remarked, reading the calculation in our faces. “I just hope, for your sakes, that you did the reading.”
Mine was not one of the smiling faces. My wheels had turned and emitted a dry grinding squeal. A sweat spread across my palms, and one of my thumbs twitched. The reading. What had we been assigned for reading? I shut my eyes, reviewing the previous week. I’d had a short response paper for AP English. I’d had a calculus problem set, which I’d finally gotten through when Deena helped me. I’d had . . . God, I couldn’t remember. I usually used advisory to review my history stuff. Was I caught up on the reading?
“Ready?” Ms. Slater asked, her eyes on the clock.
With a nauseating certainty I knew.
I wasn’t.
“Begin.”
Chapter 8
DANVERS, MASSACHUSETTS
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 2, 2012
N obody said anything when Michael, earbuds still in his ears, wearing a huge parka that had belonged to Dad, climbed in next to me in the back of our station wagon that night. My brother is a skinny, pale kid, his hair a mushroom of dark curls on top of his head, and his shirt collars never seem to fit him right. Huge feet, though. My father insists he’ll be playing for the Celtics by the time he’s twenty.
“Where’s Wheez?” I asked as my father backed our creaking station wagon out of the driveway, flattening the crust of plowed snow at the edge of the street. The car fishtailed in the slush and then righted itself, as though working from muscle memory.
“She’s at a friend’s,” my mother said. “She’ll stay the night.”
“On a school night? You’d never’ve let me sleep over on a school night in a million years,” I pointed out.
I liked reminding my parents of the diminishing returns of their parenting as their family expanded. And they liked suggesting that I’d just worn them out.
“They didn’t want her to get scared,” Michael said to me, in a voice so quiet I almost thought my parents wouldn’t be able to hear.
“It’s not . . .”
I started to say, “It’s not that big a deal,” to dismiss whatever they were worried about, to make it sound stupid that Louisa might be scared. Okay, so Clara hadn’t been back in school yet, but I’d heard very definite rumors that she would be back tomorrow, and so would her minions. She wasn’t even sick, not really. She’d just had a bad reaction to a vaccine. What had been a theory at school in the morning had solidified into fact, at least within my own self. My certainty was aided by the knowledge that I’d had all three of the HPV shots, like, two years ago. No way was any of that going to happen to me.
But as I looked at my brother, streetlights flashing over his face as we trundled through the snow to the St. Joan’s campus, I thought better of it. He was scowling, and his arms were knitted over his chest, folding himself deep into the parka.
“You’re right, I wouldn’t have,” my mother agreed from the front seat. “But Louisa isn’t you.”
“Well, thanks,” I said.
“You’re welcome.”
I leaned my forehead on the window and stared through the night as house after house rolled past, polite clapboarded ones with historical plaques by their front doors, petering out to self-important Victorians, the thick frosting of snow making them look like gingerbread houses built by witches to lure lost children in from the woods.
Incredibly, there wasn’t a single news van parked in front of the school. I’d thought someone would have slipped up and talked to them, but apparently not. Or at least I’d thought TJ Wadsworth would have been staking the place out, sleeping in the news van with one eye open. But we made it from the parking lot through the Gothic front doors without incident—no cameras, no shouted questions, just the silent gargoyles rubbing their claws together as we passed. I let myself feel a glimmer of relief. I thought maybe they were calling everyone together to tell us that whatever it was was
Mine was not one of the smiling faces. My wheels had turned and emitted a dry grinding squeal. A sweat spread across my palms, and one of my thumbs twitched. The reading. What had we been assigned for reading? I shut my eyes, reviewing the previous week. I’d had a short response paper for AP English. I’d had a calculus problem set, which I’d finally gotten through when Deena helped me. I’d had . . . God, I couldn’t remember. I usually used advisory to review my history stuff. Was I caught up on the reading?
“Ready?” Ms. Slater asked, her eyes on the clock.
With a nauseating certainty I knew.
I wasn’t.
“Begin.”
Chapter 8
DANVERS, MASSACHUSETTS
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 2, 2012
N obody said anything when Michael, earbuds still in his ears, wearing a huge parka that had belonged to Dad, climbed in next to me in the back of our station wagon that night. My brother is a skinny, pale kid, his hair a mushroom of dark curls on top of his head, and his shirt collars never seem to fit him right. Huge feet, though. My father insists he’ll be playing for the Celtics by the time he’s twenty.
“Where’s Wheez?” I asked as my father backed our creaking station wagon out of the driveway, flattening the crust of plowed snow at the edge of the street. The car fishtailed in the slush and then righted itself, as though working from muscle memory.
“She’s at a friend’s,” my mother said. “She’ll stay the night.”
“On a school night? You’d never’ve let me sleep over on a school night in a million years,” I pointed out.
I liked reminding my parents of the diminishing returns of their parenting as their family expanded. And they liked suggesting that I’d just worn them out.
“They didn’t want her to get scared,” Michael said to me, in a voice so quiet I almost thought my parents wouldn’t be able to hear.
“It’s not . . .”
I started to say, “It’s not that big a deal,” to dismiss whatever they were worried about, to make it sound stupid that Louisa might be scared. Okay, so Clara hadn’t been back in school yet, but I’d heard very definite rumors that she would be back tomorrow, and so would her minions. She wasn’t even sick, not really. She’d just had a bad reaction to a vaccine. What had been a theory at school in the morning had solidified into fact, at least within my own self. My certainty was aided by the knowledge that I’d had all three of the HPV shots, like, two years ago. No way was any of that going to happen to me.
But as I looked at my brother, streetlights flashing over his face as we trundled through the snow to the St. Joan’s campus, I thought better of it. He was scowling, and his arms were knitted over his chest, folding himself deep into the parka.
“You’re right, I wouldn’t have,” my mother agreed from the front seat. “But Louisa isn’t you.”
“Well, thanks,” I said.
“You’re welcome.”
I leaned my forehead on the window and stared through the night as house after house rolled past, polite clapboarded ones with historical plaques by their front doors, petering out to self-important Victorians, the thick frosting of snow making them look like gingerbread houses built by witches to lure lost children in from the woods.
Incredibly, there wasn’t a single news van parked in front of the school. I’d thought someone would have slipped up and talked to them, but apparently not. Or at least I’d thought TJ Wadsworth would have been staking the place out, sleeping in the news van with one eye open. But we made it from the parking lot through the Gothic front doors without incident—no cameras, no shouted questions, just the silent gargoyles rubbing their claws together as we passed. I let myself feel a glimmer of relief. I thought maybe they were calling everyone together to tell us that whatever it was was
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