“Oh.” She hesitates, taking the spoon out of her coffee. “Well, I’m taking you. There’s no need to disrupt her schedule. She’s got finals too, you know.”
I sit back in my seat. It was all I could do to drag my mom there last time to show her the campus during my interview, but now she’s suddenly interested in coming? “Alex Burke is in jail, Mom. I’ll be perfectly safe.”
“I wish that was more reassuring.” She bunches a napkin on the table in front of her and I wonder if she senses my own lingering unease. “But I want to come to support you. You’ve made sacrifices for that scholarship other kids would never make. Did they say what the problem was?”
“There’s some confusion about my eligibility,” I mumble, not wanting to explain the whole thing about Gretchen where other people might overhear. “Anyway, it’s faster to drive than take the bus. Dina said it wouldn’t be a problem.”
“Sonia, I want to go with you.” My mom reaches across the table and touches my hand. “Look, I’ll admit, I’ve never really understood you and Dina. When you set your sights on a goal, you don’t look back until it’s yours. I guess I just never found anything I needed that badly.” She shrugs. “It might not be what I would choose, but you’ve worked so hard for this, I want to see you succeed.”
I’m not sure what to say. I look at our reflection in the big pane windows. My mom always says I’m a picture of Dina, but my nose and mouth are hers. Still, there’s always been something very different about us. I think it’s because she fits here, at the diner. She’s as much a part of it as the vinyl booths, checkered floor, and shining chrome—things that make me claustrophobic in a way I can’t explain.
Still, she’s never made an effort to understand or support me like this. My chest feels tight. I wish I knew where this was coming from.
I clear my throat. “Thanks, Mom. Maybe Dina will let us borrow her car so we don’t have to take the bus.”
She gives a slow nod. “How are you feeling? About this arrest?”
“Okay,” I say, trying not to think about the picture or the postcard. “He had Gretchen’s Mercedes—that says a lot.”
“It does.” Her voice is strained, but she manages an encouraging smile. “I want you to get this school stuff sorted out. You can’t feel guilty forever. You’ll still go on with your life when this is over.”
I sink in my seat. I wish hearing her say it out loud made it easier to believe.
She studies me with kind of a far-off look. “I never thought I’d say this, but after the past few weeks, I guess you leaving town isn’t the worst thing that could happen.”
My breath hitches, but when I meet her eyes, they’re clear. “No, I guess it’s not.”
TWENTY-SIX
FINGERS CLOSE AROUND MY THROAT, long and frozen, winter choking spring. I don’t gasp, I can’t struggle. I’m already dead. My neck snapped so long ago, I only thought I was still breathing. Water rushes over my face, covering me like a shroud, but then I surface, I see a face—and I’m under the waterfall, under the crush of nature. The hands holding me under aren’t hands, it’s water, seventy-five cubic feet per second, and I was wrong about the breathing, and now I gasp, but the air crushes out of my chest. I can’t move. My lungs fill with ice. All I can do is stare.
I bolt out of bed and across the room, clinging to my dresser. My hands shake, I lift my chin and stare into the mirror, and that’s when I notice my hair, shirt, and pajama pants are all drenched in sweat. I move toward the door to tiptoe down the hall, wash this all away with a hot shower. But I gag at the thought of standing under the water spray, letting it run over my body. I change my clothes, climb back into bed, and shiver beneath my sheets.
A picture . . . a postcard . . . if I don’t figure out who sent them I’m afraid to find out what’s next.
TWENTY-SEVEN