Go away. Just go. Away.
I stare holes into my notecards. I pretend not to see him coming. Pretend I don’t notice when he’s standing right next to me.
“Lily, right?”
He puts out his hand for me to shake, his fingertips coated in black charcoal. I shake his hand, trying to ignore everyone staring, including Damon, mouth agape, obviously loving every second of this awkward encounter. I grip my pencil hard, trying to stall the dread that has moved from my abdomen to my throat.
Don’t mention Alice.
Please don’t—
“I’m Micah. Your sister and I—”
“Worked together,” I say, making something up quickly. My words come out tight. “At the dog groomer last summer, right?”
He narrows his eyes at me, clearly confused about why I’m lying. His brown eyes hold mine for a second, questioning me, and I try to send the best please just play along look I can muster. He looks at Sam and Kali and then back to me.
“Sure. Sure. The dog groomer,” he says slowly, unconvincingly. “Can’t get enough of those little mutts.”
He stands there for an interminable few seconds, rocking back on his heels, drawing attention to the fact that he’s wearing neon green socks with monkeys on them, pulled almost all the way up to his shorts. Whoever this kid is, he’s definitely not concerned about standing out.
“Psycho!” Damon coughs into his hand.
The boy with the sunglasses stares at him. “What’d you say?”
“Hey, dude. Just calm down. I don’t want any trouble.” Damon puts his hands up as if he’s been challenged to a duel. “I was just saying those are some supercool socks.”
The boy in the socks mutters a word in Spanish that I know is one of the bad ones, and as he turns to leave, his fingertips brush against the energy drink on Damon’s desk, just hard enough to knock it over. The yellow liquid flows out across the desk onto Damon.
“What the hell, dude?” he yells, jumping up as a wet circle forms on his crotch. But the new kid is already walking away, hands raised like it’s out of his control.
“Sorry, dude,” he says with so much disdain, I can taste it. Damon rants about how the school shouldn’t let in “people like that,” while dabbing at the wet spot with the paper towel Kali hands him.
“What was that about?” she asks, looking at my white knuckles death-gripping my pencil like it could save my life.
I shrug, biting back the panic. “No idea,” I lie. “You heard Damon. The kid’s crazy.”
I’m pretty sure I know exactly what that was about, but I’m not about to spill my guts right here, with Damon just waiting for some juicy morsel of gossip. He’d just love to know where my sister’s been these last few months. The Germans have a word for it—schadenfreude—finding joy in the misery of others. And I’m not going to give all my über-competitive classmates the satisfaction.
I try to return to my poetry, but my mind is gone.
What if he knows about the Night of the Bathroom Floor?
What if he tells everyone about Alice?
The more I fight the what-ifs, the more they push back, edging me out until I feel the familiar sensation that I’m floating up and out of myself, watching my life through a spotless pane of glass.
I watch the scene like a movie reel: Gifford calling up the first row of students to read their poems. Sam gets up and reads hers, a rhyming, iambic-pentameter metaphor about violin strings stretched too thin.
By the time Gifford calls me up, I’ve left my body completely. I watch me stick my notecards and a pen into my 365-day planner, clutching everything to my chest like a security blanket as I walk zombie-like to the front of the room. I see everyone’s eyes on me, who is not really me because I am floating high and free above this Lily-not-Lily, who stands there, silently.
I’m frozen, like that deer Dad hit on the highway last year. Like I’m about to get smashed to bits by a fifty-ton moving vehicle.
Could you look any stupider?
I can’t remember a single word, so I open my planner to the notecards. But my mind is stuck on the boy with the sunglasses.
What if he tells?
My skin itches—little buglike crawlies on every inch. I see my fingers scratch their way up my arm to my neck.
Kali leans forward in her chair, her face twisted in disgust.
“Ewww, stop. You’re bleeding.”
I see me wipe a smear of blood from my skin onto my pants.
“Lily?” Gifford’s voice pulls me back into my body. A shot of adrenaline floods through me.
What if he tells?
The thought vibrates me from the inside, like I’m going to jump out of my own skin.
When did it get so hot in here?
Damon twirls his finger beside his ear and points to me. A boy next to him hides a laugh under his hand.
“Are you okay?” Sam mouths from her desk.
I nod and give Sam a thumbs-up.
Another lie.
WHAT IF HE TELLS?
The words on my notecard jumble together.
Get a grip, Lily.
A tingling starts at the tips of my fingers.
A block of concrete slams into my lungs.
Just calm down.
But I can’t.
It’s too late.
I’m not getting enough air.
I want to scream.
But I’m paralyzed.
Everyone is staring at you.
Can. Not. Breathe.
My head’s not connected to my body anymore.
Am I even in my body?
I feel like I’m dying.
Am I dying?
You’re definitely dying.
My heartbeat thuds in my head, whooshes in my ears.
A new, racing rhythm thumps through my body like a second heartbeat.
Pulsing.
Pounding.
Deafening.
Little pricks of light shoot in from the corners of my eyes.
Darkness kaleidoscopes in. I have to get out of here.
I force my legs to move, and before anyone can stop me, I run.
