I asked whether I could donate.
“Yes,” she said.
“But it cannot be for Lucas specifically.”
“That’s fine.”
“And if you tell people you did it, I will return the money.”
I almost smiled.
“Also fine.”
I emptied the money I had saved for a new phone into the fund.
It was not enough to erase anything.
It was not supposed to be.
My parents learned about the fund when the counselor asked whether they wanted information about supporting it more broadly.
My mother read the brochure at breakfast.
“How many students use this?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
She looked at my father.
A week later, they made a donation through the school foundation with one condition I insisted on: no Walker family name on it.
My father argued.
“People are more likely to give if they know others have.”
“Then tell them somebody gave.”
He looked irritated.
My mother said quietly, “He’s right.”
That ended the argument.
Lucas found out anyway.
Not the amount.
Just that I had asked about the fund.
He cornered me after science class.
“Was that you?”
I knew lying would make it worse.
“Yes.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“It isn’t yours.”
His eyes narrowed.
“It’s for whoever needs lunch.”
He stared at me for a long moment.
Then he said, “That’s different.”
“Yeah.”
He started walking away.
“Lucas?”
He turned.
“How’s your mom?”
His face closed again.
I regretted asking.
Then he said, “Still coughing.
But okay.”
I nodded.
Two days later, I found a folded piece of brown paper on my desk.
For one terrible second, I thought somebody had copied the note to mock him.
I opened it.
There were only five words.
Stop following me after school.
Underneath, in smaller handwriting:
But you can sit here.
I looked across the classroom.
Lucas was staring out the window, pretending not to watch me read it.
At lunch, I sat across from him.
I did not touch his bag.
