Her name was Ash, short for Aislinn. Her hair was cigarette red and her eyes were bright as justice, and she held the girls at school in her orbit like planets enthralled around the sun.
No one could name why she fascinated us so. Perhaps it was her laugh; perhaps it was her easy disregard for our taboos. Perhaps it was the way death danced in her footsteps: the grandfather who’d committed suicide on her birthday, the Internet stranger who’d left a suicide note in her inbox.
It was probably inevitable that she ended me, too.