Hey, guys, sorry about having to re-post this all again, but it wasremoved from the site and – stupid me – I didn't have a copy of the chapters saved. So this is the same story, just slightly rewritten. Hopefully, it'll only take me a few days to get back up to speed and until then, thank you so much for bearing with me!

It's Not Where You're Going …

"It is with the deepest regret that I must announce to all of you the passing of a respected and loved member of our staff … Archibald Simpson."

It was probably the first announcement in Principal Raditch's career that hadn't been met with cat-calls, laughter, or spitballs. The auditorium, filled to capacity with Degrassi's student body and staff, was eerily silent as they all took a moment to process his news.

Then the murmuring started.

"Oh, my God, can you even believe it?" Paige whispered to Hazel, careful to keep her gaze straight ahead so as not to call attention to them. The last thing she needed was another detention for talking when she wasn't supposed to. "First Jimmy, now this? I don't think Degrassi can handle any more drama."

Hazel nodded her agreement. "It's awful. I thought he was in remission."

"Me, too." Paige shrugged. "I mean, I guess we can't expect a blow-by-blow update, but seriously. He was our teacher. Someone should've told us he was sick again."

A few rows behind the two girls, Craig sat back in his seat, stunned. He'd just seen Mr. Simpson a few nights ago, dropping Emma off at her house after Joey had suggested having her to dinner. He'd seemed fine – cracking jokes about Joey's cooking and how Emma was lucky to have survived.

"Man, this is terrible," Marco commented, turning his wide brown eyes to his friend's shocked expression. "Hey, you okay?"

"Yeah – yeah, I'm fine," Craig replied, digging deep into his backpack for his cell phone. "I just gotta find Joey. He's gotta be devastated."

Principal Raditch cleared his throat to regain everyone's attention. "I'm sure you're all just as shocked and saddened by the news as I was. There will be a memorial service on Wednesday; all of you are welcome to attend and share your memories of Mr. Simpson. His presence will be sorely missed here at Degrassi."

As the students took their cue and began to shuffle out, markedly more subdued than how they'd piled in, Paige halted in her tracks. "Should we do something for Emma?" she asked, thinking of the girl for the first time. "I know when my aunt had breast cancer, everyone she'd ever met sent flowers."

"We could do that," Hazel said. "Or a card or something. God, I wonder how Emma's doing right now."

Paige shook her head, unable to even imagine it. "She must be a wreck."

XXX

She wasn't. Or at least, she was doing a fantastic job of pretending she wasn't. Emma gave herself exactly one hour in which to mourn her loss and when the sixty minutes had passed, she dried her eyes, washed her face, and kicked herself into high gear.

Spike wasn't coping very well at the moment and there were a million little things that needed to be done. Calls to be made, flowers to order, a church to book. It was a sadistic replaying of the wedding planning they'd done only months ago. Emma did the best she could in two days, calling on Joey and Caitlin when reinforcements were needed, and now, with twenty minutes to spare before the funeral, she was frozen.

She'd been cleaning out Snake's desk, trying to get his papers all sorted out before the lawyers dropped by to look everything over, and found a list entitled Things To Do Before I Die in the bottom drawer. It had obviously been well maintained – some items were in ink, some in pencil, notes scribbled in the margins as he thought of more goals. Some were scratched out, including fall in love, get married, and have a family.

Emma could feel the tears welling up at the backs of her eyes as she scanned the unmarked items. Luckily, Spike called to her from the bottom of the stairs. "Emma? You ready? We have to go."

Standing, Emma tucked the list into her pocket and hurriedly reorganized the desk's contents. When she was certain it looked right, she took a deep breath and headed downstairs to bury the only father she'd ever known.

XXX

"Snake took every kid to heart," Joey told the crowd. "That was what made him so special. He thought he'd wasted his day if he hadn't helped at least one of them. He said that was what teaching was all about – seeing the kids' potential, usually before they did, and making sure they reached it."

"He was a good man." Brenda, Raditch's secretary, hurried to the podium to add. "He fixed my computer in ten minutes when the repair company had told me it would take two months. Didn't charge me a blessed cent."

"His was the one class I never heard anyone complain about." Marco, speaking as Class President on behalf of the student body, tugged nervously at his tie. "He made everyone laugh. And he had this way of teaching you something so that you didn't even know you were learning."

A few dozen heartfelt speeches later and it was Emma's turn. She squeezed Spike's hand before making her way slowly to the front of the church, hyperaware of every eye being on her. "Um. Well, first of all, I guess I should thank you all for being here. My mom and I … we, uh, really appreciate it.

"It's funny, though," she continued, "Because I always thought it was just us. That we were the only lucky ones. I mean, Mr. Simpson, he just … he swooped into our life and made it better. Instantly. It's good to see how many other people he touched. He would've liked knowing that he helped you all. He lived to see other people happy."

She nodded, her jaw clenching with unrelieved sorrow. "He lived for it. And I know, seeing all of you here today, he would … he would say it was worth it."

XXX

Hours later, Joey shooed the last mourner out the door, double-checked that Jack was sound asleep in his crib, and kissed Emma good-bye, reminding her that Caitlin would be over in the morning so that she could go to school. She watched his taillights disappear down the street and was just about to close the front door when a familiar figure made his way up the walk.

"What are you doing here?"

Sean hesitated, then stepped closer. "I came to … to offer my condolences," he said, his eyes offering so much more than that. "Is it too late to say I'm sorry?"

The words were loaded with meaning and Emma felt her stomach turn with a sudden onslaught of grief. "I'll pass your condolences on to my mother," she said stiffly, and moved to put the door between them.

"Emma." His foot shot out to block her before he'd even realized what he was doing, just as he'd ended up in front of her house without even being aware of where he was headed. "Look. I know things are different now … I know we're not together anymore, but … if you ever need to talk … I'm here."

Her eyes hardened. "You know what, Sean? It's a little ironic that you're the last person today to offer me a shoulder to cry on. Because you're the last person I would ever go to."

Disarmed by the harshness of her tone, he took an involuntary step back, widening the space between them enough for her to make her move. Letting the words fall between them like the curtain on a final act, Emma closed the door.

She battled back tears, telling herself that they were simply a delayed reaction to the day's events. It was only when she was undressing that the list, crumpled and creased, fell out of her pocket and fluttered to the floor.

Emma picked up the worn piece of paper and read it again. There were a few things that would be hard for her to do – earn a pilot's license, drive a motorcycle, eat Japanese food in Japan. But most of them were relatively simple. See the Grand Canyon, learn to surf, stop traffic by dancing in the middle of Times Square. 'Chicken dance' was scribbled beneath that one, a detail that made her giggle.

Her own words floated back to her. He lived to see other people happy. Mr. Simpson had spent so much of his time bettering everyone else's lives that he hadn't even gotten the chance to accomplish everything he wanted to do in his own. It wasn't fair.

But maybe there was something she could do about it.