I push the thought out of my head, far out, try to erase even the imprint of it from my mind.
“May.” Lucy squeezes my hand again. “Yo, the bell rang. It’s time to get to class, chérie.”
I’m startled out of my reverie. I glance around the hallway, realizing for the first time that it emptied while I’ve been deep in my own memories, obsessing.
Chim freaks out when she hears the bell. “Shit. I’m going to be late for chem again. Not that it matters; I’m basically failing.”
Lucy rolls her eyes. “So, what, you’re getting a B right now?”
“Whatever. I gotta go.” Chim takes off down the hallway, and I wave to her back, wiggling my fingers like Good to see ya, friend.
“Dude. You are harsh.” Lucy grabs my hand and holds it down near her hip. “She means well, you know that.”
I yank my hand out of her grip. “Yeah. I know. I get it. But, man. Sometimes I want to slap her so bad.”
Lucy snorts. “No shit. I saw you earlier. You need to chill. She loves you—she just doesn’t know what to say.” She considers me. “And you’re lucky that I got here when I did, or it woulda been detention for you, no matter who you are. You know what Rose-Brady said when they agreed to take you here: best behavior.” She taps me on my head between my eyes.
I flare my nostrils. “I know what she said,” I say. I just don’t care.
She leans in and brushes the hair off my forehead. “Hey. You look exhausted. Are you okay?” I nod, cross my arms tight against my chest. Lucy pauses, bites her lower lip, clears her throat. “May. You’re flying under the radar right now, but barely. You know this. I know this. You have to be careful. They aren’t going to keep giving you chances—even with Rose-Brady in your corner—if you can’t control yourself. Okay?” She glances down at her watch. “Shit. I gotta run. I’ll see you at lunch.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek, silent as she walks away. Repeat over and over in my head one of the many mantras the school-appointed therapist, Dr. McMillen, taught me last summer: You are safe. You are safe.
It’s not working. It never works. My heart pounds in my chest and it’s like I’m back there, in that tiny closet at Carter, sitting wrapped in a ball with my hands over my ears, trying to block out all those screams. My brother’s screams. And then after what seemed like an eternity but was probably only a minute, the screams stopped and the silence began, and it was the thickest, most suffocating silence I’ve ever heard.
The last bell rings and I jump. It’s loud and it’s sharp and I swear to god that my eardrums start bleeding, that I can feel the blood trickling down my cheeks, but when I go to wipe it away, I realize that it’s nothing more than my own tears.
I walk into third-period history, which is held in a bungalow behind the school. It sits on the field where the JV baseball team used to practice, before everything here doubled in size and space became impossible to come by. There’s no more JV team. They’ve been axed, just like half of the other shit at this school the administration decided wasn’t important enough to salvage when the Carter kids came. I’ve heard people talking about it in the halls, moaning how unfair it is that we have to suffer just because those kids needed a new place to go.
Which should tell you something about my classmates and how wonderful they are. Just so, so wonderful.
As I move through the room toward my seat, everyone avoids making eye contact with me, per usual. From the far corner, I hear whispers and giggles. The hair on the back of my neck pricks and my skin goes hot. I don’t have to turn around to know who’s talking, or that they’re talking about me.
I’ve begged my counselor only about a thousand times to get me out of this class, but she keeps telling me that it’s impossible, that with the influx of kids from Carter, every classroom is filled to the brim. I suppose it’s an appropriate punishment, in a way, that I’m now stuck in a room every other day with my former friend, Matt, who hates me and, to slam that cherry on the top of the disaster that is my life, is now dating my ex-girlfriend. Which, to be perfectly honest, is sort of my own fault.
I hear more giggles and force myself to keep moving toward my seat. I slump into it and train my eyes on the white board at the front of the room. I just love coming to school, to a place where people used to greet me with high fives and now turn their heads in disgust when I walk by them in the halls. It’s amazing how fast people will turn on you, even after you’ve known them practically your whole life.
Thankfully, Conor slides into the seat next to me a moment later. My shoulders start to drop away from their position near the top of my head. Conor’s the only one who stuck around; the only one who acts like my mom’s decision hasn’t somehow infected me. In part it’s ’cause he wouldn’t know what to do without me, and in part because he knows better than most that the choices parents make sometimes suck a big fat D. About eight years ago, his dad got back from Afghanistan all messed up in the head and his mom decided she couldn’t deal and split. Left Conor living alone with his mostly unemployed, generally drunk dad. He started staying at my house a bunch after that.
Point is: he gets that parents are bullshit. Mine, his—them all.
“ ’Sup, dude.” I nod in his general direction.
“Hey.” He slouches down in his chair and splays his legs out in front of him. I see one of the girls behind us glancing over once, twice, nudging another girl with her elbow and nodding our way. I flush and duck my head. Most likely, she’s thrilled to be back at school after break so she can stare at Conor. Girls love him, even when he’s not onstage singing. Always have, always will. It’s been this way since we became friends in third grade and has gotten even more annoying since freshman year, when he started booking shows with his band.
It’s just gotten a little disconcerting since everything went down with my mom. Since then, people have started staring at me, too. And unlike Conor, I don’t revel in the attention. Unlike Conor, it’s not ’cause girls think I’m hot or mysterious or talented, or whatever they think about him. I’m just…whatever. Normal. Average. I used to be invisible. I miss those days.
The bell rings, and at the front of the room, Mr. Ames clears his throat. Rules and teachers and authority have never deterred Conor, and he immediately starts talking to me.
“You comin’ tonight? To our practice? We’re auditioning new drummers, since f’in’ Lockett went AWOL last week. What kind of monster does that? We have our first gig at the Orion next week, man, and he just up and leaves us ’cause he needs a job or some shit?”
I slide down in my seat as far as I can go without melting onto the floor. Why does Conor always have to draw attention my way? Ames is sending death glares at us as he begins to drone on about whatever the hell is on the syllabus today in dead-European-white-guy history.