“I’m not going to sit in your class, Hope,” she says, guessing my train of thought.
Ethan saunters up and pulls me into a huge bear hug that lifts me off my feet. I’m too stunned and horrified and embarrassed to be thrilled at the body contact.
“Hey, Mrs. Callahan,” Ethan says when he sets me on my feet again. “How are you?”
“Ethan,” I interrupt, “my mom is coming inside.”
“What?” Ethan looks between the two of us, a frown pulling down his eyebrows.
“I won’t get in your way,” Mom says. “It’ll be fine.”
Realization dawns on Ethan’s face. A long beat later, he says, “Well…that’s great.”
Yes. Great.
The only thing better would be if Mom carried me around in a pouch on her body like a kangaroo. She’d love that.
The bell rings.
Ethan offers me an uncertain smile, and we start up the rock-lined path toward the school.
At first I think it will be okay. Mom hangs back, and nobody seems to care. Other than Hartley, I don’t see any of the other dare-club girls. Not that it matters. No one’s going to come up and talk about our dangerous midnight rendezvous in front of an adult, right?
We breach the front doors, and a cold sweat breaks out on my brow.
There’s a weighted silence between Ethan and me as we walk toward my locker, each of us all too aware of Mom standing within earshot behind us. I long to tell him about the invitation, the dare, the strange gift on my bed, but I can’t do any of that with Mom following us.
“The nurse’s office is this way,” Mom says. “I’m not following you.”
I give a barely perceptible nod, as if I can trick anybody into thinking she’s not with me. And who knows, maybe I can. She was a young mom, and with our signature ash-blond hair and nearly identical height, we’ve been mistaken for sisters before. That one time.
At my locker I hear a flurry of whispers, and when I look for the source, I find Josie Benoit and Sadie Fortier giggling with their eyes trained on Mom. Those two have been laughing at me since I transferred here three years ago. You’d think they could find something other than the sick girl to entertain them, but they still find it funny to cough behind me in the halls.
Sadie slaps the arm beside her, and that girl turns to look too.
Farrah.
I give her a small, awkward smile, and her lips turn down. Despite not being overly enthused to see her either, I can’t help feeling slightly offended. It’s not like I expected us to be sudden BFFs or anything just because we hauled a girl to the hospital together, but still, where’s the solidarity?
And then Farrah’s gaze shifts, and she realizes what Sadie was pointing out: Mom. Now Farrah’s lips pull into a mocking smile. A wave of embarrassment crashes over me, quickly followed by guilt, then anger. Mom’s here because she cares about me; how dare they laugh at her?
Screw solidarity. Screw what anybody thinks.
I level them with a glare and slam my locker closed. “You know, Mom? I think I’ll come with you to the nurse’s office.”
Mom leaves before the first bell rings.
First period goes off without a hitch, but the principal calls me to his office between first and second to go over details about my return, so that by the time I walk into AP history, everyone is already in their seats and Mr. Crawford is deep into his lecture. There’s a round of stifled giggles when I enter, and suddenly I just know that (a) word has spread about Mom, thanks to Sadie and Co., and (b) I’ll be telling this story to a therapist later.
Remember, you don’t care what they think anymore.
“All right, quiet down, everyone,” Mr. Crawford says. “Miss Callahan, take your seat.”
Thirty pairs of eyes follow me as I make my way to my desk.
In the front row I spot a familiar face: Nikki. The last time I saw her, she was bumping into the hospital in a wheelchair. Her back is rigid, and her right arm is wrapped in a cast and held to her chest by a white sling; her road rash has expanded into a blackish-purple welt, and there are dark rings under her eyes. I can’t believe she didn’t take the day off.
Nikki catches sight of me and turns sharply, painfully away.
I take the empty seat next to none other than Tucker St. Clair, returning his bald-faced stare with a glare of my own.
“As I was saying, this is an important day,” Mr. Crawford says. “I mentioned a midterm assignment at the beginning of the year that will count for thirty percent of your grade. Well, the time is upon us.”
A round of groans passes through the room.
“You will be doing this project with a partner,” Mr. Crawford says over the noise.
The groans turn into cheers. Panic slices into me.
“Yes, a partner,” Mr. Crawford repeats over the chatter as students excitedly pair up with their best friends. Crap. I slide down in my chair.