Chapter Fifteen

The next morning I received an e-mail from Chill before I went to school. He said that he had read my story and thought it was great. Attached was my manuscript, which he’d fished out of the garbage and scanned into the computer.

It should have made me feel better because it showed me not just that I had support, but that I’d been forgiven. But it made me feel worse.

It showed me just how great a friendship I’d turned my back on. It made me feel more foolish.

I printed off the manuscript and gave it to my parents. They seemed genuinely excited about reading it. I guess you could say that I was wrong about pretty much everything.

When I arrived at school, everyone was gathering in the foyer for the grand unveiling. We were supposed to go to our homeroom classes first and all go down together, but the last day is always chaos. Everyone knows you have to do something major to get in trouble.

As promised, Chill’s mom was there— with a camera crew—looking as beautiful as ever. She smiled and waved. I smiled and waved back, but I still felt too guilty about Chill to enjoy it.

Chill was standing by Ms. Surette, holding the rope they’d hooked up to drop the tarp that covered the mural.

Behind them were the teachers, who also hadn’t bothered to go to their homerooms. In the center stood Mr. Sfinkter, telling his stories. I noticed that this time not all the teachers were listening to him. Some stood apart, whispering to one another, often looking at Mr. Sfinkter as they did.

Chill waved me over, but I shook my head. This was his moment and I had contributed so little that I didn’t want to be a part of it.

He moved toward me, but the bell rang. Ms. Surette grabbed his shoulder.

The principal took his place at the center of the curtain and got everyone’s attention.

“I’d like to thank everybody for coming out this morning, particularly the members of the community, our local news station and our lovely local anchor, the mother of our featured artist,” he said, gesturing to Ms. Holinground. Everyone, especially the boys, applauded.

“Although this was partially my idea, I want the proper credit to go where it’s due, so without further delay, Ms. Surette, the head of our art department.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gondale,” Ms. Surette said, taking the floor. “And I must say, ‘head of the art department’ sounds much better than ‘our only art teacher.’” This got a small chuckle.

“At the end of last semester, Mr. Gondale and I were looking at this large blank wall that welcomes all visitors to our fine high school and commenting that it was a very boring way to greet visitors. So, together, we came up with the idea of getting the students to design and paint a mural.” This meant Ms. Surette came up with the idea but didn’t want to show up the principal.

“I shared the idea with the students, to an enthusiastic response. There were many wonderful and creative entries. Unfortunately I could only pick one, and I felt that this one was the most representative of what we are trying to instill in the students here at Lakeside. But as Mr. Gondale said, I want to give proper credit where credit is due. Our artist, Mr. Chill Holinground,” she said, handing over the floor.

Chill didn’t move to center stage. With the turning of heads and thunderous applause, center stage moved to Chill.

Chill looked at the crowd. His eyes hesitated for a moment on Sara and then moved to me. “For all who dare to dream,” he said, pulling the rope and bringing everything crashing down.