Don't Look Now by Michelle Gagnon Page A

breath as she climbed out. “It’s not. There’s nothing okay about any of this.”
     
    Mouse was late as usual. Amanda sipped her tea, trying to repress a swell of aggravation. Of course, it wasn’t as if the kid had a watch. Still, she’d been waiting in the diner for over an hour, and all the caffeine she’d consumed had heightened the edginess she’d felt at the Coalition.
    She’d read the same page in the textbook that lay open in front of her at least ten times, and still had no idea what it said. Which was worrisome. She’d always been an excellent student, and practically had a photographic memory. But recently, Amanda was having a hard time remembering the most basic words. Last week she’d spent five minutes trying to describe something to Diem, who finally looked at her as if she were insane and said, “Are you talking about a parking meter?”
    Her grades were slipping, to the point where she was seriously concerned about passing all of her classes this semester. And her parents would kill her if she failed.
    Too much stress , Amanda thought, running a hand through her hair. She wasn’t sleeping well and had no appetite. Diem had recommended that she go to the medical center, brightly adding that she’d heard Ritalin was a wonder drug for studying. But Amanda hated the thought of taking any medication. Her brother had been a drug addict, and ended up dead because of it. She had no intention of following in his footsteps.
    “Hey.”
    Amanda looked up to find Mouse staring down at her. She had on the same ratty jeans she’d been wearing last week, more holes than denim. Over them she wore one of Amanda’s old sweaters and a thick down jacket that Amanda had bought for her at REI—it was only a few weeks old, but already looked like it had been through a war.
    “Hi.” Amanda handed over a plastic bag and said, “I was going through my stuff to get rid of some things, and thought you could use them.”
    Mouse took the bag but didn’t answer. Internally, Amanda sighed. She’d given practically half her wardrobe to the girl, and had yet to get so much as a thank you. Of course, that isn’t why I do it , she admonished herself. Passing along old clothes was the least she could do.
    “You hungry?” she asked as Mouse slid into the booth across from her.
    Mouse nodded and tugged at her sleeves, a nervous habit that Amanda recognized. So Mouse was using again. None of my business , she reminded herself. It wasn’t her job to get the girl clean. They were working together to help save other kids. Although at some point, if Mouse seemed amenable, maybe she could gently refer her to a treatment program. . . .
    A waitress approached the table, looking less than delighted to see Mouse sitting there. They’d become regulars, meeting at the same diner once a week. Amanda always tipped well, but it didn’t seem to make a difference. Mouse usually smelled terrible, which provided the added bonus of keeping the tables around them clear so they couldn’t be overheard.
    Mouse muttered her usual order: a heaping stack of pancakes with extra whipped cream. Amanda bit her tongue. Once she’d made the mistake of suggesting that Mouse try some protein instead, maybe eggs or a sandwich, and the girl had just glared at her. Sighing, she asked, “So, how is everything?”
    “Fine.”
    By now, Amanda was acclimated to their monosyllabic, largely one-way discussions. She pressed, “I mean, did you manage to talk to any of the kids on the list?”
    Mouse shrugged. “A few. Everyone pretty much knows now, anyway.”
    “About the . . . guys?” Amanda scanned the diner quickly, keeping her voice low. No one seemed to be paying attention to them.
    Mouse nodded. She pulled a piece of hair into her mouth and started sucking on it, a habit that always turned Amanda’s stomach.
    She cleared her throat and said, “And no one has gone missing recently?”
    “No.”
    “Has anyone seen anything