Chloe watched the back of Mr. Hanson’s head as he disappeared into Principal Chappie’s office. “Screw French. I’m transferring into Spanish.”
“You were bound to waste it on some French Canadian anyway.”
“Don’t you love him?”
Sawyer glanced over her shoulder, caught the last of Mr. Hanson’s dark hair as he disappeared into the office. “Don’t you think he’s a little overeager?”
“Please. Half my teachers don’t even know my first name. Hanson’s like, fresh out of teacher school, or whatever, and still hopeful. He still believes in us.” Chloe batted her eyelashes sweetly.
“Whatever.”
“Besides, I heard he gave Libby a ride home the other day.”
Sawyer unzipped her backpack. “And I’m sure she thanked him appropriately.”
Chloe crossed her arms in front of her chest, bored now. “Are we still on for tomorrow night?”
“You mean our convocation?”
“Ooh, convocation. SAT word?”
Sawyer laughed. “My ticket out of suburban hell. Let me call you about tomorrow, though. Dad and wife number two are finding out the sex-slash-species of The Spawn. I’m sure they’ll want to do something educational and emotionally satisfying out of their Blended Families/Blended Lives book.”
“Ah, another evening rubbing placenta on each other and worshipping the moon?”
Sawyer sighed. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come over and watch your parents’ passive aggression as they avoid each other while showing their extreme disappointment in your choices?”
Chloe folded a stick of gum into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Hell no. Wednesday is fried chicken and mac-and-cheese-as-vegetable night at the double wide. That dysfunction is all mine. And they’re not my parents—Lois and Dean are my guardians.”
Sawyer cocked her head, her arms crossed in front of her chest. “Not mom and stepdud anymore?”
“Hopefully not. Haven’t seen Dean in over a week. And I’m using the guardian thing so hopefully Lois will finally cave in and admit that I’m adopted.”
Sawyer grinned. “Except that you are the spitting image of your mother.”
“Sawyer Dodd, that is a horrible thing to say.”
“Of course. A thousand apologies. I take it back.”
“Better.” Chloe blew Sawyer an air kiss. “I’ll be waiting by the phone with greasy fingers for your call.”
“I’ll have the ambulance on standby,” Sawyer called over her shoulder.
She grinned, watching her best friend skip down the hall. For the first time in what seemed like forever, things felt normal and light again.
“Excuse me.” Logan Haas smiled shyly at Sawyer and she stepped aside, letting him get into the locker under hers. Logan bore the unlucky high school triumvirate of being slight, short, and nearsighted, but Sawyer liked him.
“Hey, sorry,” she said.
Logan stacked his books, slammed his locker shut, gave Sawyer an awkward salute, and headed down the hall, eyes glued to his shoes. Sawyer spun her combination lock and yanked the door open, her lips forming a little o of surprise when she did so. Amongst her neatly stacked binders and books was a short, fat envelope in a pale mint green. Her name was printed on it in a handwriting font. She took the envelope and looked over both shoulders; no one milled about, red-faced or smiling, indicating that they had slipped the note in her locker.
She tore the envelope open and pulled out a matching mint green folded card, a tiny plain oak leaf embossed on the bottom. When she opened it, a clipped newspaper article slipped out. Sawyer didn’t have to read the headline to know what it said: “Local High School Student Killed In Car Wreck.” She swallowed down a cry and read the note on the card.
It said, simply,
You’re welcome.
TWO
Heat, like a live wire, raced down Sawyer’s spine. The note was signed, “an admirer,” and that word, admirer, clawed at her. Her fingers started to shake, and she flicked the note back into her locker and slammed the door shut, pressing her forehead against the cool metal.
It’s nothing, she told herself. Someone probably sent flowers—everyone sent flowers. Each hour after Kevin’s death was reported a new bouquet seemed to show up—gaudy, pitiful, with drooping spider mums and cheap, glittered ribbons in the Hawthorne High School colors. Each bouquet reminded Sawyer of Kevin—especially when they died.
She suddenly hated flowers.
“I’m sure that’s what it is,” Sawyer mumbled.
“Tick tock, Ms. Dodd.” Principal Chappie tapped his mammoth wristwatch as he strode by, giving students his principal snarl and tick-tock warning.
Sawyer hiked her backpack onto her shoulder and stepped away from her locker, but that meager line—“You’re welcome”—was like an invisible string pulling her back. She spun her combination lock and reached for the note, her fingers hovering tentatively over it as though it would burn her. Finally, she snatched it up and tucked the note into her bag, heading toward her AP biology class.