Fucking Jenna. Worst part was that Sandy felt guilty not being there. And that was sick. Sandy knew that. But its being sick didn’t make it any less true.
When Rhea returned to the office, she dumped a stack of books and photocopies on the table in front of Sandy. “Okay, I’ve got a great tutor for you.” Rhea handed Sandy a printout. Hannah Carlson, it said beneath an address, phone number, and email. “Hannah is such a sweetheart. Quirky, too, in a way not so many girls around here are. She’s this amazing pianist, and she’s on the math team. She’s also a terrific writer. She even took English classes over at the university last spring as a junior.”
Which meant she was a senior now. At least she was a year older than Sandy. Being tutored by someone younger would have been way too much.
“Sounds awesome,” Sandy said flatly.
“Oh, I’m sorry. That was stupid,” Rhea said. “Who would want Little Ms. Perfect teaching them anything?” She stuck out her tongue and pretended to gag. Then she leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’ll let you in on a secret. Hannah’s mom is a total b-i-t-c-h. With a capital B. So, you know, Hannah’s got her own cross to bear.”
“Cool.” Sandy nodded, looking down at the girl’s name. But she knew what this Hannah’s mother being a “bitch” meant on the scale of actual problems: fucking nothing.
“Listen, I know this isn’t easy. But don’t give up before we’ve even gotten started,” Rhea said, reading Sandy’s mind. Her voice was different now, more serious. She put her hands on the pile of coursework. “These are your assignments. When we meet next week, I expect all of them to be finished. And you can do it. I have absolutely no doubt.”
Sandy tried and failed to lift the heavy stack with a few fingers. “That makes one of us.”
Rhea put her hand over Sandy’s, squeezing it until she looked up. Rhea’s eyes were glassy, her smile sort of sad but also weirdly hopeful. “I think you and I both know this is it, Sandy. This is your chance.” Rhea made two fists in the air. “You’re going to have to grab onto it with both hands.”
When they were done, Sandy rushed out the side door of the school, praying she’d make it away before she started to cry. At least it was the middle of the school day, the parking lot dead quiet, the lawns all empty. Even the fancy track that looped around the perfectly green and neatly trimmed football field didn’t have a soul on it. The only sound was Sandy’s breathing when her phone chirped with another text: WHERE R THE CHEETOS!!! I’m DIIIIEEEING HERE. Come home. Judge Judy is ripping into this chick with a hair salon. You should see her roots!
Sandy slid her phone into her back pocket, then dropped herself against the cool brick of the school building so hard it scratched her back. “Fuck, ouch,” she said out loud. Then she rested her head against her hands, rocking it back and forth. Why did her life feel the most fucked whenever she was trying to make it better?
“Want one?” someone asked.
When Sandy looked up, there was a kid about her age with messy blond hair, some freckles across his nose, and perfect teeth. He wasn’t Sandy’s type—too pretty. But he was cute, there was no getting around it. He knew it, too, which, annoyingly, made him cuter.
He was holding a cigarette out toward Sandy, a lit one in his other hand. “You look like you could use one.”
Sandy looked around before she reached over and took it. What could they do, kick her out? Technically, she wasn’t even in school. She leaned forward and lit it on the Zippo he’d flipped open, the kerosene bringing back unwanted memories of one of Jenna’s old boyfriends. Sandy took a deep drag and felt her body steady on the exhale.
“I’m Aidan,” the kid had said. She could feel him staring at the side of her face. Boys like him were always drawn to her: the slutty bad-news girl. The one who pissed off their moms. Sometimes that was fine. And sometimes it was annoying as shit. “I’m new here.”
Sandy took another drag. She should go, get away from this kid. Get home to Jenna. Sandy knew that. So why hadn’t she moved off the wall? “Cool,” she said.
The kid had smiled, a troublemaker’s gleam in his eye as he stepped closer to her. Close enough for Sandy to smell his shampoo or his cologne—something spicy and clean. Expensive. “You going to tell me your name?” he’d asked.
“Not yet,” Sandy had said, pushing herself up. Because she needed to get home before Jenna’s texts took their usual dark turn. And Sandy had known better than to want this kid, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t leave him wanting more. “But thanks for the cigarette.”
Now Sandy looked around Jenna’s empty bedroom, then went back out to the living room. She thought about texting Jenna a WTF about the rent. But Jenna would never come home if she thought she was in trouble. Helloo??? Sandy texted her instead. A second later, the phone vibrated in her hand. “About fucking time,” she muttered.
But the text wasn’t from Jenna. It was from Hannah. For the three hundredth fucking time. Sandy wondered if Hannah ever pulled this stalker shit with guys, because it must get her ass blocked immediately. Sandy would have blocked Hannah, too, if she could have. It was too much of a risk, though. Who would Hannah text instead? And what would she tell them when she did?
Are you okay? Hannah’s text read, like pretty much all of the other ones in the past week and a half.
Yeah. I’m good. You don’t have to keep asking.
I’m just worried about you.