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mean we’re hanging out, or . . . ?”
    My heart starts racing so fast that I’m afraid to say anything for fear it’ll jump out my throat and fall onto the floor. Is he seriously asking me out? And then reality strikes: What if he wants to come over again, and this time actually come inside?
    I picture my mom all boozed up in her bathrobe, swirlingice in her glass, rattling a bottle of Ambien in her pocket like a hidden maraca.
    “We can’t go to my house,” I blurt.
    “Good!” he says a little too quickly (not that I blame him), then follows with, “I mean, I already had something else in mind. Meet me in front of my house tomorrow? Around eleven?”
    “All right.”
    The creak of a metal door opening at the end of the hall breaks the echo between our voices.
    “Gold!”
    Evan’s hand slips from the locker, and I can see his silhouette stiffen like a soldier coming to attention. The door momentarily blocks the sun’s glare, and I can make out Evan’s adorable profile, even with Coach Tarza’s stubby neck competing for space.
    “You planning on joining us for class today, Rookie, or spending the whole period flirting in the hall?”
    “Just on my way in, Coach,” he says, breezing past Coach Tarza with only a glance back at me. And it was probably my imagination, but I swear I saw him flash me a wink.
    “How ’bout you, Ms. David? Trying to set a record for most Sweeps in one semester?”
    “Nope!”
    I spin toward Mrs. Dodd’s classroom, practically tripping over my own ankle. When I get there, I swing open the door, slamming it into its doorstop and shocking the entire class—including Mrs. Dodd—into rapt attention. All eyes are on me sweating with God-knows-what expression all over my face.
    “Sophie, just in time,” Mrs. Dodd practically sings.
    I slide into the closest chair and crack open my copy of As I Lay Dying , wanting desperately to lose myself in the strange poetics of William Faulkner.
    “Now, we were just about to get into the mother’s role in the lives of her sons,” Mrs. Dodd recaps for the class, but really I know it’s for my benefit since I’m late. “Who can tell me why the kids continue on this journey to bury their mother?”
    “Because it’s their mom,” someone speaks up.
    “But what about that relationship keeps them going?” Mrs. Dodd presses.
    “Because love isn’t always about sparks and tears and all that,” I find myself saying.
    “Go on, Sophie,” Mrs. Dodd encourages me in her quiet, motherly voice, a voice that I shouldn’t be hearing in the classroom, but at home.
    “Because sometimes things happen in your family that are out of your control. They happen to you or around you, andsometimes you just do things your family needs you to do, like keeping your mouth shut instead of saying something that’ll only start a fight, because if you actually stopped to think about it, you’d realize how pointless life is.”
    Mrs. Dodd says something about what I just said, something that I’m sure would be encouraging if I were in any frame of mind to listen. But I don’t want to think about family and obligation and keeping my shit together right now. I want to think about whatever Evan Gold is planning for tomorrow, and why the hell he’d want to plan it for me.
    Nell David
    November 12
    I met someone today. It’s not often that I can say that. This place isn’t exactly known for its social scene. Dr. Keller says making sarcastic remarks is a defense mechanism. I imagine he’ll read this at some point. It’s not like I have any expectation of privacy in here. I hope he reads this and understands it’s not a defense mechanism, it’s me giving him the finger. I can’t really see how journaling is much different from talking to myself, and isn’t that exactly the kind of behavior that lands a person in a place like this? Whatever. The orderlies say a lot of things that are supposed to explain away questions like that, but mostly, they provide