I sit at my desk and stare out at the sunset for a second. It’s been a strange, quiet weekend without Olivia and Juniper. The solitude doesn’t feel good—it aches—but what does feel good is having told them how I feel. Having laid my insecurities bare for once.
I cap the Sharpie, place it beside my poster, and slide back from my desk to admire my handiwork. I’m not the most artistic person, but I’ve made enough posters for clubs that I’m used to designing them. A MAN WITHOUT A VOTE IS A MAN WITHOUT PROTECTION, this one says. LYNDON B. JOHNSON.
They’ll take the vote on Thursday, and the results will come in on Friday. Mom asked me earlier why I wasn’t running. After all, Claire, if you want something done right . . .
I couldn’t explain it to her. Elections aren’t like a sport, where you practice until you improve. Some people are blessed with innate likability, and let’s be honest: nobody’s winning a high school election without it. Me winning a popularity contest? Laughable.
I was a mess in middle school. More of my face was acne than clear skin. My braces went on in sixth grade and didn’t come off until sophomore year. My clothes clung to awkward places on my body, as if they’d been stretched over a poorly sized mannequin.
Things are better now, but I’m still not class president material. Politicians have to be stately. Not short and tactless and a size ten.
“Dinner,” comes Grace’s voice from the bottom of the stairs.
“Coming!” I yell back, but my phone buzzes. I check it—the number of texts from Olivia has grown since morning. And now four missed calls top the list.
I nearly called her and Juni today, but I chickened out. I kept thinking about that look on their faces, the exasperation. It stings to remember. That’s me: a frustration waiting to happen. They probably wished they’d never told me about Lucas.
Still, that’s a lot of notifications.
“Fine,” I mutter to myself, and I unlock my phone. Olivia’s texts pop up in a long line.
12:38 am: Hey Claire. Juniper’s in the hospital right now. I’m at her house cleaning up with a few people. Her parents are there with her.
Something seizes in my chest. I sit up straight, thumbing downward. God, I leave them alone for one night, and this happens?
2:24 am: Her parents texted me and said it looks like she’s going to be all right.
2:32 am: I’m heading home
11:08 am: Claire? It would be good to hear from you
1:54 pm: So she got discharged. I heard from her mom and J is “drained and irritable” but doing fine, she’s going to sleep it off. Might miss school tomorrow but they’re not sure. I’m going to visit her tonight after dinner if you want to come with.
My mind spins. My first instinct is to jump in the car and drive to Juni’s house. A call is the least I should do.
But a tiny, hidden part of me whispers, Don’t bother. From this text saga, it’s clear she’s all right. This is just another story to tell, just another bad night.
I read and reread Olivia’s texts. In the end, I set down my phone without replying.
WHEN I POKE MY HEAD AROUND JUNIPER’S DOOR, she’s propped up in a mountain of pillows, reading a tattered copy of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.
“Hey,” Juni says, sliding a bookmark between the pages. She looks normal. I don’t know what I expected—for her to look like a disaster, suddenly, now that I know about her and Mr. García? But no. People don’t change because you learn more about them. Even the ones you think you know are brimming over with foreign matter in the end.
“You’re still in bed. You feeling okay?”
“I’m completely fine, but Mom hasn’t let me leave my room.” She flicks her hair out of her eyes. “She’s acting like I’m dying of consumption or something.”
“Alas!” I fake-swoon onto the bed. “If consumption taketh thee, I shall perish from grief!”
“Yeah, don’t perish or whatever.”
“Your concern is overwhelming.” I sit back up, bracing myself. Nothing for it. “So. What was that about, last night?”
“What was what about?”
“The . . . why did you lock yourself in?”
“No reason. Drunk and stupid, I suppose,” she says without a flicker in her expression. I didn’t realize how good she was at lying.
I avoid her eyes, my thoughts cluttered with ridiculous theories I cooked up in a sleepless haze last night. (What if this has been going on since freshman year? What if Juni has a second cell phone stashed in her toilet tank, like on Breaking Bad? What if Juni is secretly fifty years old?)
I remember the day of the assembly—her wide-eyed expression as she sat beside me. I’d assumed it was shock, but now, in my mind’s eye, it looks like fear.
“Is something up?” she asks.
My heart flops in my chest like a dying fish. I grope around for words. How do I phrase a question this potentially life-ruining? “Yeah. Can I talk to you about a thing?” I say, keeping my nerves out of my voice.
“Of course. What’s the thing? Are you all right?”