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  That doesn’t surprise me. The gray sky has enveloped the sun and despite it only being four thirty, the streetlights have already switched on. Nothing like perpetual twilight to send you into a major depression. “Does that mean you’ll be picking up extra shifts on that floor?”

  “If we need the …” She restarts as if I don’t know our financial situation. “If I can avoid it, I won’t.” She finally lets go of her cone with one hand and rubs the base of her neck. “That’s actually part of why I wanted to talk to you.”

  Ugh. That was the wrong line of small talk. I lock eyes with Dora, desperate for any escape into a chalked world. Her theme song ear-worms through my head.

  Ice cream drips down the side of Mom’s cone. She licks the spot not once, but three times before continuing. “Maybe I’ve been working too much. Since going back full time, I haven’t had a chance to check in with you as often.”

  Come on, Thea, get to it. How does Dora stay upright with a head that big?

  “We never really talked much after Grams passed away, and maybe I’m not the one you want to talk to about her. But Dad is in no place to … well, let’s just leave Dad out of the equation for now.”

  You can do it. Can I Dora? Can I really do it? My fingers tighten around my cone until it begins to crack. She’s bringing up Grams? And now Dad? Next, she’ll bring up how their marriage is crumbling.

  I pour my attention into the map Dora holds in her hands. Go through the small talk, endure the funeral, to get to the main event.

  “But you need to talk with someone. And after what happened on Monday morning, I think this is the right time to start.”

  And there it is. At the mention of Monday, I’m pulled out of my childhood sequencing lesson. My brain rewinds the last sentence it heard from Mom. “What happened on Monday?”

  She reaches across the table for my hand and tilts her head. “For more than a minute, it was like you left us. Your body flinched backward and you were gasping for air.” She waits, searching my face, but I give her nothing to confirm or deny this.

  “And when you came back, your eyes held this fear. Darker and more painful than any of the panic attacks you’ve had this past year.” She thinks this was another panic attack. But a dark one?

  When Mom and Dad went back to fighting that morning, I assumed my zone-out had been forgotten. Some glitch to my neural circuitry she had sloughed off as within normal limits. At least normal-ish. For me. But it wasn’t. Even by Mom’s standards.

  No wonder she’s been checking in on me in the bathroom, texting me throughout the day, popping in unannounced before bed. She thinks I’ve cracked. That I’m one step away from swallowing pills or cutting myself. Wouldn’t surprise me if she’d had someone follow me on my run yesterday. I can’t tell her—or anyone else—what happened. Next thing you know I’m going to be under house arrest.

  Sticky cold trickles down my knuckles. I should lick, but my mind is a cyclone of thoughts. What am I supposed to say that will help her realize I’m not crazy? Because I’m not. Right? Nothing happened. “Mom, it was nothing.”

  She glances between my cream-coated hand and the napkins and lowers her voice. “I scheduled you an appointment for this Saturday.”

  “For this Saturday?” Let’s not waste any time by—oh, I don’t know—asking me if I want to go. She hasn’t even questioned me about what I believe happened. Whether I think that whatever it was warrants therapy.

  “It’s with someone I greatly respect.” She picks up a napkin and starts to dab at the stream now traveling down my wrist. Apparently, there isn’t going to be any discussion. She must have decided this on Monday. Or maybe even before that. And I gave her the right motivation to move full steam ahead.

  I swipe the napkin from her hand and crumple it in my fist. I could try to argue, but there were sprinkles for a reason. I press my tongue firmly on the top of the scoops, sending drips down all sides of the cone. I dare her to clean up my mess.

  She matches the intensity of my glare for one, two, three, four seconds. Then she looks away and slouches into the bench. Only then do I lick. She can think what she wants. I’m not going to change her mind tonight. But I will prove to her that therapy is not what I need by sticking to my new mantra. Forget it ever happened.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  School today feels more predictable. No random coffee shop encounters, no new headlines, and no other breakfast-induced supernatural experiences. In case it was a bad instant-oatmeal pack, I decided to change over to cinnamon squares—much better shelf life. My routine punctuality rewards me with my “chance” day-two-on-the-timetable Gavin encounter. It may sound like I’m a stalker, but I am only allowing natural patterns to unfold. Other than drama class, Gavin and I have completely opposite schedules. So I have taken to learning his usual travel routes between classes, and day four is the only day I can guarantee our paths will cross without looking too premeditated. He needs to pass by my locker to get to his class, or I can casually saunter past his at the other end of the hallway for mine. Again, not a stalker—just a planner. I may also put a little more effort into my appearance on these days, but this is simply sensible forethought.

  Gavin glides down the hallway in time for first bell, flanked by his best friend, Lennox. I’m not the only one who stops to watch the jaw-dropping duo jest with each other. I could be watching my favorite sitcom on Netflix the way they stride down the hall, both decked out like an Abercrombie ad. Lennox punching Gavin like he just heard the most hilarious inside joke, and Gavin rubbing his arm in mock pain. Given the size of Lennox’s biceps, it very well could have hurt. While most of the girls ogle Lennox’s football-jock appeal, I can’t help but wonder how they fail to get sucked into Gavin’s magazine-cover perfection. Wait—I should be thanking Lennox for at least reducing my competition. As if I have a chance either way.

  Maybe a fresh layer of lip gloss will help? I slather it on and swing my locker shut with timing perfected to pivot toward their approach. I raise my hand to my hair to ensure it is flipped to my better side, and then Gavin’s cologne freezes my movement, fingers buried in curls.

  The usual flutter takes over my stomach’s contents, and I get sucked into his deep-set hazel eyes. I can’t help the goofy grin that reaches my lips as I force my vocal cords to vibrate. “Hey, Gavin.” My hair flip proceeds with unplanned ferocity. Although I would like to think it looked seductive, I feel immediately unbalanced. With my uncontrollable volume, I probably come across like a tree being uprooted in a storm.

  His smile changes from open and relaxed to an obvious smirk. He thinks I’m a ridiculous, unruly sapling. He hesitates for a split second, which feels like a lifetime of personal judgment, and then recomposes his smile. “Hey, Thea,” he says with his resonant voice that is the essence of Romeo. “See you at rehearsal.” He doesn’t pose it as a question. A tornado couldn’t keep me away, and he knows it.

  He continues down the hallway to his business class, and I stand in his wake, staring unabated as he turns the corner at the end of the hallway. At the last second, he glances over his shoulder and catches me slack-jawed, probably with drool on my chin. Real smooth, Thea. I snap my lips shut and pretend to search for someone else in the hall. Undoubtedly, he knows where I was looking. Definitely not at Lennox. Jocks can’t hold a candle to a well-dressed, head-shot-ready theater buff. And Gavin is exactly that.

  My other BFF, Ashley, says it’s better if Gavin thinks I’m interested. Or more realistically, that Gavin knows I’m interested, because let’s be honest, he knows. She jokes guys don’t have any guts to initiate with girls these days, so I’d better let him know somehow. She also swears my fanatical crush makes our one-act play more realistic. I argue it is only realistic if the feeling is mutual—and I highly doubt it is.

  Yet another depressing walk of shame to start my day. I drag myself into physics and slump into my usual seat. First task: replace the memories of my most recent male blunder with something less self-deprecatin
g. The morning chatter still centers around Malin. An eavesdrop through the surrounding rows confirms there is nothing I’ve not already read through the newsfeeds.

  Task number two: check my phone agenda before the announcements. I have a French test fourth period and rehearsal after school. So much for not thinking about Gavin. There is something thrilling about rehearsals with him, even with my epic fails like this morning. When I’m Juliet, I know how to act and can feel confident everything I say or do is scripted perfectly by someone other than myself. Some days, escaping into Juliet’s world is just easier and more gratifying than being me.

  Ashley emerges through the doorway, narrowly missing the final bell’s chime. She tosses her blond curls effortlessly, not in the sexy seductive way I just botched, but still flirtatious. It’s as if she’s letting every guy in class know she sees them staring but they can’t have her. She sashays to her seat next to me with the poise of a beauty pageant contestant. It’s hard some days to understand how we’ve been friends for so long and none of this has rubbed off on me.

  As she slides in next to me, I slip my jean jacket off her chair. “Thought you might be skipping with Ethan today.”

  “Not with midterms in two weeks.” She pulls out her laptop. Despite coming across as every stereotype of a dumb blonde, she kills it in physics. She could probably be getting all As like Jade if she wanted to, but for her, it needs to be on her own (or Ethan’s) agenda. And as of this past year, she is determined to become a sound engineer.

  She checks her phone while waiting for her computer to boot up. “Besides, we have rehearsal after school, right?” She smiles, raising her eyebrows up and down. Drama club has also recently risen to the top of her agenda.

  “Yeah, yeah.” I roll my eyes. Sometimes I wonder if she joined the drama club simply to get a front row seat to my comedic weekly interactions with Gavin. However, I would like to think more of her than that. She definitely has a knack for attracting the attention of an audience. “Mind you, they might cancel it. Everything else has been canceled this week. And acting was kind of Malin’s thing.” As much as what happened to Malin has been hard to digest, I crave the normalcy of my regular routine. Extending the mourning period is not helping, but whining about it is going to sound uber self-centered.

  “Well, if it is, let’s go shopping,” Ashley says with an enthusiasm only she can hold for spending her parents’ money.

  You would think her flagrant disregard for the need to mourn the loss of a young girl’s life would make me feel better, but it doesn’t. I knew Malin. Not well, but more than most of the kids in our grade. She never stooped back down to the lowly school drama club level after grade nine, which probably worked to my advantage. She would have crushed it as Juliet. At least we don’t have to worry about that now.

  Thea, you are a horrible person.

  Phrases from the newspaper article resurface in my memory. Fell from highest point. No witnesses. High winds. Guilt piles onto me over every terrible selfish thought I’ve had. I slump down in my seat, as though the archived issues of the local news are being stacked directly on my head. Ashley continues with her plan, unaware of the load I am sinking under or her complete lack of empathy. “My mom isn’t expecting me until five, and Ethan won’t be back from Walbridge with his brother until late, so we could completely hit that consignment store you like and—”

  “Must be nice to have parents who don’t care that you skip school to buy some guitar part.” I speak louder than I should and with a tone I perfected on my brother. Ethan is usually—make that always—Ashley’s first priority over her other social plans. So when her schedule magically clears and she has time for girl bonding, it is most often because Ethan has band rehearsals, or Ethan is going to a concert, or Ethan is skipping school with his epic older brother.

  “They don’t know, Thea.” She swats at my arm. “His brother pretended to be his dad and called him in as sick.”

  “Riiiight.” With exaggerated effort, I nod my head. Naturally, that is what all older brothers do for their younger siblings. Tom would never consider covering for me like that.

  The national anthem blasts on, eliminating any chance of further conversation. Today, I welcome the distraction from our ever-present bickering. When you’ve known someone prior to hitting puberty, it is entirely possible that either history or moral obligation the glue that keeps your friendship together. At least that seems the case for us.

  When Ashley first moved from Texas, she stood out like a flamingo in a flock of Canada geese. Jade and I took pity on her. As self-appointed presidents of the Newcomers Club, we welcomed her to Willow Glen Primary School. We introduced her to Timbits and trained her in the art of snow-fort building. And in return, she taught us about Frito bowls and how to tame our hair in humidity. At some point, the social advantages may have switched, but we remained friends.

  I shift my attention back to my phone, only to have the announcement team blare through the PA system.

  “Good morning, Ridgefield. Today is Wednesday, November 23, day two on your timetable. Here are this morning’s announcements …”

  We have until the announcements end to shut off our phones. I send Jade a message to pass on my new mantra in response to her incessant requests for more information. “It was nothing. I forget what even happened. Ashley wants to go shopping if rehearsal is canceled, wanna join?” I’m going to need a buffer today.

  Our principal Mrs. Henderson’s overenunciating voice replaces the usual team of students. “Good morning, Ridgefield.” She pauses longer than is necessary as if waiting for a class of five-year-olds to stop throwing Play-Doh. “In light of the unfortunate events of this past weekend, we have arranged a special assembly during third period today.” Ashley leans over and whispers to me, “Dang it. If it had been next period, I could have missed my French test.”

  I peer sideways at her and refrain from commenting.

  “We will be updating the entire student body on the family’s requests about the funeral and visitation and what we will be doing as a school community to offer condolences.” There is another lengthy pause, followed by a clearing of Mrs. Henderson’s throat directly into the microphone. Throat imitations trickle through the room as we wait again. “We will also be providing some brief counseling from our Guidance and Social Work departments around death and suicide prevention to help those who may be feeling personally affected.” Another pause, but this time the room is silent. “We expect all students to travel directly from their second-period class to the gymnasium.”

  No one is texting or talking anymore. Even Ashley is silent and appears a little stunned. This is real. Malin Porter chose to end her own life. My stomach churns, and the words come back again. Fell from highest point. No witnesses. High winds. But now we can’t blame the wind. So who can we blame?

  Lydia, a girl who rarely speaks, whimpers from the rear corner of the classroom, and the silence is broken. A commotion of opinions and stories erupt. Ashley is poking my arm, and her high-pitched voice reaches through the other conversations. “Do you think she jumped? You said she was—”

  “I know this is traumatic news for all of us,” our physics teacher, Mr. Singh, interjects into the collective chatter, “but we need to be respectful of Ms. Porter and her family.”

  “So, does this mean she did kill—?” blurts Nish, the class’s outspoken know-it-all.

  “Let’s wait until the assembly before we make any assumptions, Nish,” Mr. Singh says. He scans the room slowly and pauses near Lydia’s desk. “If anyone is unable to remain in class at this time, the Guidance department continues to be available.”

  A dozen sympathetic expressions sweep to Lydia.

  She shakes her head while wiping away the remnant of tears. Despite how upset many of us are, no one dares to miss Mr. Singh’s class if they require an A. And for most of the kids in this class, it is get an A or face possible death by parental disapproval.

  “Then, let’s get back to th
e basic equations for velocity.” His voice continues in finely crafted sentences that, on most days, I can follow and take valuable wisdom from. Today, I use them to help tune out the much less pleasant sound of my own voice shrilling inside my head. At least I can rely on Ashley to take in the collective meaning of his lecture today. She seems to have it much more together than I do.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Second period flies by, and before I know it, I’m traveling to the gymnasium with the rest of Ridgefield’s student population. Through the hallways, the air is stagnant, dense with tension. All that can be heard is the shuffle of feet and the occasional whisper among friends. Ashley and Jade are waiting up ahead by the awards display. Ashley seems to have recovered her normal pep since the announcement this morning. With no further signs of grief or resentment, she waves me down with her usual finger flaps. Although she has lived in Canada since she was nine, she still holds to many southern customs. I wonder if hiding one’s emotions is one of them. Jade, on the other hand, slumps more than usual and wears an expression more appropriate for a funeral. In fact, it’s the exact expression she had at Grams’ funeral.

  I can’t help but travel back in my mind to her ceremony from this past summer. The moan of a single bagpipe lowering her coffin into its grave barely overpowered Dad’s weeping. Not only Jade, but many of the somber faces and downcast postures entering the gym could’ve been amongst the mourning crowd that July weekend.

  When I get to them, I grasp Jade’s arm, much like she did for me that day. “You okay?”

  “She’s fine, right, Jadey?” Ashley examines her nails. “Just a little bummed about her French test mark.”

  Jade glares at Ashley. “Thanks, Ash. Yours wasn’t stellar either.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t have a French connection like you do.”