glimpse of Garren as I wander through the hallway to my classroom, my clothes feeling weightless like a second skin.
The sight of Garren, his dark hair wavy and nearly wild, makes my breath catch in my throat. He’s talking to four other teenagers in a cluster in the middle of the hall and I stop to watch him like I’ve done so many times before. Sometimes I think he knows that I watch him.
I’ve never felt this way about anyone else. It seems a little like insanity.
Garren’s the kind of person who says what he thinks and that makes some people angry and draws others to him like honey. He doesn’t like the way things are and that’s not something you’re supposed to say, although this is a free country.
I should stop staring before he catches me at it, but he’s smiling and that makes it tougher to look away and then … then his gaze flicks over to me and it’s already too late.
In the morning I feel gloomy and weak and lie on my side with the covers pulled up over my chin wishing that I were someone else. My dreams mock me. I don’t know which parts of them point to a deeper truth and which are only a kaleidoscope of images from my everyday life. What will happen to me if I can’t filter out the truth? I have the terrible feelingthat leaving the truth buried will poison me in one way or another and when Olivia—sent upstairs by my mom—tells me that if I don’t get out of bed soon I’ll be late for school, I burrow into my pillow.
I don’t want my feelings about Olivia to be true but the creeping doubts won’t leave me alone. I listen to Olivia pad out of my room and shout from the top of the stairs, “Mom, she won’t get up!”
I throw back the covers and yell after her, “I’m up! I’m up.”
“You better be!” my mother hollers from downstairs.
I change out of my pajamas and into clothes. My hair’s kind of grimy but there’s no time to wash it; there’s barely enough time to do my makeup. I fly through the process and then dash downstairs to gulp down cold cereal.
Less than thirty minutes later I’m standing at my open locker, pulling out the textbooks and notebooks I need for my morning classes. Having to deal with such mundane things when I don’t know what happened to my father and why a boy who should be a stranger to me isn’t, seems ludicrous and just like that, the energy it took for me to get out of bed fizzles and dissipates. Misery descends with a vengeance and I freeze in front of my locker with my bio textbook in one arm.
Time stops.
For a while—who knows how long—I’m not sure where I am, the Victorian school from my dream or Sir John A. MacDonald. The realities merge unevenly in my head and the pieces that don’t fit make my head ache.
I could stay this way forever and never decide what to do next. Maybe that’s easiest.
“Freya?” a faraway voice calls. I turn, expecting to find small Olivia, wild-haired Garren or the well-intentioned blond boy.
I hadn’t realized there were tears streaming down my face and as my eyes close in on Seth Hardy next to me I feel embarrassed, which is just as stupid as having to gather my books in the first place. Who cares about Seth or any of the people brushing by me in the hallway?
I need Garren
. He has to help me. He’s the only one. None of this means anything.
“Freya,” Seth repeats. “Are you okay?”
I drag one of my sleeves across my face, smearing white makeup onto black cotton. Then I sniffle and try to clear my throat.
“Hey,” he says, inching closer. “Is there anything I can do?”
I sense that he means that, despite the fact that I’ve treated him badly, and I thank him but tell him no, there’s nothing he can do. On impulse, because he’s being so nice, I apologize again for leaving the party without warning. “But I’m a mess,” I add. “That’s just the way things are right now.”
I don’t say why I’m a mess and he doesn’t ask. His sympathetic eyes linger on my face until
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