She sank down on the floor under the sink farthest away from the door, hugging her knees to her chest. The floor was cold, which was good, because Grace was fairly sure that her skin was on fire, and also, her hand was throbbing. Punching someone in the face, it turned out, hurt like hell, and she pressed her knuckles against the tiled wall, hissing a little.
It was hard to catch her breath. Like it had been when Peach was being born, like her body was working separately from her brain, and she closed her eyes and tried to breathe. The room was cool and quiet and there were probably twenty people now looking for her, but Grace didn’t care.
She just wanted it to stay quiet.
After a few minutes, the door swung open and a boy walked in. Grace had never seen him before, but it wasn’t like she had been super present during her last few months at school.
Either way, it was pretty obvious that the guy wasn’t expecting to see her on the floor.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know that anyone was . . .” he said, then glanced back at the door. “Wait, is this the girls’ bathroom or . . . ?”
Grace shook her head, still crying. She hadn’t even realized she was crying, but her cheeks were wet and her hair stuck to them when she moved her head.
“Are you . . . ?” The boy backed up, then took a step forward, a slow-motion cha-cha. “Shit, I’m sorry, I’m so bad when people cry. Are you . . . okay?”
“I’m fine,” Grace said, and apparently it was Opposite Day in her head, because fine was definitely not the word to describe her at that moment.
He continued standing by the door. “I’m not calling you a liar or anything, but you don’t look fine.”
Grace started crying again.
“What’d you do to your hand?”
“I punched Adam Dupane in the head three times,” she told him. There was no way to make it sound nicer than that, so Grace didn’t bother trying. It wasn’t like he wouldn’t find out, anyway. There was probably already video online. Grace was going to get expelled, she realized, and was surprised by how nice that sounded to her.
“Wow.” The guy’s eyes widened. “Well, I don’t know who Adam Dupane is, but you seem like a nice person, so he probably had it coming.”
“He’s a dick,” Grace said.
“A total dick,” the guy agreed. She couldn’t tell if he was humoring her or teasing her, but Grace didn’t care.
“Um, you probably need to put something on that,” he said, motioning to her swollen hand, then set his backpack down and pulled some paper towels off the machine and ran them under the cold water. “Here.” He passed them to Grace. “It’s not exactly an ice pack but it’ll help.”
Grace just stared at him. “Who are you?” she finally asked. Her nose was starting to run and she felt disgusting and snotty—and embarrassed for feeling disgusting and snotty.
“Oh, sorry. I’m Raphael. Raphael Martinez. But you can call me Rafe, you don’t have to be, like, formal or anything. I’m very nonthreatening, don’t worry. Well, I mean, since you’re the one who just punched someone, maybe you’re not worried. Maybe I should be worried. Trust me. I’m a total wimp.” He wetted another paper towel as he talked, then passed it to her. “I mean, I faint at the sight of blood, I really do. Not exaggerating. Hey, can I ask you a question?”
This Rafe person was making her head start to spin. “Yeah?”
“What is that terrible smell in here?”
“Formaldehyde.” Grace wasn’t sure when she had stopped forming complete sentences. “Dead cats. Next door.”
“Anatomy class?” he guessed.
She nodded.
“Got it.”
Grace winced as her hand throbbed under the cold towels. Everything hurt now—her head, her arm, the base of her spine—and she tried to keep from tearing up, with no luck.
And Rafe, Hero of the Day, flipped the lock on the bathroom door and came to sit down next to her. Grace could tell that he was being very careful not to touch any part of her, and for some reason, that just made her sad. “So,” he said conversationally, like they were talking about the weather, “Adam’s a dick.”
“Max just sat next to him the whole time and didn’t even say anything,” Grace said, and she wasn’t crying again, not exactly. Her face was just wet and there was a lump of something terrible stuck in her throat.
“I know,” Rafe said with a sigh. “What an asshole.”
“You don’t even know who I’m talking about!” Grace cried. “Why are you agreeing with me?”
“Well, you’re sad,” Rafe said, sounding a bit confused. “Do you want me to argue with you? Because I will if it’ll make you stop crying. Here, okay.” He cleared his throat. “You are so wrong. Adam’s the best.”
“No,” Grace sniffled. “I just . . . I just want to be quiet, okay?”
“Got it,” he said. “Whatever you want.” But Grace couldn’t stop hearing that baby noise, the very first sound that Peach had ever made, a battle cry that had somehow triumphed over everything else, including her heart, and when Grace started crying again, Rafe carefully leaned his body toward hers so that their shoulders were touching.
He was very, very quiet.
Grace lost track of how long she sat on the floor and cried, but after a while, there was a knock at the door and someone saying, “Gracie?”
“That’s my mom,” Grace explained, wiping at her eyes.
“Are you in trouble?” Rafe asked. “I’ll hide you in a stall if you want.”
Grace suddenly wanted her mom so bad that it hurt. “No, you can let her in,” she said. “It’s okay.”
“Oh, honey,” her mom said when she saw her. “Let’s go home.”
And that was the last day of Grace’s junior year.
MAYA
After meeting Joaquin, Maya had a hard time sleeping.
Our foster mom found out that she was gay so she kicked her out.
Bio always trumps foster.
And yes, Maya knew that she was adopted, not fostered, that she had been adopted out of the hospital, that her parents had chosen her, wanted her. That’s what they always said, that she was chosen because she was special.
And yet, she wasn’t Lauren.
Three a.m. would come and Maya would lie awake in bed and watch lights from the cars outside pass across her ceiling, lighting her room before it fell dark again. She would look at websites on her phone. (She had done the “Which Hogwarts House Do You Belong To?” quiz at least three times, and got Hufflepuff each time, which infuriated her.)
Then she would scroll through old messages from Claire, emojis and xoxo’s and notes that were so private that Maya would throw her phone into a toilet before she let anyone read them. She would look at the very end of the messages and hope that the little bubbles would pop up that meant Claire was texting her, that she would somehow know that Maya was alone in the world and that the middle of the night felt lonelier than any other time of day.
But of course Claire was sleeping, and it was stupid to be upset about it. Claire needed to sleep. Maya needed to sleep. She could feel the sleeplessness starting to unravel her brain like a kitten with a blanket, pulling at important threads until it wasn’t even functional anymore. She had fallen asleep in history class two times that week, which, to be fair, probably had more to do with her history teacher’s nasal, droning voice than with her exhaustion.