“Yeah, it makes her look almost lifelike,” Wick says, and immediately the tips of her ears go pink. She glances at me and I try and fail to squash my smile.
Usually, Wick never volunteers anything. Mostly, she stares at me like she can’t quite figure out why I exist, so I want to press this further, but there’s another sob from outside—Jenna again. I jerk my attention to the windows. “I always thought they were frenemies. I guess she really was close to Tessa.”
“What do you mean?”
Shit, she doesn’t know? I roll the question around, my answer around, and come up with jack. Wick’s mom was a jumper, committed suicide maybe a year or so before I moved in, which basically means I’ve inserted my foot so far into my mouth I could kick my own ass.
I swallow. “You don’t know?”
“Know what?” Her voice goes hard and high.
“Tessa jumped off a building.”
“Tessa jumped off a building?”
“Yeah, it was early yesterday.” Can we say tactless? The past three years Wick and I have had classes together, done a couple of projects together, even sat next to each other on a field trip, and I’ve tried to talk to her about everything—anything—and I’ve never gotten past what report’s due next or what homework really sucked. Now, when my first opportunity arrives, I tank it. I stifle a sigh and pass one hand over my face, shake my head.
“There has to be some sort of mistake.” Her voice is climbing, step by step. I recognize the tone. I’ve heard it so much from my mom that it feels like something that belongs to me, not to Wick.
“That’s not what Jenna’s saying.”
Maybe it would help if I showed her? Sometimes that works with my mom. If she sees the actual bill, it scares her less than what’s in her head.
I pull out my phone, open the app to show her Jenna’s Facebook page. Wick looks at the screen, eyes going glassy as my stomach sinks.
“She says Tessa committed suicide,” I say carefully, eyeing the other students filing into the room. Their eyes are pinned to us and bright with interest.
“No.” Wick bounces to her feet, sways. “You’re wrong—she’s wrong. There has to be some mistake.”
Crap. She’s freaking and I don’t know the words to calm her. When it comes to Wick, I never know the words. She makes me stupid.
Stupider.
“Wick.” I stand, ready to . . . actually, I have no idea. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t think. Please. Sit down.”
I take one step toward her and there’s no response. I take another, but she’s still staring into space, breathing like she’s sprinting.
“Wick? Wick!” I wrap my fingers around her wrist and the contact is an unexpected jolt. My breath catches. “Are you okay?”
Wick’s eyes flick to mine and something nameless inside me shifts.
“What’s going on here?”
I bite down a swear. It’s Mrs. Lowe. She shoulders between two wide-eyed tenth-graders and grabs Wick by the sleeve. “Miss Tate, are you sick?”
Wick goes even paler.
“It’s my fault.” I shove myself between them, my shoulders so close to Wick I can feel her gasp against my spine. “I told her about Tessa.”
Mrs. Lowe pauses, squeezing her eyes shut like she’s biting down her own swear.
“You poor thing.” She peers around me to get a better look at Wick. “I guess you would’ve found out sooner or later. Principal Matthews didn’t want to break it to everyone like this, but Miss Maxwell’s already told half the school. Here. Sit down.” She cranks Wick around by the arm and shoves her into a seat, holding her down with one hand. “You look horrible.”
Wick blinks. “I’m—”
“You look like you’re about to have a panic attack.”
“No, she’s just . . .” I trail off. To be honest, Wick does look like she’s about to have a panic attack. Or vomit. I don’t understand. This is the girl who slashes tires. I’ve never seen her so shaken.
“Is it a panic attack, dear?” Mrs. Lowe’s face is now inches from Wick’s. “Do you need a paper bag?”
Wick’s mouth moves, but nothing comes out. She’s still frighteningly pale, and yet there’s something about the way her eyes begin to snap into focus—
“Yes, ma’am,” Wick says at last, her voice barely above a whisper. It’s so pitiful, and at the same time, her hands have closed into fists. She puts one against her breastbone, rubbing in a tight circle like she’s struggling to breathe.
“Yes, I am.” Wick leans ever so slightly away from Lowe. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Do you want to go to the nurse?” our teacher asks.
Wick shoots to her feet, wobbles, and I close my hand around her elbow. The sharp point fits my palm and all I can feel is her heat.
“I’ll go with you,” I say.
Wick’s light eyes swing to mine and it feels like a punch. This isn’t the girl from the parking lot, the girl I’ve had class with for the past three years. This is something—someone else.
She jerks her elbow away. “I’m fine.”