Simon Sort of Says: (Newbery Honor Book)

by Erin Bow

“Do you remember the shooting? Two years ago, at Eagle Crest Elementary?” “Of course,” says Agate. “That one’s famous.” “It was me.” My voice comes out in a croak. I’m not pedaling anymore. My arms are trembling under the weight of my upper body—locked in place but shaking like they’re about to buckle. “No,” she says, her feet slowing down. “That one was an adult intruder. Also I think in that one he killed himself at the scene.” Emus slide by us, majestically. They make weird booming noises, like my heart in my ears. “There was a kid,” I say. “In that class. All the kids were jammed in the supply cabinet at the back of the room and when the guy opened the cabinet door they all fell out and one kid ended up on the bottom of the pile of—And he played dead. There was a kid who lived.” Agate stops pedaling. She wiggles a second and shifts her hips higher into the air. I would say I can tell she’s thinking hard, but I think she’s always thinking hard. “And that was you,” she says. “You were on the bottom of the pile.” I was on the bottom of the pile. I can’t breathe. If I didn’t already have my knees elevated, I’d probably pass out. “You know, Simon, I don’t think it’s good that you said that all in the third person,” Agate says. “You should discuss that with your trauma specialist.” I boom like an emu. So much like an emu that the nearest one bends slowly down to look at me. I see its red-brown eyes and black brainless head framed between my ankles. I drop my feet and it hops...