Life Is Short and Then You Die by Kelley Armstrong

Author:Kelley Armstrong
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Imprint

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An unnatural hush smothers halls that should be crowded with laughter and reunions and lost freshmen trying to find their classes and fellow seniors counting the days until we can put high school behind us forever. This … pall, that’s the word, hangs over everything. The WELCOME TIGERS sign sags, its orange a little less cheery than most years. Teachers cluster in twos and threes, only a few even attempt to smile.

As I pass, students whisper. “She’s the one…”

“… Mr. Kendall…”

“… can’t imagine…”

Mr. Kendall, last year’s state teacher of the year and the target of my big exposé on student drinking, is dead, and I found his body hidden in the weeds at the top of Suicide Hill.

I hunch my shoulders against the curious stares, but I don’t know what to do with the toxic mix of fear and rage and guilt that bubbles in my veins. I didn’t even like him, so why should his death make me feel so, so bad?

Ms. Compton waits outside her classroom, one of the few teachers who offers a smile as she greets students, though her smile is tense and her greeting is little more than a tight nod. Her welcome speech is almost word for word the same talk she gave seniors two days ago in a painful get-to-know-each-other breakfast. Standard teacher bullshit, but her delivery barely breaks from monotone.

At the end, she gives Ethan the stage and slumps into her chair, as if she has a limited supply of perkiness and now she’s drained. I already miss Mr. Ornelas, my favorite teacher three years running. Why couldn’t he wait one more year to retire?

Ethan’s summer in Europe agreed with him. He’s taller and stronger and more confident than the Ethan of last spring. The Mediterranean blue of his shirt reflects the deep color of his eyes, and he’s tamed his wild dark brown hair into something resembling a modern style. But he hasn’t reined in his nervous energy. His fingers drum on his thighs as he talks.

“So, the first thing I want to say, for those of you who haven’t been part of The Beat before, is that what we do in here is real journalism,” he says.

I glance at Ms. Compton, who’s obsessively rubbing her calves through her long skirt. If we do real journalism, as he says, the story we should be talking about is Mr. Kendall’s death.

Ethan, oblivious, keeps talking. “We hold ourselves to the same standards as professionals, and we have the same protections under state law. The work we do can make a real difference. Like the kids in Kansas a couple of years ago who discovered their new principal lied about her qualifications for the job. Their reporting forced the woman to resign. It made the district look bad, but they did what journalists are supposed to do—seek the truth, report the facts.”

That’s the longest speech I’ve ever heard Ethan make. He sounds so sincere, so convincing. So completely, one hundred percent opposite of how he reacted when I pitched the story about Mr.

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