“Oh,” I say, embarrassed. “Well, I don’t want to talk about him.”
“Whatever you say,” my mom says, with a little laugh that makes me want to scream. Thankfully, we’ve arrived at the school.
The moment the car stops in the drop-off zone, I jump out, slam the door, and walk purposefully inside Meridan High.
As the morning progresses, my hostility toward my mother morphs into anger toward the world. When Jason Samuels accidentally hits me in the shoulder with the basketball during PE, I chuck it right back at him.
Hard.
When Page Thomas dares approach me about her stupid crush, I silence her with one knifelike look.
When the gorgeous Goth girl who will spend most days in the parking lot for the rest of the year runs into me in the hallway, I don’t apologize.
And when I throw open the library doors, storm through the metal detectors, and march to my seat for study hall, I’m ready to confront Luke about not calling or just ignore him completely.
But then he arrives. And speaks.
“Want to come to my house for lunch today?” he asks, all dimple and blue eyes.
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I do.”
“What’s that?”
Jamie is way too nosy. I’ve only opened my bag to put my Spanish textbook in it before class, and she’s managed to log its contents in under two seconds.
“Nothing,” I say, glancing at the manila envelope before zipping the bag and easing it onto my shoulder.
Jamie is staring at me. She’s not buying “nothing.”
“Fine,” I say, pulling her away from my locker and in the direction of Spanish. “I’ll tell you, but it’s no big deal.”
“Sounds interesting,” she says, looping her arm through mine. Jamie and I will always walk like this: arm in arm. It’s our thing and I like it, particularly this morning, when I’m feeling like I need her strength to get through what’s ahead.
Then again, remembering this morning’s note, I know that she needs my strength today, too.
Jamie is looking at me expectantly.
“It’s some old photos and stuff,” I say quietly, as if it’s a secret.
“Of who?” Jamie asks.
“Of my dad,” I say, wincing.
“You and the dad thing lately…” Jamie’s voice trails off and she looks ahead to navigate us through the bustling hallway.
“I found them hidden in a box in my mom’s closet with some of my dad’s old ties and stuff.”
“You were snooping around in your mom’s closet?” Jamie asks, totally missing the point.
“Yes,” I say without explaining. “Anyway, that’s not the worst part.”
“What’s the worst part?” Jamie’s pretty eyes are back on me now.
“He sent me some birthday cards when I was little,” I say, feeling sick. Exactly three. Exactly three birthday cards that, apparently, my mother hid from me.
“What did they say?” Jamie asks, intrigued.
“Just normal stuff,” I lie. In truth, the cards are depressing. They’re sparse and apologetic.