I'd never been inside the principal's office, before.

I'd stood outside of it, a couple of times—like if there was a permission slip to hand in to the secretary, or if my mom was signing me out for a dentist appointment. Otherwise, there had never been a reason for me to be here. Until today, I guessed. Or, I knew. I wish I didn't have to.

Within the front office, there was a door. A series of names were posted on metallic plaques beside it—Mr. Howard, the principal, and Mrs. Yang, the vice-principal. The blocky text and gleaming presentation of both clashed with the fingerprint smudges over the letters. It was sort of like the people who bore those names on those plaques were supposed to have prestige, but they'd been stuck in a sort of sanitized, off-white minimum-security prison. Except, the prisoners didn't have uniforms. And wardens had to know, like, calculus or biology. And the food wasn't free.

Maybe I shouldn't have been comparing school to prison.

Anyway, I'd been stalling outside the door to the office for so long that either the door or my eyes were shaking. The frame seemed to vibrate, emitting a sort of speckled halo around the edges. I had to open the door. That, or pretend I didn't hear the announcement to begin with. Except, that wasn't an option, either. I was already here. Shit.

When I opened the blind-obscured door to the front office, I'd expected a noise. My pulse spiked in anticipation, and then, nothing.

I took a step in, then another. The receptionist's desk was empty, and the door to Mr. Howard's office was closed. The sole sign of life or motion was the butterfly screen saver drifting across Mrs. Yang's desktop. Was this a prank? It sounded like a prank. Except, no one would prank me, other than maybe Jared, and I'd literally just seen Jared, so, it wasn't him. I had to wait. I should wait.

I slouched forward, collapsing into myself. I was sure I was choking on my breath when, suddenly, Mr. Howard's door nudged open. The impact shook me, sort of like a thunderclap from lightning that struck directly in front of my nose—instant, dangerous and very, completely wrong.

I flattened my hand against my thigh. My eyes snapped shut for way longer than they should have. When I opened them again, I saw a woman. It wasn't Mr. Howard because... Well, first, because it was a woman. It probably wasn't Mrs. Yang, either, unless Mrs. Yang had suddenly dropped thirty pounds, gotten extensive facial reconstruction surgery, and traded her sea glass earrings out for pearls and a copper bob. Whoever this woman was, she was dressed like a store mannequin outside one of those boutiques at the mall my mom would complain were too 'matronly', but, her clothes didn't age her, really. They just made her look serious.

The woman stepped to the side of the door, holding it open for someone. Her voice was softer than expected, almost quiet, when she said to "come in. Please."

A sudden itch stabbed through my eyes and nose. I raised my palm and turned away, to scrub my eyes and force the feeling down. When I looked back up, she was still standing there, watching. My stomach plummeted enough to make up for it. No choice left. I had to talk.

"Excuse me. I. Uh…" The itching dug a little deeper. I lowered my head and closed my eyes, trying to blink it off, instead. "I was told to go to the principal's office? Mr. Howard's office. Is he, or," I waved at the door, as if my limp, floppy hand was any better at articulating than the rest of me.

The woman let out a breath, then stepped a little deeper into the room. "He thought maybe it would be better if we. Well. If we had a little privacy. Please, sit down."

I wanted to ask who she was. I should have. It wasn't a weird question, usually, unless it was someone you were supposed to know, and legitimately I didn't know who she was, so it would have been fine. It would have been, except I spent so long stalling in the door frame considering how to ask her, that she must have given up. I'd been opening my mouth in what would have been a mangled word attempt when she spoke first. "I take it you're Evan? I'm Cynthia."

With my mouth still open, I rushed to adjust as quickly as possible in an automatic response of. "Oh. Hi. I'm Evan." I was halfway through when I realized that made no sense. I lowered my hand, and my shoulders, gulping to correct myself. "I mean—"

"It's okay," she interrupted, her words level, saturated with false patience. "I'm Connor's mom."

My throat lurched. The half of an uncooked cherry pop tart I'd forced down this morning before the bus to prove to my mom that, yes, I was eating, threatened to burst back out. I swallowed it down. "Oh. Oh, of course. You're. This is about. The thing."

"He already told you?" she asked, surprised. Surprised, but not angry.

"Wait, what?" I wrapped my right hand around the top of my left, hoping to hide the shake in both. "No? Probably? I mean. I don't know what he said, but, I haven't. Wouldn't." The longer I tried to explain, the worse I was at explaining. My eyes shifted to meet hers for just long enough to confirm she was staring at me before I looked away, ducking inwards. "I just. He. He hasn't been here for two days. So, something. I. I'm sorry?"

I'd almost made it through swallowing when, suddenly, something warm hit my back. My neck jerked back, my eyes widened, all fixing on the spot. The woman—I mean, Cynthia—put her hand on my shoulder. She stepped closer to me, blocking the door. I froze. I transfixed on her face, first in horror, and then because there was nowhere else to look.

"No. No, you don't have to apologize. I assumed. I shouldn't have," she corrected. Her eyes were a little glossier, now. Reddened. I hadn't noticed before, but, when she was this close, it was hard not to see the red veins turning the whites of her eyes to pink. "I don't want to impose, either. I know how kids don't like to have parents involved. But, considering the circumstances, Connor's father and I talked and, well. We thought it would be better if you heard this from one of us."

Shit.

Was I expelled? Restraining order? Restraining order might make sense. Zoe was their daughter, and, I was, well... I was myself, and Connor would have told them what happened. They had every reason to want me nowhere near her.

Before she could try to apologize, I interjected, to show I understood. "No, you don't. Don't have to. It's fine. To tell that. And. And I'm fine." I rolled my shoulder away from her hold and stepped back into the wall. Okay, admittedly, stepped was the wrong word. I hit the wall, hard enough to make Mr. Howard's framed 'teacher of the year' plaque slant crooked.

Cynthia took another step towards me, arms outreached. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I denied reflexively.

"Do you want to sit down?" she checked, still upset, but forcefully calm. " It might be better if you sit down."

It might be better if I suddenly had a seizure and no longer had to have this conversation. Since that one wasn't looking like such a great option, I nodded. She waited, watching closely—too closely—until I'd settled on the couch. My right hand fell back onto my lap, tugging my shirt down, again. Only then did she take a seat across the hall.

The silence stretched. Too long, in fact. I wasn't about to crack it, though. If I did, I wouldn't know what to say to defend myself. If I even could.

I wasn't sure how long it was before Cynthia finally raised her voice. When she did, she was so strained that her voice cracked halfway through the sentence. "Maybe he told you already, but, Connor. Well, Connor. He's in the hospital."

Wait, what? What did that have to do with anything? Was I supposed to say something? She was silent, now. I had to say something.

All I had was "I'm sorry." I wasn't sure how I sounded, other than quiet. She didn't move. Nothing was moving.

I swallowed. My grip on my arm tightened. I wasn't sure if I could ask, if it was okay, but, there didn't seem to be another option, so, I had to. "What happened? I mean, that he...?"

She spoke over me before I could finish. "He hasn't told you?" She said, like she was surprised. Why would she be surprised?

"…No?" I meant to ask something after that, but, I couldn't get through the words.

It was hard to tell from the bow in her head, but, from here, I thought the red of her eyes was darkening. She shut them tight, tears leaking from the edges. She paused to dab her eyes before, finally, the words came out. "Connor tried to. To harm himself."

Cynthia looked down at her hands, folding them together. The page in her lap slipped along her legs. She pulled the paper back up into position, into her line of sight. "He wrote this, for you. Before. If you'd like to read it. He had it with him, at the time, when he..." She couldn't finish the thought.

For a second, I wasn't me. Every part of this scene, of me on the couch, fell into a distant blur. I could see her grip the piece of paper and offer it to me. My hand stayed glued to my lap, weighted down, numb. "I'm sorry. I." My eyes drifted across the blur of letters on the page. It started with my name.

Wait. No.

Wait.

That was the letter. My letter. Connor's mom was handing me my letter.

"Wait, this isn't—" My mouth rushed again, trying to get a head start on the rest of me.

"It's okay, Evan. Take your time. Take it, if you're ready." She extended the letter further towards me, onto my lap.

My right hand released my left arm, the tremor shaking through both. I forced my fingers around the edge of the paper, to accept it. Sure enough, it was the same message. Dear Evan Hansen, it turns out today wasn't an amazing day…

I swallowed through the panic. There wasn't time to panic. Except, that didn't keep me from panicking. I raced to speak, the speed and the volume all spiraling from my control, as long as I could say something. "No, not like. It's just. This isn't Connor's."

"You two, you can talk to us. We understand. I know that never sounds right from parents, but, really. We do,"

"I know. Except. This. It's not." There was no space to think, or breathe, or do anything except stress this one point hard enough for her to understand "This isn't Connor's."

She paused, the silence sinking down. "He tried to say the same thing."

"Yeah. Because it's true," I didn't know how else to say it, so, I repeated it. The mantra of the obvious. "He didn't. Wouldn't," have done anything like that unless it was an accident. Or, to frame me, because I was the last straw.

I mean, if I was the last straw, I wouldn't blame him. He thought I was mocking him. How pathetic would anyone have to be to get mocked by Evan Hansen? It was good revenge, too, to out the only thing I might have still had left to get me through the day as me being a total creep.

But, Cynthia wasn't hearing that. "You don't have to lie to me, Evan. Please," she pleaded.

"No, I, really. I didn't," I flinched. "I don't know Connor."

"Your cast. It's his handwriting. I know he thinks I don't, but, I know my son." Her hand outstretched a little farther, taking mine, and the letter, in her grasp. "I don't know how things are for you, or if you're busy. But, it would mean a lot, I think, if you could stop by to visit."

I swallowed. "No. I don't think, that, the. That's a good," idea. It might have been a good way for me to erase that last smudge of a delusion of self-respect I'd been clinging to, though.

I had no chance to say that, first because I lacked the spine, to, and then, because she spoke, instead. "He wants to see you."

My face wrinkled in every direction possible. "He, what?"

"He's been asking for you. For his friend."

That couldn't be right. No way. Definitely. Something was mixed up, and not just the letter—unless Connor wanted a good chance to beat me up. There were lots of weapons in hospitals. Things no one really thought of: IV cords. Syringes. A bed pan and some apple juice, even, if you really thought about it.

I wanted to pull away, but, I didn't. The weight of freezing in place, when fight and flight weren't an option, settled into a dissociative haze. Her fingers stroked the top of my hand repeatedly, trying to project a comfort she couldn't give herself. Her touch felt the same way that pins and needles would—not from acupuncture, but from sitting on a limb the wrong way for so long, it could no longer function.

"I'm sure you're busy, but, if you can make it, we're at Willoughby General. Room four thirty-three. Any visiting hours, please, come. It would mean so much to me. To Connor." She squeezed her hand around mine, one last time, as if trying to pass a sense of hope to me. Instead, my gut found a new spot to sink to.

"To Connor?"