But Hannah had a new strategy. She had made the decision last night as she lay in her darkened room listening to the unintelligible bickering of her parents. She was an outcast now, a pariah; she had to accept that fact and find her people . . . or her person. She already knew someone who was ostracized, pitied, and mocked. She would find Ronni and, together, they would bravely enter the lunchroom, sit at a prominent table, and eat their sandwiches. (Well . . . Ronni would probably just drink vitaminwater but she may have added midday food to her routine since the accident.) If this were a movie or an after-school special, the other kids would be moved by their bravery, touched by the resilience of a friendship that had survived so much . . . but those kinds of kids didn’t exist in real life.
The bell rang and her classmates sprang from their seats and hurtled toward the door. Hannah moved slower but she felt less apprehensive than she had in ages as she navigated the crowded hallways to the counseling suite. It was 11:00 A.M., so Ronni had probably just arrived at school. She would undoubtedly be in Mrs. Pittwell’s office, likely being counseled about the seizure Kim had had at her feet. Hannah could use some counseling over the matter herself.
Tentatively, Hannah knocked on the counselor’s closed door. It was possible Mrs. Pittwell was with another student—there had to be other kids with problems at the school—but odds were none were as critical as Ronni’s. When the door swung open a crack, Hannah saw that her supposition was correct. Behind Mrs. Pittwell’s boxy frame, Hannah caught a glimpse of shiny dark hair.
“Hannah . . .” the counselor addressed her. “Did you want to talk?” There was concern in her tone . . . and pity. Mrs. Pittwell had obviously been made aware of Kim Sanders’s art show meltdown.
“I actually wanted to talk to Ronni,” Hannah said. “I’ll come back later.” She turned to go, but the counselor stopped her with a hand on the arm.
“Come in . . .”
Hannah moved into the stuffy office. Ronni was occupying the only chair, but Mrs. Pittwell offered Hannah her swiveling, padded model. The counselor stood, looming over them like a judge on the bench . . . or God. She smiled benevolently down at Hannah. “Did you want to talk to Ronni about what happened at the art show?”
“Umm . . . not really.” She glanced at Ronni. “I’m sorry and everything, but”—she turned back to the woman standing over her—“Ronni already knows my mom is kind of . . . wound up right now.”
Ronni actually smirked. “Not as wound up as my mom is.”
Hannah chuckled. “I’d say it’s a tie.”
Mrs. Pittwell laughed, too. She seemed positively thrilled by this glimpse of humor.
Hannah spoke to Ronni. “I came here to ask if you wanted to eat lunch today. In the cafeteria . . .”
Something like fear, or dread, or physical pain passed over Ronni’s features. The counselor saw it, too. “I think that’s a great idea,” Mrs. Pittwell seconded.
Ronni’s eyes—eye—darted from Hannah to the counselor. “I usually just hang out in here at lunch.”
Mrs. Pittwell didn’t miss a beat. “I’ve got a dentist appointment at twelve fifteen. I’ll have to lock my office while I’m away.”
Hannah couldn’t tell if the woman was lying to facilitate the lunch date or not, but she could see Ronni weighing her options. “Sure . . . ,” she finally said, though her voice was weak.
Mission accomplished. “Cool . . . I’ve got social studies now, but I’ll meet you in there at noon.” Hannah stood and shared a conspiratorial—or was it triumphant?—look with Mrs. Pittwell. Then she left the closet-like space.
The second bell rang while Hannah was in the hall, but she didn’t rush to class. Since Ronni’s accident, Hannah had experienced a perspective shift. Despite the values her mother had tried to instill in her, getting straight A’s wasn’t actually the most important thing in the world. Survival, that’s what mattered. Getting through the gauntlet of tenth grade with your self-esteem intact was what counted. Hannah wasn’t about to fail any of her classes—she wasn’t even close—but so what if she did? The world would not stop spinning. If she showed up late, or not at all, life would still go on. It was an epiphany.
She headed into the bathroom and moved directly into a stall. As she peed, she let herself feel just a little bit pleased with her accomplishment. Last night, she had set a goal to find a lunch partner, and today, she had brought it to fruition. Of course, things could still go horribly wrong: Ronni might not show; they might be laughed at, or even pelted with sandwiches. . . . But things might go absolutely right, as well. She and Ronni might regain acceptance; they might sidle back into the mainstream, not cool or popular, but accepted. That’s all Hannah wanted now.
Then she heard it: retching. She had thought she was alone, but a few stalls down, someone was barfing. Bulimia was not exactly in vogue at the school, but it wasn’t unheard of, either. Or a student could have been drinking. It was morning, but it had been known to happen. Hannah flushed and hurried to the sinks. She wanted to get out of there before the smell hit.
She was hurriedly wiping her hands on a paper towel when the stall door opened and Lauren Ross emerged. Despite the audible evidence to the contrary, the girl seemed in perfect health. Hannah feared it might be her turn to rush into a stall and void her stomach. This was the first time she had been alone with Lauren since her ugly split with Noah. She was terrified.
Lauren, however, seemed unfazed. “Hey,” she muttered as she headed to the sink.
“You okay?” Hannah asked.
Lauren bent over and splashed water into her mouth. When she righted herself, she was blasé. “Fine.” Despite the unflattering fluorescent lights and her recent sickness, Lauren looked as perfect and polished as always. She moved to the paper towel dispenser right next to Hannah. Hannah caught the waft of alcohol as Lauren dried her hands. That explained it. . . .
Lauren tossed her balled-up towel toward the garbage can, but it landed on the floor. The girl made no move to pick it up but turned toward Hannah and gave her a glassy smile. Hannah’s heart was pounding. This was the pivotal moment that would determine the fate of their friendship. Hannah had decided to embrace her outsider status, had decided to join Ronni as a social leper, but if Lauren threw her a lifeline, she would grab it and haul herself back up the ladder of popularity, she knew she would.
Lauren said, “I heard your mom saw Ronni’s eye and had a breakdown.”
“Kinda . . .”
Their eyes met, and Lauren smiled. “Ronni is pretty fucking scary.”
As enamored as she still was with Lauren, Hannah could not overtly betray Ronni, not now. “It doesn’t look that bad, actually. You get used to it.”
Lauren shuddered to convey that she would never get used to it. Then she said, “Is your mom okay?”
Hannah was warmed by the concern. “She’s fine. She’s just been under a lot of stress.”
“I heard she was like seizuring all over the floor. So embarrassing.” There was no empathy in Lauren’s tone and her lips twitched with amusement. The girl was enjoying this. She wasn’t interested in reviving their friendship; she was only engaging Hannah to mock her.
Anger filled Hannah’s chest, constricted her throat, and colored her cheeks. Lauren was cruel and stupid, and Hannah hated her. But she hated herself more. She had stood there, waiting to see if Lauren would accept her back into her circle. Had Lauren deemed her worthy, Hannah would have jumped at the chance. Was she really that weak, needy, pathetic . . . ? Self-loathing consumed her and made her reckless.