“Mark Twain, right?” Harry said after a moment.
“Yeah.” In her surprise Zoe forgot herself and looked at Harry.
“Okay, point taken,” he said. “Don’t look at me. But we’re going to have to write the damn thing sometime. How about tomorrow? I have an appointment right after school, but I’ll be home by four P.M. Come to my place. I live in West Atherton. I have a closet that you can keep your head in the entire time if you like.”
For a millisecond Zoe nearly laughed. Then she remembered that she couldn’t go to Harry’s. She’d probably have a panic attack right there on his doorstep! The whole thing was ridiculous. She was going to make a fool of herself.
But, because she just needed the conversation to be over, she shrugged and said, “Fine. Tomorrow after school at your place.”
She’d figure out a way to get out of it later.
*
Zoe was on her way to math when she heard her name in the corridor. She assumed she’d misheard, that someone had called “Chloe” or “Joey,” but when she spun around, Mrs. Hunt, the school principal, was looking at her.
“Can you come with me a minute, please?”
Mrs. Hunt wore a strange smile that might have been concealing anger or even sadness. Zoe’s stomach plummeted. Her mom.
“I … I have to get to class,” Zoe stammered, overcome by an urge to flee.
“It’s all right,” Mrs. Hunt said. “I’ll give you a pass.”
So Zoe had no choice but to go with her, into her office.
“Have a seat,” Mrs. Hunt said when they got inside. Zoe did. Her hands were shaking and she found herself holding her breath. “Zoe, your mother called me and told me about her cancer. I’m so sorry.”
Slowly she started to breathe again. Her mom must have been alive to make the call. And yet she was surprised her mother had thought to call the school to tell them this. Especially since she hadn’t done Zoe the same courtesy.
“Thank you.”
“I want you to know the school will support you through this. My door is open for you any time, and so is Mrs. Logan’s.”
Mrs. Logan, the guidance counselor. Zoe had seen her once during her first semester, a standard visit after her mother had explained about her social anxiety disorder. Mrs. Logan was the brand of therapist that just sat there and waited for you to talk. Perhaps not the best strategy for someone with a pathological fear of talking to people.
“Thank you,” she said again. She should have felt relieved. Her mother wasn’t dead and she wasn’t in trouble for skipping school. Still, she felt wary.
“Zoe, I also mentioned to your mother that we have a therapist working at the school at the moment who has extensive experience with teenagers. I wondered if you might like to talk to him.”
“Oh, thanks but … I think I’m okay.”
“You don’t have to talk to him about your mother’s diagnosis if you don’t want to. You could talk to him about anything. Issues with friendships. Problems at home. Anything at all. He’s right next door, you could see him right now—”
“Thanks,” Zoe interrupted. “But I’m fine.”
“All right,” Mrs. Hunt said, standing. “But if you change your mind, just say the word.”
Zoe let herself out of Mrs. Hunt’s office. As she got a pass from the desk she stole a glance into the next office, where a man sat in a swivel chair, typing. He was pretty old, maybe sixty, with grayish black hair. Perhaps feeling her gaze, he glanced up as she walked past his door.
Zoe felt a strange pulse of energy.
“Here’s your hall pass, Zoe,” the secretary said.
“Oh,” she said. “Thanks.”
She shoved the pass into her pocket and let herself out of the office. But as she took off down the hallway she had the weirdest feeling that she was being watched.
27
Everyone was in a hurry that afternoon. Kids charged through the school gates, backpacks slung over one shoulder, walking briskly or running. Eager to get home. Zoe was just as eager. She was almost at the gate when Sonja appeared beside her.
“Zoe?”
Zoe’s breath vanished. “Uh … yeah?”
“I’m here to take you to the hospital.”
Zoe took a step away from Sonja, even as she reached for Zoe’s bag. “Can I help you with this?”
“It’s okay,” Zoe said, moving farther away. She wanted to ask what had happened to Judy, but she couldn’t seem to find the words. Thankfully Sonja imparted this information voluntarily.
“Your mom has made alternative arrangements for you,” she said, and Zoe felt a wave of gratitude. Her mom was going to take care of things. Everything was going to be all right.
“My car is over here.”
Sonja’s car was ridiculous. Zoe wasn’t exactly a gear-head, but you could tell, even from the smell, that it cost. Cream leather seats, shiny brown dash, and a perfume smell that gave Zoe an instant headache. On TV and in movies, social workers always seemed to drive beat-up cars and smoked and had purple hair and a long list of atrocities committed against them, which had driven them to the job in the first place. Sonja seemed to defy every one of the stereotypes.
“Well,” Sonja said once they’d been on the road a minute and it was obvious Zoe wasn’t going to speak. “How was last night?”
“Fine.”
“And you liked Judy?”
“Yes.”
Sonja tapped the steering wheel with pale pink fingernails. Her little finger, Zoe noticed, was chipped, the nail torn to the nail bed. It was an unexpected chink in her perfect armor.
“And how are you doing?” Sonja said. “You were quite upset yesterday.”
Zoe turned to look at Sonja and met her eye. She quickly looked away again, but not before she saw something else in Sonja’s eyes. She actually cared.
“I’m okay,” Zoe whispered.
The small talk was painful. Zoe pretended to look out the window as if she were fascinated by the streets she walked along every day. If Emily were here she’d be babbling about anything—hair products, the assignment she got today, the leather seats of the car. The fact that Zoe couldn’t find a single word to say was just lame. She was lame.
When they reached the hospital they walked in silence through the lobby and into the elevator. The awkwardness was painful, but Zoe was buoyed by the fact that she would soon see her mom. The prospect of relief from the last twenty-four hours was making her woozy. Her mom was going to fix everything.
“Which room is it?” Zoe said when they came out of the elevator.
Sonja gestured and Zoe began to run. But when she rounded the corner to her mom’s room, she stopped dead. There was a nurse in there, changing a bandage around her mother’s middle. The bandage was caked in dried blood. A lot of blood.
“Oh,” Zoe said.
Her mom rolled her face toward the doorway. “Mouse!”
She looked awful. Tired and puffy and not like herself. Her hair, usually bouncy blond and tousled, was limp and desperately needed a wash. Her skin was pale and entirely free of makeup. She looked like a different person.