“And I didn’t do anything to help.” Tears well in my eyes so quickly I can’t blink them back.
“Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?” Mom stubs out her cigarette and rounds the table to kneel in front of me, taking my hands in hers.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I guess I was embarrassed I didn’t do anything.”
“Oh, honey,” Mom says, brushing my hair behind my ear.
“You hear about eight-year-olds doing CPR,” I mutter.
“Yeah, and you want to know why you hear about eight-year-olds doing CPR?” Aunt Penny asks. “Because it’s not normal. If it were normal it wouldn’t make the news.”
I think about this a moment, and decide I do love Aunt Penny after all. In fact, I feel so much better having talked about it that I have to wonder why I didn’t say anything sooner.
“You know what the weirdest part is?” I continue. “The guy who died was holding a note with the address for the Black Cat on it.”
Mom’s kohl-rimmed eyes widen. I’ve said too much. Cue the Twilight Zone theme music.
“And with that, I’m out,” Aunt Penny says, standing up. “It’s been a slice. Great to see you, Ind; thanks for the crash pad, Sis.” She gives Mom a wave, which Mom doesn’t even register in her daze.
Awesome.
“It’s a crazy coincidence,” I say, hoping to derail Mom’s line of thought before this becomes a thing. “He must have been on the way to the shop or something.”
“And then just decided to kill himself?” Mom’s eyebrow arches up. “People don’t usually make plans for the future when they’re suicidal.”
I shrug. “Okay, well, maybe he visited the shop earlier in the day, then.”
Mom pauses as if to consider my theory. “Well, I guess that is possible. There have been several new customers in the shop the last few days, but it does seem strange.” She rubs her chin in the absent way she does when her wheels are turning. “Could be jinn,” she mumbles. “But why?”
Yes. I’m sure this is the work of genies.
I stand up and sling my bag over my shoulder.
Mom rises to her feet. “Wait. Where are you going?”
“School. And I’m already running late.”
“Are you sure school’s a good idea, sweetie? Maybe you should take a day off, relax a bit.”
“Game day. Bianca would stroke out if I missed practice.”
“The least I can do is cast a protection spell or a—”
“No, I’m fine, really. No circles or spells or anything, okay? I just want to go to school and get back to normal life. I really appreciate it, but can we talk more later? Please?” I walk around her, but she follows me to the door.
“Well, okay … but you call me if you change your mind and I’ll come right home from the shop. And I’m going to put some thought into that death. Toy around with a few theories. Something tells me there’s more to this story than meets the eye.”
All the way to school, my mind is preoccupied with Leather Jacket Guy. But once I arrive, I’m quickly swallowed by the stream of kids piling up the cement steps and through the double doors of Fairfield High, and it’s hard to think of anything at all.
The corridors are an explosion of voices, laughter, and the metal-on-metal sound of lockers slamming closed; the familiarity is comforting, which is weird, because it’s school.
The morning unfolds as it normally does. As usual, homeroom is so boring I consider plucking out my eyelashes for entertainment. As usual, Mrs. Davies has a breakdown when someone starts a spitball fight. As usual, a crowd gathers around Bianca before math class, hanging on every word as she muses about important topics such as the eating contest that took place between Devon and Jarrod at the In-N-Out yesterday and whether it’s considered cheating that Jarrod puked afterward. As usual, the lunch bell rings at 11:45. I start to wonder if the death really happened, if maybe I had a psychotic break after practice yesterday.
I’m forced to pass Paige’s table on the way to my reserved spot next to Bianca at the Pretty People table. Normally I make a point to check my messages on my cell phone, or chat with a friend, or be otherwise Very Busy so that Paige can’t try to engage me in conversation. But I’ve got my tray of processed cafeteria food in hand and my cell phone is tucked in my purse, so I’m forced to pretend to see someone flagging me down and walk quickly toward my table, waiting for my name to be called out or for a hand to snag my arm. Luckily, I make it past the table without incident.
I risk a glance over my shoulder and find Paige in the middle of an animated conversation with Jessie Colburn, the new girl who transferred from Idaho or Nebraska or somewhere else similarly sucky. Paige whispers something in her ear and Jessie doubles over with laughter.