Usha has painted over the mural, and I still haven’t been able to undo the rumor of my supposed suicide. The next morning dawns, and the only not-so-terrible news is that Mr. Fisk has left the drop cloth up to let all that white paint dry. I don’t have much time left until the mural is really and truly gone, only a day or two more when people will pass that drop cloth and think of me. There’s no more time for half measures. I decide to inhabit Chris Rackham, the roundest of the well-rounders, class president and likely valedictorian. In class, I try to keep a straight face as everyone, including the teachers, turns to me for the answers. When I was alive, I rarely participated in class discussions. It seemed like such an act, so obvious what the teachers were waiting to hear, so easy to say the words to please them. But, hey, I’m a well-rounder now. I’ve always had the answers; now I may as well give them. And everyone is glad that things have gone as expected. Funny that I am not unglad about this.
