“Sweetheart—”
But Simone shook her head fiercely, moved another step away from her mother’s tired face with its nicks and bandages. “I’m not going. Mi— They’re operating on Mi. I’m not going.”
“Sweetheart,” Tulip tried again, “there’s nothing you can do here, and—”
“I can be here.”
“Nat, do you remember where we parked the car?”
“Yeah, Dad, but—”
“Take your mom out.” He passed Natalie the key. “You two go out to the car, and give me and Simone a minute.”
“Ward, the girls need to be home. They need to be away from here.”
“Go on out to the car,” he repeated, even as Simone sat again, her arms folded in a picture of defiant misery. He pressed his lips to his wife’s cheek, murmured something, then sat beside Simone.
“I know you’re scared. We all are.”
“You weren’t there.”
“I know that, too.” She heard the misery in his voice now, but shook it off. Pushed it away. “Simone, I’m sick and sorry about Tish. I’m sick and sorry about Mi. I promise you we’ll check on Mi from home, and I’ll bring you to see her tomorrow. But your mother needs to go home, so does Natalie.”
“Take them home.”
“I can’t leave you here.”
“I have to stay. I left them. I left them.”
He pulled her to him. She resisted, tried to yank free, but he was stronger and held her until she broke.
“I’m sick and sorry about Tish and Mi,” he repeated. “And I’ll be grateful for the rest of my life you weren’t in the theater. I need to take care of your mom and your sister now. I need to take care of you.”
“I can’t leave Mi. I can’t, I can’t. Please don’t try to make me.”
He might have, and Simone worried he would have, but as she pulled back from him, CiCi rushed in.
Long, flying red hair, a half-dozen strings of beads and crystals around her neck, a swirling blue skirt and Doc Martens sandals.
She scooped Simone up, enfolded her in yoga-fit arms and a cloud of peachy perfume with just the faintest hint of marijuana.
“Thank God! Oh, baby! Oh thank every god and goddess. Tulip?” she demanded of Ward. “Natalie?”
“They just went out to the car. Tulip got a couple of bumps and scrapes, that’s all. Nat’s fine.”
“CiCi will stay with me.” Simone turned her lips to her grandmother’s ear. “Please, please.”
“Sure I will. Are you hurt? Are you—”
“He killed Tish. Mi—they’re operating.”
“Oh no.” CiCi rocked her, swayed her, wept with her. “Those sweet girls, those sweet young girls.”
“Dad has to take Mom and Natalie home. I have to wait here. I have to wait for Mi. Please.”
“Of course you do. I’ve got her, Ward. I’ll stay with her. I’ll bring her home when Mi’s out of surgery. I’ve got her.”
Simone heard the snap of steel in CiCi’s words and knew her father had been about to object.
“All right. Simone.” He cupped her face, kissed her forehead. “You call if you need me. We’ll pray for Mi.”
She watched him go, slipped her hand into CiCi’s. “I don’t know where she is. Can you find out?”
CiCi Lennon had a way of getting people to tell her what she wanted to know, of doing what she thought they should do. It didn’t take long for her to lead Simone up to another waiting room.
This one had chairs with pads, sofas and benches, even vending machines.
She saw Mi’s parents, her older sister, her younger brother, her grandparents. Mi’s father saw her first. He looked a thousand years older than he had when they’d picked up Mi for the movies.
He’d been working in his front garden, she remembered, and had waved them off.
He rose, walked over with tears swirling in his eyes to hug her.
“I’m so glad you weren’t hurt.” His English was perfect and precise, and he smelled of freshly cut grass.
“I left them. I had to use the bathroom, and I left them. Then—”
“Ah. I’m glad for it. Ms. Lennon, it’s kind of you to come.”
“CiCi,” she corrected. “We’re all family now. We’d like to wait with you, send all our healing thoughts and lights to Mi.”
His chin wobbled as he fought to compose himself.
“Simone, my treasure, why don’t you go sit with Mi’s mom?” She put an arm around Mr. Jung’s shoulders. “Let’s take a little walk.”
Simone went over to sit by Mrs. Jung. And when Mrs. Jung gripped her hand, Simone held tight.
She knew CiCi believed in vibes and light and burning sage and meditation. And all sorts of things that made her daughter roll her eyes.
Simone also knew that if anyone could make Mi be okay through sheer force of will, it was CiCi.
So she clung to that just like she clung to Mi’s mother’s hand.
CHAPTER THREE
When CiCi came back, Simone got up so Mr. Jung could sit next to his wife. Before she took another seat, Mi’s sister, Nari, took her arm.
“Help me get tea.”
Simone went with her across the big room to a counter with pots of hot water, coffee, tea bags, and disposable cups.
Nari, slim, studious, in her second year at MIT, efficiently set up a cardboard tray. “They won’t tell you.” She spoke quietly, giving Simone a long look—dark eyes through the lenses of dark-framed glasses. “It’s bad. Mi was shot three times.”
Simone opened her mouth, but no words came out. There were no words.
“I heard one of the police talking to a nurse after they took her to surgery. She lost so much blood. She’s so tiny, and she lost a lot of blood. Will you go with me to give blood for her? It might not go to her, but—”
“Yes. What do we do? Where do we go?”
Because she was a minor, Simone needed CiCi. They took turns because so many people were doing just as they were.
Simone looked away before the needle went in because needles made her feel a little sick. She drank the little cup of orange juice after, as instructed.
On the way back, she told CiCi she needed to use the bathroom.
“I’ll go with you.”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll be right there.”
She wanted to go alone, mostly because she needed to throw up the orange juice.
But when she went inside she saw a woman standing at one of the sinks, crying.
Tiffany’s mother. Mrs. Bryce had been her seventh-grade language arts teacher. That same year—and everyone knew—Mr. Bryce had divorced her to marry the woman (lots younger) he’d had an affair with because the woman was pregnant.
Simone realized she hadn’t thought of Tiffany or Trent—the boy she’d thought she loved.
“Mrs. Bryce.”
Still sobbing, the woman turned.
“I’m sorry. I’m Simone Knox. You taught me in middle school. I know Tiffany. I saw her tonight before … Before.”
“You were there?”
“With Mi-Hi Jung and Tish Olsen. In the movies. They’re operating on Mi. She got shot. She got shot. He killed Tish.”
“Oh God.” They stood, tears streaming. “Tish? Tish Olsen? Oh God, oh God.” When she threw her arms around Simone, Simone clung to her.
“Tiffany’s in surgery. She … they can’t tell me.”
“Trent? She was with Trent.”
Mrs. Bryce stepped back, pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, shook her head. “I’ll pray for Mi.” She turned back to the sink, ran water, splashed and splashed it on her face. “You’ll pray for Tiffany.”
“I will,” she promised, and meant it.
She didn’t need to throw up anymore. She already felt empty.
In the waiting room she fell asleep with her head in CiCi’s lap. When she woke she stayed curled there, her mind so foggy it seemed a thin layer of smoke blurred the room.
Through it she saw a man with gray hair and blue scrubs talking to Mrs. Bryce. And Mr. Bryce, she realized, and the woman he’d gotten pregnant and married.
Mrs. Bryce was crying again, but not the way she had in the bathroom. She had her hands clutched together in her lap, her lips pressed tight, but she kept nodding. And even through the layer of haze, Simone saw gratitude.
Tiffany hadn’t died, not like Tish. Not like Trent.
Mi wouldn’t die, either. She couldn’t.