sixty-four things

The morning of the preliminary hearing arrives in no time.

I shower, put on a plain black skirt with a boring grey top, and top it off with the pearl necklace. I keep the makeup to a minimum—a tiny bit of mascara with a shaking hand and a swipe of clear lip gloss. After stepping into some black ballet flats, I am ready.

Grams stands in my doorway, her coat on and purse and keys in hand. She looks as nervous as I feel, though when I take a step toward her, she pastes on a wobbly smile.

"Here we go," I say.

"Everything will be fine," she says, but I wonder if she believes it.

The drive to the courthouse is short. I start to feel sick when Grams pulls into the parking lot. When I step out of the car, someone says my name. I look over to see Mr. Mason getting out of his own car, carrying his briefcase.

"Good morning," I say politely, smoothing my skirt.

"You look very nice," Mr. Mason says. His gaze shifts from me to Grams. "As do you." The twinkle in his eye is unmistakable. I turn to look at Grams as her cheeks turn pink. I can almost sense the chemistry in the air. If my stomach weren't turning inside out at the thought of what's about to happen in the courthouse, I would think it was cute.

"Lil," a voice cries, and Riley runs toward me, her shoes slapping against cement. She sweeps me into a hug, and I squeeze my eyes shut and try to forget where we are, just for a minute. Then she lets go, and I feel a strong hand against my lower back. There's no mistaking it.

Sighing, I let Abbott wrap his arms around me.

"I'm here," he whispers. "We're here for you."

I give him a half smile.

Seeing Jared shuffling his feet, I break away from Abbott.

We all follow Mr. Mason up the steps and into the courthouse, through the high-ceilinged hallway, and into the courtroom, where my friends and Grams take a seat in the back. I sit with Mr. Mason at a heavy oak table near the front of the room.

The prosecutor is sitting at a table opposite us, her hands folded calmly in front of her. She doesn't look our way. Besides her, the room is empty despite one man in uniform standing near a doorway near the back, which I'm guessing leads to the judge's chambers.

I catch the man looking at me, and I wonder what he's thinking. Surely he's heard about the case. He knows what I've done. Is it my imagination, or does he frown at me slightly? In his eyes, I'm probably just a reckless teenager who was swerving all over the road after a stupid breakup with her boyfriend and ended up killing an innocent woman.

Suddenly I want the chance to explain myself to him.

I don't want to be a caricature of a thoughtless teenager. I want him to see me as the human being I am. I need him to realize that, yes, I made a mistake, but I am filled with remorse. I would give anything for Mrs. Edwards to be alive again. Anxious for the hearing to begin, I start shaking my leg up and down until Mr. Mason lightly puts his hand on my arm. I stop jiggling.

"Something wrong?" Mr. Mason leans over to whisper in my ear.

I bite my lip and shake my head.

I am wondering when the judge will show up when Mr. Mason leans over and whispers, "These things never start on time." He pats my hand.

Seeming to prove his point, Judge Farrell doesn't show up for ten more minutes. Mr. Mason nudges me to stand and then gives me the go ahead to sit down once she's taken her seat at the front of the room. I notice she doesn't offer an apology or explanation for where she's been, but I guess when you're judge you don't need to.

Once Judge Farrell has gotten settled, she nods at the uniformed man. Seeming to relish his role in the process, he booms his line. "Case 1034-B, Iowa Vs. Liliana Crane."

My mouth goes dry. That's when it hits me. I'm really here, standing in a courtroom, about to find out whether the judge thinks there's enough evidence to proceed with a trial. And what will happen if she does? I haven't really allowed myself to go there, haven't explored the after in my head at all.

I picture myself in an orange jumpsuit, sitting in a cafeteria, picking at a mound of grey mashed potatoes. Falling asleep every night in a cell, just like I did a week ago, only this time Riley's father won't be there to watch over me. I'll be alone. Totally and utterly alone. In jail. Like my mother.

If you'd have asked me a week ago, I don't think this prospect would have bothered me nearly as much as it does now. After all, there was a sense of inevitability about it, that I'd end up just like Amy. But so much has happened since then. I glance over my shoulder and make eye contact with Abbott, who smiles at me reassuringly.

"Ms. Olson, I'll hear from you first," Judge Farrell says, nodding toward the prosecuting attorney, who stands and buttons her coat.

She clears her throat before speaking. "Your honor," she says, clasping her hands behind her back. "We are here today to see that justice is done on behalf of Pamela Edwards, a doting mother, committed teacher, and pillar of our community."

I study Judge Farrell's face. She is watching Ms. Olson intently, holding a pen, poised to write down anything she might find significant. I think about what Mr. Mason said about her seeming like she already has her mind made up. It certainly doesn't look that way to me.

Ms. Olson continues. "On September 13th Pamela Edwards, a local schoolteacher, stayed at work late to fulfill her duties as the sponsor of the school newspaper. At the same time, the defendant was performing with her band at House of Rock."

I notice how the attorney calls me "the defendant" rather than using my actual name. To do so would be to humanize me. It is better to portray me as a killer, not Liliana Crane, a girl with interests and family and a future.

She goes on. "During a break, the defendant argued with her boyfriend in the back alley, then grabbed his keys and vacated the premises. Several witnesses reported that she was distraught."

Judge Farrell, who had been scribbling something, looks up. "You mean she stole his vehicle? Did he press charges?"

Ms. Olson throws an irritated look to the back of the courtroom, where Jared is sitting. I turn my head to see him staring at the floor. "No. He did not," Ms. Olson says in a tone that makes me wonder whether she had a private conversation with him. My heart swells with gratitude for Jared and a determination that, when I get through this, I will find some way to pay him back for everything that I've done to him. Not just for the car, but the fights and the pain, as well.

"Go on," Judge Farrell instructs Ms. Olson, and begins writing again.

"As I said, there were a couple of college students standing outside the bar when the defendant left. They said she was crying when she drove away. Cell phone records show that her boyfriend texted her while she was driving and she did receive the message. Shortly thereafter she struck Pamela Edwards head-on, killing her instantly. I propose that the fact that the defendant was looking at her phone while driving is enough to invite a charge of manslaughter."

Judge Farrell writes something with a flourish and then looks up. "Thank you, counselor. Are you prepared to deliver your comments, Mr. Mason?"

Ms. Olson takes a seat, and, beside me, Mr. Mason gets to his feet. "Your Honor, there's no doubt that this is a terrible tragedy, but this girl sitting here, before you, Liliana Crane..." He pauses, and I can feel Judge Farrell's eyes flicker over to me. "She didn't mean to end anyone's life. The car accident was simply that... an accident. It could have happened to you or me. You receive a text, you look at it. There's no need to punish the girl further. She's already suffered enough. Believe me. She's racked with guilt over what happened."

With that, Mr. Mason thanks Judge Farrell and returns to his seat next to me. I look down at my shaking hands, willing them to still. The hope rising up inside me is almost painful. It feels like I'm so close to the end of this, and it could go either way. For so long, I didn't want anything. I didn't care about tomorrow because nothing good was going to come of it anyway. But now I feel like there might be something out there for me, if I only reach for it.

Scattered images flash through my mind. The new notebook Abbott gave to me. Mr. Cooper encouraging me to share more of my writing with him. Me singing into the microphone, my voice lifting to the sky.

There are reasons for me to be here.

To live.