There’s plenty of shock, lots of digital tears—understandable since Tessa was so popular. School’s going to be tedious tomorrow. I don’t deal well with damage. I have enough of it at home.
Still, it’s a damn shame, I think, not even realizing I’m looking at my mom’s bedroom door until I am, have been for minutes now. That could be Mom one day.
I shove the thought away, finish the homework for tomorrow’s chemistry lab, review my Spanish notes, and, at some point, fall asleep.
I wake up with my cheek glued to a flash card. It’s a little past six in the morning and a truck is backfiring. Mr. Santos must be leaving for work.
Feeling fuzzy, I push to my feet, hitting the bathroom to brush my teeth and then my mom’s bedroom to check on her. She’s staring at the wood-veneered closet.
“Hey.” I tap my knuckles gently against the door frame and wince. The noise is still too loud. “You hungry?”
Nothing.
“Okay.” I stretch and my neck pops. “I’ll make us both something.”
I put the last pieces of bread in our toaster and, while I’m waiting, change into a clean polo shirt, listening for any signs she’s moving. There’s nothing though, and for a horrible moment I wonder if Ben might have a point. I can’t save her. She’s too determined to drown. If she is . . . how am I supposed to walk away? How could I live with myself?
Thankfully, the toaster dings, giving me an excuse to stop thinking and get moving. There isn’t any jelly, but I do find a bit of peanut butter at the bottom of the jar, so I put what’s left on her toast and carry it to the bedroom.
“Hey, think you could eat something?” I put the plate on the edge of the mattress and crouch next to the bed. “Mom?”
She blinks, dark hair hanging in her eyes. People think we look alike: almost black hair, green eyes. I always smile because the comment makes her happy, but deep down, it kind of terrifies me. How similar are we? Am I going to wake up one day and not be able to get out of bed?
“Mom, you gotta get up.” I shake her limp shoulder. “You have to go to work.”
She blinks, but doesn’t stir. So much for work. I guess I can count on her being fired. I stifle my sigh, reminding myself this is why I’m going to work for the detective.
“I’m going to school.” I stand, pause for a beat because I want her to say, Don’t. Don’t go. Stay with me. It’s too early for school. I’m getting up.
My mom doesn’t say any of that though. She stares and I wait and, eventually, the silence is worse than her glassy eyes. I can’t take it.
“Bye, Mom.” I turn off all the lights, lock the trailer door, and gun my motorcycle out of the driveway. It’s the last thing I have left from my dad and I drive it like I don’t care. I’m doing sixty by the time I reach the highway, seventy by the time I hit town. My bike is shaking hard enough to rattle and it’s still not fast enough to escape.
5
I should be studying. Instead, I draw. I could do this anywhere, but I end up in Mrs. Lowe’s computer lab because she won’t give me shit about it. I’ve been in her computer classes since freshman year and she doesn’t mind that I keep weird hours.
I’m almost finished with my second sketch when I hear footsteps. The door scrapes open and she pushes in. I put my pen down, think it should feel different seeing Wick now that I know what I know.
Maybe it does.
Our gazes collide and I try to see her as the detective does, as someone who’s worth only eliminating and . . . I can’t. I still see the girl from three years ago—sharp chin, pale eyes. Her hair’s different. Again. In all the time I’ve known Wick, I’ve seen her go blue, pink, and, once, antifreeze green. Today it’s Kool-Aid red. I like it.
A lot.
The realization makes me go hot. I shift, suddenly uncomfortable, and smile so she won’t be able to tell.
“You’re here early,” I say.
Wick hesitates and I catch myself watching how the skin of her throat ripples when she swallows. “Yeah, pretty early. I actually got up on time.”
“Me too.” This is the part where I should have more to say and I don’t—doesn’t matter though, because Wick’s already halfway down the line of desks, heading for her usual spot in the back.
I sigh, tap my pen against my drawing. I’ll need something way more original for my art school portfolio, but for right now, it’s a good distraction from the redhead behind me.
In fact, it’s such a good distraction I almost miss the crying. There’s a knot of girls outside Lowe’s classroom. They’re hugging each other, sniffling. Jenna Maxwell is, unsurprisingly, at the center, looking like Tragedy Barbie.
I stretch both arms behind my head, making my shoulders pop. “Amazing. I didn’t think she was programmed to cry.”