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met, had something compelling about her. Charisma, I guess you’d call it. Some kind of energy field that grabbed you and sucked you into her whirlwind and made you care more about her than yourself.
    Mom watched over Deena even more closely than she did me. Alerting the nurses when her sugar went bonkers, holding her hair back when she vomited, teaching her how to adjust her insulin and take control of her diabetes.
    The doctors and nurses all said if it wasn’t for Mom (“the patience of a saint!”), Deena probably would have died or been admitted to a long-term psych facility.
    Mom saved her. They all said.
    Back then, at thirteen, during the Year of Nothing Good, I hated Mom. So I rolled my eyes, shrugged, and ignored them. Just like I’d ignored Deena.
    Who knew it’d turn out that the Deenas of the world ruled high school?

14
    We make it to our table. Jordan manages a smile as I plop down across from him, Celina beside him, and Nessa beside me. I like him even more for that smile. With the sunlight streaming through the window, warming my face, and Jordan across from me, smiling, his hair flopping along his eyelashes again, defying gravity, I can pretend we’re on a picnic or someplace fun.
    Until the first spitwad hits me between the eyes and slides down onto my T-shirt.
    “Losers,” an anonymous voice sings out.
    “Summers found some fresh meat,” a guy from the table of football players beside us says loudly. Someone kicks my pack and it hits the ground with a thud. I grab it and tuck it between me and the window.
    Everyone else is studiously ignoring us, yet I’m very aware that they’re also focused on us at the same time. It’s a weird feeling. Reminds me of waiting for the anesthesia to start working, hoping it kicks in before the surgeon starts cutting, but also kinda hoping someone’s gonna rush into the room, say it was all a mistake, and call the whole thing off after all.
    My stomach knots with the tension, so tight my hand has to flick the spitball twice before I’m able to knock it to the floor. Jordan straightens, looking around, and I see he’s ready to defend us—defend me. But even I know what the cost would be. I place a hand over his.
    He jerks, his gaze slamming into mine. Too much, too familiar.
    I try to act casual, sliding my hand away from his. “Those fries look good.” They don’t. They look like they’re ready to melt into a soggy puddle of lard. “Can I have one?”
    He says nothing, as if it takes extra long for my voice to penetrate his hearing. Nessa is chattering to Celina about homecoming, even though it’s still three weeks away, talking about signing up for the decorating committee so she’ll have an excuse to go even if she can’t get a date, and should she ask some boy or should she wait and see. They’ve both missed the entire spitball incident—or ignored it…ah, the power of denial. Handy tool to deal with high school, I’m learning.
    So it’s just me and Jordan. My skin feels hot all over.
    Jordan nods to his plate of fries. “Sure. Help yourself.”
    I stretch my hand out, thinking one fry can’t hurt.
    “Scarlet!” Mom’s voice cuts through the clamor of students yapping.
    My stomach drops to my knees, begging for this to not be happening.
    “Scarlet, there you are.”
    It’s happening.
    Mom stands at the end of our table, holding an insulated lunch box aloft. “You forgot to stop by my office to get your lunch. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
    I reach across Nessa for the bag, but Mom holds it out of reach. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?”
    Swallowing my sigh, I introduce her. She shakes Nessa’s hand. “I knew your sister, such a wonderful girl. I’m so sorry for your loss. Let me know if you ever want to talk.”
    Nessa nods and ducks her head. Mom turns her attention to Jordan. “Mr. Summers. I trust you’re keeping a good eye out for these ladies?”
    “Yes, Nurse Killian.” I can’t tell if