The Madness Underneath: Book 2 (THE SHADES OF LONDON) by Maureen Johnson Page A

little French. I did a few problem sets.
    I paused when I noticed it had gotten darker—not dark, but there was a dim quality to the daylight, a low fade made worse by the overcast sky. Three in the afternoon, and already it seemed like dusk. I reviewed what I had accomplished, thumbing through pages read and counting up assignments completed. I had done reasonably well, better than anything I had done in previous weeks, but it wasn’t even in spitting distance of enough.
    It dawned on me, perfectly and clearly, that I was going to fail everything. I’d known this. I’d even said it out loud. But I’d never really breathed that fact in. Smelled it. Tasted it.
    This was failure. Doing all you could and yet knowing that it just wasn’t going to cut it.
    I shut my door to panic alone.
    Why was I here? They’d brought me back, and now what was I supposed to do? I felt like I was faking all of this, like I was playing the part of a student. I had the costume and the props, but I didn’t really belong here. I’d pinned notes on the stupid corkboard backing of my desk, and I’d highlighted things…But it was all so meaningless.
    For about an hour, I had an overwhelming urge to grab my bag, stuff in a few things, and take the next train to Bristol. I could be back on my parents’ couch that night if I got moving. I could admit that I wasn’t ready for this, that the semester was a wash. My parents would be thrilled, I was sure. Not about the semester being a wash—but certainly about having me back where they could keep me safe and sound. It would be so easy to do. The very idea made me warm inside. It was okay to give up. I’d been brave. Everyone would say so.
    And yet…even as I opened a dresser drawer and figured out which things I would take with me in this hypothetical scenario, I remembered the problem.
    There would still be ghosts.
    I would still have a future.
    I would still go back to school eventually. You can’t curl up on the sofa and deny life forever. Life is always going to be a series of ouch-making moments, and the question was, was I going to go all fetal position, or was I going to woman up? I went into fetal position on the bed to think about this. Fetal position turned out to be very comfortable.
    Someone had to help me.
    I slithered to the end of the bed and stretched my arm as far as I could to reach around in the top drawer of my desk and find that business card. Jane Quaint. The therapist who had changed Charlotte into the shiny New Charlotte. The one who made her unafraid of school and life. I flicked the card with my nail a few times and rubbed the edge under my chin. I’d had a therapist, and that had been a pointless exercise. A time-suck. A total pain in the ass. But this woman had done some kind of magic with Charlotte, and now Charlotte was fully functional. Maybe she could make me fully functional.
    The gloom accumulated outside. God. So dark. So early. My books, so thick. My confusion, so total.
    It couldn’t hurt to call.
    I would call.
    Now. I would call now.
    English phones have a double ring that I still found strange and charming, kind of like the chirping croak of a little frog. The call was on its third ring-ring and I was just about to hang up when a surprisingly deep yet clearly female voice answered.
    “Hi,” I said. “My name is Rory, and—”
    “From Wexford?” said the woman.
    “Oh. Yeah.”
    “I know who you are, dear. A friend of Charlotte’s, yes?”
    That might have been stretching things a bit, but I wasn’t going to split hairs.
    “Right,” I said.
    “Well, I’m very glad you’ve called. I was hoping you would.”
    “You were?”
    “It was no small thing you went through,” she said. “And from the tone in your voice, it sounds like you aren’t having the best day.”
    I cleared my throat. “No,” I said. “I guess not.”
    “Why don’t you pop round?”
    “What, now?”
    “Why not?” she said. “It’s a quiet Sunday around here. Why