Chapter 1: River--Monday, June 3, 2024 1 RIVER--MONDAY, JUNE 3, 2024
I drive by the billboard displaying my dead best friend's photo, just like I do every day. It looms above our town's pet groomer's on my route to school, the worst line in advertising history spanning its surface in bold, all-caps letters: DON'T DREXT LIKE DYLAN DID.

"Drext," if it isn't clear, is a combination of "drive" and "text." I'm not sure which Michigan Department of Transportation staff member invented that moronic marketing term believing that they're clever, but if our paths ever cross, I'll make sure to correct their thinking.

Dylan wore his favorite shirt that picture day. I bet even his parents don't know that, let alone the strangers who barely glance at the gigantic teenager staring down at them as they speed by with their drive-through coffees. But I do. They won't realize that the polo is bright red, not depressing gray, because the campaign decided to desaturate the photo.

I mean, I get it. A black-and-white photo is sadder and more ominous than one filled with color, and sad and ominous is exactly what these billboards are going for. Dylan Cooper was the exact opposite of sad and ominous, though. He was happy and magnetic, inspiring and optimistic. He was exactly what every kid should be striving to be more like--not the poster child of reckless teen driving.

My mom overheard me call the billboard "stupid as hell" to our neighbor the week it went up and lectured me on why I shouldn't say things like that out loud to people. They'd think I'm "strange," or "insensitive," or not dealing with Dylan's death in the "right way."

Joke's on her, though, because they'd be correct on all three counts.

Today I don't mind driving by it like I usually do, though, because Dylan's billboard got an upgrade overnight: a Mario mustache, freshly spray-painted right above his big, grinning lips. And while some people might call it vandalism, I'm certain Dylan would be dying of laughter if only he weren't already dead.

Plus, the mustache looks great on him, with his square jaw, dark eyes, and even darker hair thick enough that running a comb across his scalp could have been an Olympic sport (one he never came close to medaling in). He was the type of handsome that would steal your attention from across the room. Add a mustache, and you'd never get it back.

Still, I manage to tear my eyes away and spot that my gas gauge is almost on empty in time to pull into the one station between my house and school. I haven't even set down my can of vanilla-flavored coffee at the register when Roy asks, "Did you see it?"

Roy went to my high school a couple years ago. He used to be our school's mascot before he got busted for selling weed brownies to eighth graders under the bleachers in his Timber Wolf costume. He dropped out a week later and got a job at this gas station, where he still sells weed brownies illegally from behind the register, just not to middle schoolers or dressed as a wolf.

"Are you talking about the billboard?" I ask, as if I don't already know the answer.

Roy nods. "Who fucks up a dead kid's photo? And today?"

He has a point. Because everyone in town would've been upset by the mustache regardless of when it showed up, but the fact it appeared on Dylan's one-year deathiversary will incite enough rage to ensure it's the top-trending topic in Teawood.

Clearly, the vandal wants to send a message.

"I think the mustache is kind of funny," I say, responding to Roy with the exact kind of comment that my mom wishes I'd keep to myself.

Roy stares at me with his big, bloodshot eyes, surprised. "But weren't you two close?"

I nod. "I knew him better than anyone."

Roy scans the gas station to make sure we're alone and leans closer. "Did Dylan have any enemies working at Puparazzi-Ready?"

I open and close my mouth, confused. "Not that I know of. Why?"

Roy's eyes narrow on mine, suspicious that I know more than what I'm willing to share. "It's weird that the billboard just happens to be above the pet groomer's, don't you think?"

I stare back, unsure if Roy is attempting to make a joke or if he genuinely doesn't realize most roadside billboards have nothing to do with whatever business happens to be nearby. Is he suggesting Dylan was really mauled by a freshly shampooed Goldendoodle or something? If so, the staff at Puparazzi-Ready pulled off the cover-up of the century.

"I think Dylan's wrecked car confirms it was a tree on the side of the road that killed him," I sigh, "not a pampered puppy named Spot, if that's what you're implying."

I push cash across the counter and turn to leave.

"To be fair, a tree didn't kill him," Roy mutters with a soft snort. "Drexting did."

I freeze in place, drink in hand, as a bubble of anger rises in my chest.

See? One split-second mistake behind the wheel and a shaming billboard gets to define Dylan for the rest of eternity. A mistake that wasn't even entirely his fault, either.

My mind goes into overdrive concocting the perfect insult that somehow combines cannabis, middle schoolers, and mascots, but before I can get it out, Roy sees the look on my face and regrets going there.

"Bro, I'm sorry," he says sheepishly, "I'm just messing around--"

But I'm gone before he can finish his apology.

I blast off toward school, swallowing my frustrations with my first sip of overpriced canned caffeine. After parking in the student lot, I start walking toward the main entrance of Teawood High School for the fifth to last time, hopefully ever. It's a sprawling, brown brick building perched on a hill, covered in ivy, and filled with Dylan memories that still make every day I have to spend inside difficult.

I feel a pair of eyes glue onto me the second my shoes hit the pavement, and glance up to locate the source of the staring. Jacob Lewis, a quiet gamer who's leaning against the hood of his car, is inexplicably tracking my every move.

He loves comics, as evidenced by the Marvel-themed T-shirts he wears every day, but that's pretty much all I know about Jacob Lewis. His glaring would have weirded me out if it happened before last year, but I've gotten used to people reacting to me in strange ways since Dylan died. Especially after the billboard went up.

In theory, it was supposed to honor Dylan's legacy while encouraging Teawood teens to drive safely. But I think it mostly just keeps the tragic nature of his death fresh in our heads. Instead of remembering him for who he was, the billboard has turned my best friend into a statistic, prompting a wave of speculative questions about his death. Some of the curiosity has resulted in outlandish bullshit--like conspiracy theories involving villainous pet groomers--but even the more grounded questions have been unhelpful at best, slowly turning Dylan the Person into Dylan the Tragedy with each hallway whisper. And as the Best Friend of the Dead Kid at School, I've been roped into the spectacle through no choice of my own.

If the ambulance arrived sooner, would Dylan have survived?

It must have been bad if the Coopers chose to have a closed casket, right?

And the absolute worst one:

Who was he texting when it happened?

I push the questions and Jacob's weird stare aside and slither through hordes of students congregating on the school's sloped front lawn on my way to the steps that lead to the main entrance.

"River fucking Lang."

Now a sparkly jumpsuit slides into my line of vision. Unfortunately, the voice belongs to Goldie Candles.

"Who do you think did it?" she asks.

I take one of my earbuds out and pretend I didn't hear her question.

"I said," she begins again with added sass, eyes piercing me from two steps above, "who do you think did it? And don't even pretend not to know what it is."

I pretend not to know what it is. "I'm not a mind reader, Goldie."

She gives me a look confirming that she knows that I know exactly what it is, but she indulges me anyway. "Dylan's new facial hair."

"Oh." I shrug. "No clue."

She refuses to blink, observing me intently, like she's waiting for me to crack.

Goldie has curly, white-blond hair that reaches her chest, cobalt eyes the size of saucers, and a crackly voice that could carry across the Atlantic. Nepotism provided both her parents with cushy, grossly overpaid jobs with the University of Michigan football team, which explains just about everything you need to know about Goldie Candles--besides the fact that she hates my guts. So I'm not exactly shocked that she seems to suspect I had something to do with Dylan's mustache.

She continues to study my face suspiciously. "Interesting. You don't seem that upset about someone destroying our friend's billboard."

"Should I be?"

"Shouldn't you be?"

"On one hand," I say, "no one should spray-paint property that isn't theirs. On the other, you have to admit that Dylan looks... kind of great with a mustache?"

Her face twists with disgust. "You're a weird dude, River."

I consider the accusation. "I don't disagree."

"You actually do think the mustache is funny, don't you?"

I'm about to answer when Goldie's gaze drifts over my shoulder, begging me to follow it. I give her the win, glance backward, and see Dylan's girlfriend--former girlfriend--Mavis Meyers on the front lawn of the school.

Mavis is standing as still as a statue, her jet-black hair billowing in the breeze the only confirmation that she hasn't turned to stone. With a cluster of girls happily signing yearbooks on her right and wound-up jocks bent over in laughter on her left, Mavis's misery couldn't stick out like a sore thumb any more if she tried. Even from this far away, I can tell her hazel eyes are holding back tears. She's a shell of the girl that existed 366 days ago.

"See? Mavis is in hell today," Goldie says, "as any grieving girlfriend on the one-year anniversary of her boyfriend's death would be. Call me crazy, but... shouldn't people expect the same from his supposed best friend?"

I've been in hell every day since the accident thanks to the billboard, the Roys and Goldies of Teawood, and the brutal injustice of the cosmos.

I turn back around and face Goldie. "What are you getting at?"

She licks her glossy lips. "You're smiling at the thought of Dylan's billboard getting destroyed, and the criminal hasn't come forward yet. What do you think I'm getting at?"

"I wouldn't say it was destroyed. I'd call it an upgrade. A little spray paint couldn't possibly worsen a billboard as terrible as Dylan's."

Her eyes squint into mine. "Well, then, who do you think did it?" She repeats the question, even softer and more menacing. "Because I have a guess."

"Well, I don't." I squint back innocently.

Goldie finally gives up, exasperated. "Just stay away from her. Okay?"

Although Mavis and I haven't spoken in a year, it still stings to hear Goldie request that I keep my distance from the girl whose friendship basically defined my childhood.

I can't let Goldie see me wounded, though, so I laugh. "As if we ever talk anyway."

"I mean, stay especially far away from her today." Goldie looks me up and down. "You already ruined her June third last year, you don't need to do it again."

She flashes a knowing look and barrels past me to Mavis. I take a deep breath and swallow hard, pretending her words don't feel like a punch to the gut. I'd be fine having to deal with Goldie's disdain from time to time, if only her hostility weren't really just channeling the passive rage Mavis has felt toward me since this day last year.

Because Mavis despises me even more than Goldie does, I'm sure of it. She just shows it by adhering to the strictest silent treatment I've ever experienced instead of berating me on the school's front steps.

But honestly? I can't say I blame either of them all that much.

Yeah, I'm the one who spray-painted the mustache on Dylan in the middle of the night, but infinitely more importantly, I'm the reason he's dead in the first place. And Mavis is the only one that I'm certain knows the truth.

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Excerpted from Another First Chance by Robbie Couch
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.