Now it was not even Thanksgiving, and two students affiliated with Gunn were already dead. Then, a day later, a kid whoвЂ™d graduated from Gunn the year before, Quinn Gens, had killed himself on the tracks. In McGeeвЂ™s third month on the job, about three weeks before CameronвЂ™s death, a girl from a local private school had jumped off an overpass. Twelve percent of Palo Alto high-school students surveyed in the 2013вЂ“14 school year reported having seriously contemplated suicide in the past 12 months. School counselors remained вЂњoverwhelmed and overloadedвЂќ with an influx of kids considered high risk, says Roni Gillenson, who has helped oversee GunnвЂ™s mental-health program since 2006. While the intervening years had been quieter, they had not been comforting.

Another recent graduate had hung himself. Starting in the spring of 2009 and stretching over nine months, three Gunn students, one incoming freshman, and one recent graduate had put themselves in front of an oncoming Caltrain. The 10-year suicide rate for the two high schools is between four and five times the national average. That morning the school districtвЂ™s superintendent, Glenn вЂњMaxвЂќ McGee, called Kim Diorio, the principal of the systemвЂ™s other public high school, Palo Alto High, to warn her, вЂњThis is going to hit everyone really hard.вЂќ McGee was new to the district that year, but heвЂ™d known the history when he took the job. The kids were usually вЂњsilly and joyful,вЂќ she later said, but that period, they were вЂњutterly and completely silent.вЂќ She then asked how many had been in a class with him, and everyoneвЂ™s hand went up. In her creative-writing class later that day, Tarn Wilson asked how many people were friends with Cameron, and a third of the students raised a hand. He must have sent the text only a few hours before he died. Cameron had gone to tryouts for varsity basketball but hadnвЂ™t yet gotten his required physical, so he had asked whether Alex thought he could get in to see the doctor the next day. He thought about a text Cameron had sent him the day before. The principal, Denise Herrmann, stopped him and told him, because she knew he was one of CameronвЂ™s best friends, and he fell to his knees. AlyssaвЂ™s first thought: Is there another Cameron Lee at our school?, because the one she knew was popular and athletic and seemingly unbothered by schoolwork, an avid practitioner of the annoying prank of turning peopleвЂ™s backpacks inside out.ДЄlex Gil got to school a little late that day and saw people crying in the hallways. The teacher read a statement containing the words took his own life last night, and then a name, Cameron Lee. It was November 4, 2014, a few days after homecoming and maybe a month before college applications would start making everyone crazy. After a few minutes the teachers filed out, each holding a sheet of paper, none talking. Gunn High School, about 1,900 kids waited. Through the windows, they could spy the teachers packed in there. Now one of them, Alyssa See-Tho, was waiting outside the choir room for first period to start. In many parts of town, you can hear the warning of a passing train just about everywhere: the quad at Palo Alto High School the tables at PiazzaвЂ™s grocery store, where kids from Gunn High School hang out after school the kidsвЂ™ bedrooms after midnight.ДЄ few students had gotten in early to take some photos dressed as Scooby-Doo characters, part of an annual volleyball-team tradition. A bee goes in search of jasmine, stinging no one. The air is again still, like it usually is in spring in Palo Alto. вЂњEw, how old is that gum?вЂќ вЂњThe quiz is next week, dipshit.вЂќ On the road, a minivan makes a left a little too fast-nothing ominous, just a mom late for pickup.

All at once life revives: a rush of bikes, skateboards, helmets, backpacks, basketball shorts, boisterous conversation. Then the gate lifts up, signaling that itвЂ™s safe to cross. The alarms ring and the red lights flash for a few seconds more, just in case. The kids wait until the passing train forces a gust you can feel on your skin. But a Caltrain at a crossing registers more like an ambulance, warning you fiercely out of its way.

A Caltrain coming into a station slows, invites you in. Too fast to see the faces of the Silicon Valley commuters on board, only a long silver thing with black teeth. Five cars, double-decker, tearing past at 50 miles an hour. The kids on their bikes who pass by the Caltrain crossing are eager to get home from school, but they know the drill. First, from far away, comes a high whine like angry insects swarming, and then a trampling, like a herd moving through.

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