AN: Please, no reviews. So much has happened, I had to get it down. Names have been changed, hence the ()

AN2: Title is a song from Radiohead.

Street Spirits

So I made it.

My sophomore year was over. And though I should be happy that I received straight 100s in both my art and computer technology classes, my mind can't help but travel to all that has happened in the past few months.

People who should be graduating this year won't be. A friend who should be here with me isn't.

The first shock that I remember quite clearly was hearing how a fellow student two grades above me murdered his stepfather and tried killing his mother. I remember seeing on the news where it happened, the greedy hungry look in the reporters' eyes as they talked about how much blood had been spilt by an unknown senior at Harlington High . I had shut the television off, thinking how could someone do that? And the next day at school I was one of the many making snide comments about kids who snapped…

And then I finally realized who the guy was.

I recognized his face immediately, his school picture plastered on the front page screaming to the world. He worked at the local grocery store, and was undoubtedly the nicest and most polite guy in the planet. People would joke with him, say that he looked a lot like Abraham Lincoln and he's laugh with them. He'd give money to friends when they needed it…nothing was wrong with him.

And I felt sick, because I knew he was best friends with one of my good friends. And that his home life was quite literally 'the shits'. He wanted so badly to move with his father, but his mother and stepfather (who undoubtedly had beat him since childhood) kept him, locked like an animal. And he snapped. I'm not going to say what he did was right, because killing isn't. He was 18. He could have left. I just wish he would have had the strength to keep going. He should be graduating, not sitting in jail for the rest of his life.

That day, more kids made a mockery of the entire thing. They posted his picture on the walls with the caption, "Free Rodney Smith () ". I was one of the few, with Rodney's friends and tearful girlfriend, to rip them down of course.

And after a couple of days he became forgotten. The shooting became another distant memory in the past. Several days earlier, I saw his senior picture in the yearbook. Next to it, was a baby picture just like everyone else's. I had to slam it shut. None of what happened should have gone done.

I ended up drawing him in my pad. He's one of many ghosts I keep, reminding me the past is real after all. Taking that sketchbook out, I flip through and I find a pastel drawing of my best friend Beth (). I feel my eyes water instantly, but I won't allow myself to cry.

Beth was undoubtedly my long-lost sister. We did everything together, liked the same guys, the same music--everything. Even teachers started mixing our names up. And with this friendship, we shared things. I told her I used to have an eating disorder, and she told me she thought about suicide before. But we were both okay then. I knew what her home-life was like. Her father was never around, her mother always screaming at her, playing favorite child with Beth's younger sibling. But Beth kept straight A's, did track with me, did everything in spite of that. When I could feel her getting frustrated (she always kept everything in) I made her vent. And I thought things would be okay for awhile.

One particular night after coming back from our last track meet, we literally had a blast. We laughed until we cried, robbed dolls from a claw machine, ate until we thought we'd burst, shoved each other out into the aisle of the bus (which was the source of the laughter in the first place) and had a water fight.

Everything was perfect.

Beth went home that night and almost jumped out her second story window.

I came to school that day and saw her sitting. She looked so tired, and I didn't think anything of it. She handed me a note and whispered, "Ange, read it in private, please."

My alarm system went off, and I thought it was a note from the guy I was crushing on. I asked her that, too, and she looked at me sadly. I shut-up, and practically ran to the bathroom. I knew there was something wrong, but I never realized the reasons until I read the note.

It was her suicide letter.

Help, me, please…

My hands tremble as I think of her words. I ran back to get her, and we went to the bathroom. I hugged her as tight as I could and we both cried. I was shocked, and my heart ached for her. I kept thinking about how close I came to turning on the news and finding my best friend dead. I looked at her, and did the hardest thing a friend could do. We went to guidance. I stayed in the room, bawling silently while Beth cried and told the stoic counselor what she almost did.

It's been a month. She was institutionalized.

People asked me for days what happened, but I couldn't tell them. They figured it out eventually, but sure as hell not from me. All it led to was me having another cry-fest. But now, just like Rodney, I feel as if I'm the only one who remembers Beth…

I flip the pages of the book, and come across the last one. It's not even finished yet. Tonight was supposed to be the commencement practice for the seniors. Tomorrow is the actual ceremonies. And because of what happened several hours ago, two more graduates won't be there.

There was car accident, killing the passenger and injuring the driver. I came across this on the TV too. I panicked, because I have a lot of senior friends. They announced the dead boy's name, and I came to find I didn't know him. But even then, as I was picturing an individual with a blank face, I felt sorrow. He was supposed to graduate tomorrow, and his life was supposed to be just beginning. Instead, his life had ended.

They then announced the driver, and I thought I would fall off my bed. His name was Bill (). We sat next to each other in precalc class. He was smart, quiet, had a funny smile. He'd let me copy off his tests (which is the only reason why I passed) and I woke him up every time he fell asleep from boredom. I kept him from getting detentions, and he kept me from failing.

Then one of my other senior friends was there at the scene, holding two roses and crying and I lost it. This was reality. My mother saw this and she started lecturing me about car safety, and at that moment I wanted to scream…instead I listened, while the tears flowed freely, went to my room, and started drawing.

Bill is going to live. But the guilt will kill him anyway. And because he was driving 92 mph in a 45 mph zone, presses are going to be charged.

This year…was bitter. I can't help but think if my 10th grade year in a small town witnessed this much tragedy, how life is going to be in the real world. It scares me.

I stare at my drawings, the ghosts and the memories.

And I close the book.

RIP, Vaughn. I'm so sorry B.A.F. And, B.H., have strength. God, watch over R.S.