joel is whispering to Brandon two rows over. He lives three houses down from us. He definitely saw the police cars.

Joel used to follow me around until I punched him for grabbing my butt. Sometimes he lifts his shirt near the garage and shows me bruises from his father.

John is dead, and Joel’s father is alive. The thought enters my mind before I can stop it. I wonder whether his father owns a gun.

My stomach turns. No. I am not doing this again.

“Erin.” Mr. Harrison’s voice cuts through the room.

I raise my head.

“Since you’re the only one not paying attention, perhaps you’d like to solve the equation.”

A few kids laugh.

Mr. Harrison enjoys embarrassing students because he thinks it proves he is smarter than us.

I walk to the chalkboard. The equation is easy. I write the solution, show the steps, and put the chalk down.

“Correct,” he says, sounding disappointed.

Someone laughs near the back. I turn. A boy I have never seen before sits in the last row. The new kid.

He has dark blond hair, a serious face, and the stiff posture of someone trying not to take up space. A notebook is open in front of him, but he is ignoring it.

His attention is on me.

Most boys stare because they think I am pretty. I know because they get stupid when I catch them.

This boy does not get stupid. He seems to be trying to remember where he has seen me.

A cold feeling moves across my shoulders. I hold his gaze. He holds mine.

I give him the smile I use when I want people to understand that approaching me would be a mistake.

His eyes widen slightly. Then he smiles back. Not because he thinks I am being friendly. Because he knows I am not.

I return to my desk.

“What’s his name?” I whisper to the girl beside me.

“Jeff something. Today’s his first day.”

I check the back row.

Jeff is staring at his notebook now. He does not write a single word for the rest of class.

By third period, everyone knows about John.

Mrs. Sorenson returns our spelling tests. Mine lands face down on my desk. A red D-minus covers the top. I study the words I misspelled. Necessary. Separate. Beginning. Words I know.

Last week, the grade would have ruined my entire day. I would have argued for partial credit or demanded another test.

Today it is only red ink on paper. Last night I killed a man. This morning I still have spelling homework. The difference between those things feels too large to fit in one life.

I fold the test and bury it in my backpack.

At lunch, I sit alone near the exit doors. Mike has an earlier lunch period. The cafeteria roars around me, trays clattering and chairs scraping across the floor.

Two tables away, Sarah Mills leans into a group of eighth-grade girls.

“Joel saw the ambulance,” she says.

Her whisper carries to everyone nearby. “They carried somebody out in a body bag.”

“Her dad?” another girl asks.

“He wasn’t her real dad. I heard Erin pushed him down the stairs.”

“We don’t have stairs,” I say.

The girls freeze.

I stand with my apple in one hand.

Sarah’s face turns red. “I didn’t say—”

“You said Joel saw me push John down stairs that don’t exist.”

A boy at the next table laughs.

I take a bite of the apple. “And John wasn’t my dad.”

“Did he really shoot himself?” someone asks.

The cafeteria quiets around us in pieces. Every face turns to me.

John’s body flashes in my mind, leaning against the headboard. His fingers refusing to close around the gun.

I chew slowly. “That’s what the police said.” It is not exactly a lie. The police did call it suicide. Probably.

I walk away before anyone can ask more. The whispers follow me into the hallway.

Between classes, Mike appears beside the drinking fountain. He reaches into his jacket and tosses me a package of peanut M&M’s.

“My favorite,” I say.

“I know.”

“Where did you get money?”

He smiles. “Crime.”

Normally, I would ask what kind. Not today.

Mike’s attention shifts past me to a group of kids pretending not to stare. “Want me to hit somebody?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

He nods as though I have given him an instruction. He does not ask about John. He does not tell me he is sorry. He does not treat me as if I might fall apart. He gives me candy and keeps walking.

An urge hits me to run after him and wrap my arms around his waist.

I stay where I am.

People get used to being held. Then they panic when the arms disappear.

After school, I avoid the spot at the back of the gym where Mike usually waits.

I need to get home before Meg.

I take the long route past the church. A woman is throwing a plastic disc to a black-and-white dog on the lawn. The dog misses and rolls over itself. The woman laughs so hard she has to bend down.

I stop my bike.

I cannot remember the last time someone laughed like that in our house.

For a minute, I watch them. Then I pedal home.

Mom’s rusted car is in the driveway. Yellow police tape remains tied around one porch railing, moving in the wind.

The house is exactly the same. That seems impossible.

John is gone. The police are gone. Nobody there can hurt Meg. We won. So why am I afraid to open the door?

I leave my bicycle in the yard and climb the porch steps. Before I touch the knob, I glance across the street. A curtain moves in the upstairs window of the house beside Mike’s.

Someone stands at the glass. The new boy from math. Jeff.

He steps back before I can be sure.

***

Jeff’s Journal

February 27

There is one good thing about the new school.

Her name is Erin Peterson.

She is the girl from last night.

I am almost sure.

The taller person in the hoodie moved the same way Erin does, like she expects something to attack her and already knows what she will do when it happens.

A man named John died in her house.

Everyone says he shot himself.

Everyone also says Erin killed him, stabbed him, pushed him down stairs, or burned him alive.

Kids are terrible witnesses.

Erin solved a math problem I could not understand.

She caught me staring.

She smiled at me.

It was not a nice smile.

I still think it was the best thing that happened today.

The large boy from next door is named Mike.

He gave Erin candy in the hallway.

She acted like she trusted him.

I don’t trust him.

I saw him outside her window before the gunshot.

I should tell Dad.

I should tell the police.

I keep remembering Erin checking the bushes while she hid something in the tree.

She was scared.

Maybe she did something terrible.

Maybe something terrible happened to her.

Those are not the same thing.

I have decided not to tell anyone yet.

I don’t know whether that makes me loyal.

She doesn’t even know me.

It probably just makes me a coward.