If two trains are travelling in the same direction

It was a Sunday morning just a couple of weeks before school let out for my sophomore year.
I was still asleep when my mother and my sister came into my bedroom, my mother was carrying the Detroit News.
My mother said there had been a very bad accident involving three kids from my school, and she was wondering if I knew any of them.

She started reading the names.
I never opened my eyes.

Art Pa ...
Art Palazone, yes I know him.
He was the driver, he wasn't hurt.
Randy Op...
Randy Ophiara, yes I know him.
His arm was broken.
Joe De...
Joe Debonnville, yes I know him, he's in my English class.
He died at the scene.

My mother and my sister stood around, I guess they were waiting for some kind of response from me.
I didn't have any.
I just laid there in bed, the covers pulled up all the way, my eyes still closed, really not thinking or feeling anything.

I had known all three of them since 7th grade.
I knew Art and Randy to maybe nod at in the hall.
Joe I knew a little bit better, we had sat next to each other in Mr. Shoemaker's 8th grade math class.
I'd help him with answers every once in awhile, really not that much, but I guess he appreciated it, because after that whenever we ran into each other he would tell everyone that I was the reason that he passed 8th grade math. I would usually roll my eyes and say something like "yeah, right."

At school the next day it was quiet.
It was subdued.
It was sort of like the day we went back to school after President Kennedy had been killed.
The story circulated in hushed tones, from group to group.
There had been a drag race.
Art had lost control of his car when another car pulled out from a side road.
His car hit a tree.
The three of them managed to get out of the car.
Joe was up walking around.
Then he started coughing up blood, and he fell over dead, just like that.
Fifteen years old, and dead just like that.

There was no announcement over the PA before classes started.
Miss Cobb, my English teacher, Joe's English teacher, tried to say something, but broke down in tears.
There were no grief counselors, there was no time off to go to the funeral.
Dead at fifteen and all he got was his English teacher breaking down when she tried to say his name.
Joe DeBonnville, dead at fifteen.
Forty years later and he's still Joe Debonnville, dead at fifteen.