I don’t want to stop until I’ve got it right. Even in science and English, I’m still trying to get on paper that look Meghan gets in her eyes. I draw Meghan tender and sweet, strong and fierce. I draw her playful and happy, the way she’s been with me. And I write her name, over and over, next to mine.
I don’t want to stop thinking about her. Every time I stop, dark thoughts crowd me and prickle my mind—the footsteps, Dad losing his job, therapy ending—and I can’t go there, not without wanting to cut. So I just keep thinking about Meghan, and feel warm and good all over.
When the last bell rings, I head over to Meghan’s locker and wait. I silently rehearse what I want to say, trying for casual, spur of the moment. Lockers slam shut around me, and people call out good-byes to each other. The halls are emptying fast.
When I look up, Meghan’s heading toward me, Tyler attached to her like a leech. I ram my hands into my pockets.
“Hey,” Meghan says. “What’re you doing here?”
I can’t tell if she’s glad to see me or not. “I was just …”
Tyler’s looking at me like I’m a joke.
I stare at the floor, then up at Meghan again. Her eyes urge me on. I swallow. “You want to hang out this weekend?”
Tyler howls. “Told you she’s got the hots for you!”
My cheeks are hot as a slap. I wish I’d never said anything.
Meghan plucks Tyler’s arm off her waist and shoves him away. “Grow up, Tyler.” She turns back to me. “Sounds good. Saturday morning? First thing? I’ll call you.”
“Great!” Happiness spreads to my belly like warmth from a cup of hot chocolate. I race down the hall away from her before she can change her mind.
I leap down the stairs, three at a time, using the banister as a pole vault; it’s like I’m flying. I swing myself off the last few steps and slam right into a hard body—right into Mr. Blair.
I scramble away from him. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!”
Mr. Blair smooths out his shirt. “Hey, that’s all right.” His face softens as he looks at me over the top of his glasses. “It’s good to see you having fun.”
I stand there, waiting for a reprimand. But Mr. Blair just pushes his glasses back up his nose, then leaves. I can’t tell if he really meant what he said, whether the warmth I saw in his eyes was real or not.
His hand gripping my wrist. His lips against my ear. “I will kill you if you tell.”
I stare at the space where Mr. Blair was, waiting for more shadows to wrap around me, but nothing comes.
Maybe he’s not the one.
I shrug and step out into the warmth of the afternoon, a soft breeze brushing against my face. I flash to Meghan and me on the hill, sitting in the sun.
I see her tomorrow!
Excitement fizzes through me, lifting me up until I want to run all the way home.
21
Mom’s not at the door to greet me.
Maybe she’s finally letting me be.
I walk in and climb the back stairs to the kitchen, expecting to smell oil paint and turpentine, but there’s a heaviness in the house instead. Mom’s sitting there, drinking chamomile tea, a pile of crumpled–up tissues on the table in front of her. She gets up abruptly when she hears me, her mug rocking against the table. “Kendra, I want to talk to you.”
I cross my arms over my chest and wait.
“Your father got a strange call at work this morning. From his friend, Terry Blair. Your math teacher.”
My hands grow cold.
“Your dad thought Terry was calling about their hunting trip, but instead, Terry was calling about you. He says you’ve been acting strange lately. Different. Maybe depressed. He’s worried about you.”
I’ll bet he is.
“I’m fine.”
“Mr. Blair didn’t seem to think so. He wants us to come in for a conference. He thinks something might be worrying you.”
“Nothing’s worrying me!”
Damn it, why is this happening?
“Believe me, I’m fine!”
Mom bites her lip, staining her teeth with lipstick. “He said he thought he saw something
I don’t want to stop thinking about her. Every time I stop, dark thoughts crowd me and prickle my mind—the footsteps, Dad losing his job, therapy ending—and I can’t go there, not without wanting to cut. So I just keep thinking about Meghan, and feel warm and good all over.
When the last bell rings, I head over to Meghan’s locker and wait. I silently rehearse what I want to say, trying for casual, spur of the moment. Lockers slam shut around me, and people call out good-byes to each other. The halls are emptying fast.
When I look up, Meghan’s heading toward me, Tyler attached to her like a leech. I ram my hands into my pockets.
“Hey,” Meghan says. “What’re you doing here?”
I can’t tell if she’s glad to see me or not. “I was just …”
Tyler’s looking at me like I’m a joke.
I stare at the floor, then up at Meghan again. Her eyes urge me on. I swallow. “You want to hang out this weekend?”
Tyler howls. “Told you she’s got the hots for you!”
My cheeks are hot as a slap. I wish I’d never said anything.
Meghan plucks Tyler’s arm off her waist and shoves him away. “Grow up, Tyler.” She turns back to me. “Sounds good. Saturday morning? First thing? I’ll call you.”
“Great!” Happiness spreads to my belly like warmth from a cup of hot chocolate. I race down the hall away from her before she can change her mind.
I leap down the stairs, three at a time, using the banister as a pole vault; it’s like I’m flying. I swing myself off the last few steps and slam right into a hard body—right into Mr. Blair.
I scramble away from him. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!”
Mr. Blair smooths out his shirt. “Hey, that’s all right.” His face softens as he looks at me over the top of his glasses. “It’s good to see you having fun.”
I stand there, waiting for a reprimand. But Mr. Blair just pushes his glasses back up his nose, then leaves. I can’t tell if he really meant what he said, whether the warmth I saw in his eyes was real or not.
His hand gripping my wrist. His lips against my ear. “I will kill you if you tell.”
I stare at the space where Mr. Blair was, waiting for more shadows to wrap around me, but nothing comes.
Maybe he’s not the one.
I shrug and step out into the warmth of the afternoon, a soft breeze brushing against my face. I flash to Meghan and me on the hill, sitting in the sun.
I see her tomorrow!
Excitement fizzes through me, lifting me up until I want to run all the way home.
21
Mom’s not at the door to greet me.
Maybe she’s finally letting me be.
I walk in and climb the back stairs to the kitchen, expecting to smell oil paint and turpentine, but there’s a heaviness in the house instead. Mom’s sitting there, drinking chamomile tea, a pile of crumpled–up tissues on the table in front of her. She gets up abruptly when she hears me, her mug rocking against the table. “Kendra, I want to talk to you.”
I cross my arms over my chest and wait.
“Your father got a strange call at work this morning. From his friend, Terry Blair. Your math teacher.”
My hands grow cold.
“Your dad thought Terry was calling about their hunting trip, but instead, Terry was calling about you. He says you’ve been acting strange lately. Different. Maybe depressed. He’s worried about you.”
I’ll bet he is.
“I’m fine.”
“Mr. Blair didn’t seem to think so. He wants us to come in for a conference. He thinks something might be worrying you.”
“Nothing’s worrying me!”
Damn it, why is this happening?
“Believe me, I’m fine!”
Mom bites her lip, staining her teeth with lipstick. “He said he thought he saw something
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