The news about you touched every person on our side of the track that night. We’d been in school together since our 10-person kindergarten class. I remember that night through snapshots: Jordan lying on the track, Malcolm punching the metal bleachers out of frustration and my mom somehow ending up by my side with her face scrunched up in sadness. My memories of the night from that point forward are blurred, like my vision was as soon as those tears started flowing. I realized everyone was wearing this expression due to something far worse than simple muscle cramp pain. Then, I heard those two words: "committed suicide." You were a mutual friend to all of us, sure. I remember being confused when I heard your name between gasps and sobs. Had he caught a cramp? Had he sprained an ankle on the last sprint?īy the time I got on the rubber track, others were there, wearing the same pained expression. My joy turned to worry when I realized he wasn’t wearing an expression of triumph or celebration. Then, I remember noticing that my friend Jordan was crumpled into a ball on the track, right there in lane three, about 20 meters from the finish line. I remember being excited about hitting my personal best on the second leg of the girls’ race, and being even more excited after learning the boys beat the other schools by a large margin. We had just finished running the 400-meter relay race under the bright lights of another Friday track and field meet. It’s been five years, but I still remember that night like it was yesterday.
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