Only Summer’s plans were somewhat up in the air. With a 4.0 in a grueling biochemistry major and a near-perfect MCAT score, she had already been accepted to several top medical schools, including Ohio State, Northwestern, and Michigan. But she’d been waitlisted at Harvard—her dream school—and was nervously awaiting a final answer. In addition to her academic stress, she was weeks away from competing in the ACC and NCAA championships, consumed with worry about a lingering ankle injury. During her college career, she had set two school records and become an All-American three times over, but she had yet to win a title. It was a monkey on her back.
The night before her final ever college exam, the two of us sat together on the Rotunda steps, a few yards from her historic room on the Lawn, where only the most outstanding members of our class were granted permission to live. Nursing a Red Bull, she was a basket case of nerves. As I listened to her vent about her microeconomics class, I resisted the urge to say I told you so. Everyone at UVA knew that course was a GPA killer—and there had been no need for a biochem major to take it.
Instead, I told her what I’d been telling her for four years, ahead of countless races and tests. That she was going to kick ass.
She shook her head, tugged on her ponytail, and said, “Not this time, Hannah. I seriously think I might fail.”
“That’s ridiculous. Worst-case scenario, you get your first B,” I said, then reminded her that she had already gotten into three amazing med schools.
“Yes. But they’re not Harvard,” she said.
I sighed, feeling the slightest edge of irritation, then got to my feet, brushing off the back of my cutoff shorts. “All right,” I said. “I’ll let you get back to it.”
She looked up at me and said, “Where are you headed?”
“To dinner with Lainey and Tyson. Then to that lacrosse party.”
A fleeting look of FOMO crossed her face before she said, “Don’t you have an exam on Friday?”
“Yeah. But it’ll be easy.”
“Ugh. I’m jealous.”
“Of my mediocrity?” I joked.
She smiled back at me, then told me to have fun.
—
Late the next morning, I woke up with a mini-hangover, regretting that last wine cooler. I checked my phone and saw a missed call and text from Summer: OMG. I’m so screwed. Call me.
I started to call her back, but a wave of nausea overcame me, and I put my head back down on my pillow. Our usual song and dance could wait.
About an hour later, I woke up and called Summer back. She didn’t answer, so I left a message, showered, and walked to Bodo’s, our favorite bagel shop. I bought two egg sandwiches, then headed to the Lawn and knocked on her door. There was no answer, so I turned to go, but then decided to leave a sandwich on her desk, along with a congratulatory note. Regardless of how she’d done on her final, she was finished with college exams. It was a milestone. Knowing she usually kept her room unlocked, I twisted the knob and pushed the door open.
In what became the worst moment of my life, I looked up and saw Summer, my beautiful best friend, hanging from a ceiling light fixture. Her neck was tied with the orange silk scarf I’d given her for her twenty-first birthday. Her legs were bare and dangling. Her green eyes were open but vacant.
I screamed for help, then called 911. With the operator still on the line, I dropped my phone to the floor and scrambled onto a chair next to Summer. I reached up, frantically clawing at that tight silk knot. All the while, I silently prayed to God, begging Him to save her.
Deep down I knew I was too late, but I refused to believe it. It was beyond comprehension. She was too healthy and fast and strong. She had just texted me. She was going to graduate with us next week. She was going to med school. She was going to be a doctor and save lives. Not die young.
At some point, the quiet boy who lived in the room next door appeared in the doorway. Holy Mother of God, I heard him whisper before grabbing a pair of scissors from Summer’s desk. He handed them to me, and as I used them to sever the scarf, he wrapped his arms around Summer, lowering her to the hardwood floor, where he immediately began CPR.
From there, my memory becomes jumbled, though certain details will be etched in my brain forever. I remember the moment the paramedics arrived and took over, and my wave of foolish hope as I listened to their calm voices and beeping gadgets and the static from their walkie-talkies. There could still be a miracle, I told myself, as I called Tyson, then Lainey, leaving them hyperventilating voicemails. I remember the small crowd that gathered silently on the steps of the Rotunda, staring toward Summer’s room. I remember the sight of Tyson sprinting across the Lawn, stumbling into my arms, gasping for breath. I remember the university security guard who held him back, telling him he couldn’t go any farther. I remember his guttural sobs as he fell to his knees. I remember the sight of that black zippered bag and the panic I felt knowing that Summer’s body was trapped inside the darkness. I remember the sound of the gurney bumping along the brick walkway as Tyson and I trailed behind, clinging to each other. I remember the ambulance—the thud of doors closing and the unceremonious way it pulled out of the lot. Most of all, I remember the deafening silence that followed.
—
Summer didn’t leave a note. She had called Tyson and Lainey—after she called me—but they hadn’t picked up, either, and she hadn’t left voicemails for any of us. The only real clue we had was that final text to me.
I dutifully and shamefully shared it with Summer’s parents when they came to collect their daughter’s body, along with her belongings, but I couldn’t bring myself to admit that I’d waited over an hour to return Summer’s call. When they asked if I had any idea what she had been referring to in her text, the only thing I could come up with was that she hadn’t done well on her exam. I told myself that couldn’t be it, though; nobody was that much of a perfectionist. Not even Summer.
Meanwhile, the tragic news tore across campus like a wildfire in a windstorm. Everyone knew the cause of Summer’s death, but nobody knew why she did it. Tyson, Lainey, and I didn’t entertain those questions or conversations, but the speculation still trickled its way back to us. Some thought it was run-of-the-mill depression. Others blamed it on Summer’s ankle injury and the stress of being a college athlete. Still others wondered if there was a boy or a breakup to blame. Then came the rumors that Summer had been caught cheating on her micro exam. Several classmates claimed that they had seen their professor tap Summer on the shoulder before they both left the room.
After nearly seventy-two hours, the university released an official statement. It was eloquent, expressing the community’s great sorrow, along with its deepest condolences to Summer’s family, friends, and teammates. But it provided no answers. If Summer’s parents were given additional information, they chose not to share it with us.
To this day, Tyson insists that Summer would never cheat. That she was too honest and ethical. But I came to believe that it was the only explanation that made sense. At that point, UVA still had a strict, single-strike honor code, so if Summer had been found guilty, her punishment would have been expulsion. She would not have received a diploma. Her school running records would have been expunged. She would not have gone to Harvard—or any other medical school. In Summer’s mind, her life would have been over before she took it.
—
The following year was a never-ending nightmare. Guilt and grief consumed me. I couldn’t go anywhere or do anything without triggering a memory of something Summer loved. Starbucks. Guacamole. Country music. Baseball. Board games. Black Labs. Eighties rom-coms. Nineties sitcoms. Four-leaf clovers. The color pink. Anything related to running or Chicago or our beloved university.
At least once a day, I had the urge to call and talk to Summer. In those moments, I’d often reach out to Tyson or Lainey instead, but they were both so busy. The first year of law school was grueling, and Lainey was caught up in a whirlwind of auditions and parties in the city that never sleeps.
Meanwhile, I felt like I had regressed to my old life in Atlanta. I went to all the same places I’d gone in high school and hung out with all the same people. Even my job felt depressingly familiar, as I spent forty hours a week peddling overpriced furniture and lighting fixtures to the usual suspects, including many of my mother’s wealthy Buckhead friends.
And then there was my mother herself. For four years, I’d managed to escape some of her daily scrutiny. The distance had been heavenly. But she picked up right where she’d left off with her backhanded compliments and relentless critique of my clothes, hair, figure, makeup, skin, and posture.
She was especially obsessed with my love life—or rather my lack of a love life—and bombarded me with unsolicited advice, which she called “suggestions.” I tried to tell her that I wasn’t in the frame of mind to date—I was too sad—but she persisted, and I continued to jump through her hoops. It was an exhausting cycle.
—
As we approached the one-year anniversary of Summer’s death, I texted Lainey and Tyson, asking if the three of us could schedule a visit. They agreed it was a good idea—that it had been way too long. Lainey suggested some California sunshine. She said her mother would be out of town that weekend, and we could stay at her little house near the beach. It sounded wonderful—or as wonderful as things could be without Summer.
A few weeks later, we all flew to San Diego, then drove to Encinitas. On our first afternoon together, we didn’t talk much about Summer. We just strolled along Coast Highway 101, a lively street flanked by hipster bars and funky boutiques, as Lainey pointed out her old haunts.
“Hey! We should get matching tattoos!” she said, as we passed the sketchy-looking shop that had inked the small Libra scale on the inside of her left ankle. “We could get Summer’s initials.”
“My mother would kill me,” I blurted out.
