When I open the condo door, Mae’s there with “Where have you been? I’ve been calling for hours.”

I bite my tongue against saying it’s been forty-five minutes since her first call and twenty since I texted her back.

“Is he with you?” she says.

I reply calmly, “If you mean Jesse, he’s gone home to explain to his parents.”

“I said I don’t want you hanging out with him, Skye. He’s the one who got you into this, isn’t he?”

I want to say that Jesse’s the one keeping me sane, but that’ll just start a fight. We’ve already been texting, both of us unable to hold to that “talk tonight” promise, our stream of chatter keeping my mood exactly where it was when we parted.

It reminds me of the time I tried pot—new school, trying to impress. I expected a state of blissful euphoria, like what other kids described. Instead, I threw up. But how I imagined it would be? That’s exactly how I feel right now.

Jesse and I have cleared away the misunderstandings, banished the anxieties of reconnecting and truly reconnected. I feel free. Free and light and giddy, like I’m back behind our old school again, and he’s just asked me to the All-Time Five concert.

I’m not that girl again—I never will be—but I’ve recaptured something, and I want to just calm Mae down, go to my room, lie on the bed and grin like I’m thirteen again, waiting for his text.

“Skye? Are you listening to me?”

I nod and slip past her into the hall, saying, “Let’s go in the living room. I need to talk to you.”

“I should hope so. Suspended? Do you have any idea how serious that is, Skye?”

Again, I resist a retort. Stay mature. Like Jesse said earlier, one of us has to be. I smile at the thought.

“Do you think this is funny, Skye?”

“No, of course not.” I sit on the sofa. “I don’t know what Mr. Vaughn told you, but someone at school has targeted me. Trying to scare me off, I guess. Jesse and I are trying to find the culprit. Right now, we’re—”

“Mr. Vaughn says there was a fire.”

“Yes. Last week. I should have mentioned that, but I was fine. Shaken up mostly. Anyway, after the fire—”

“He thinks you set it.”

“That’s the problem. There weren’t any witnesses. Not surprisingly, given that it happened after school—”

“Mr. Vaughn also says you wrote an article in the school paper, linking to a…to a terribly tasteless video clip.”

By this point, I really want to tell Mae to let me get through my explanation. Or complete a sentence. But I’m still calm, focused, not losing my temper. Staying the course.

“I didn’t write that article or make that clip. The problem is that I’m the one who published the latest edition of the newspaper. Jesse’s looking for evidence of a hack—”

“Mr. Vaughn says there was no hack.”

My temple throbs. One tiny spot, like a needle driving in every time she cuts me off.

“Mr. Vaughn says a lot of things,” I say. “He is convinced I’m staging my own persecution. As for why—”

“He says you’re looking for attention.”

The needle drives in, and my words come out sharper than I intend as I say, “Which I don’t do. You know that.”

“I know you’re very dramatic, Skye. You always have been. Your mother used to joke that the principal had her work number on speed dial.”

The needle explodes to a full-scale spike, and I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing my temper back. “Yes, and the fact she joked about it means it wasn’t serious. I goofed around. I pulled pranks. Sure, some of that was to get laughs, but this is—”

“I know how hard the last few years have been on you, Skye. With your father gone and your mother’s illness and your gran’s stroke, you feel overlooked. Neglected, even.”

“Uh, no, I do not feel—”

She lowers herself beside me on the sofa. “It would be understandable if you did. You’ve been there for everyone, and no one’s been there for you. You’re the child. We’re the adults, and even here, you haven’t had my undivided attention.”

“I don’t need attention, Mae. Undivided or otherwise. I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

“But you shouldn’t have to. You need more, and I would understand if—”

“If I lit a room on fire? Posted a video of the shooting?” My voice rises, and I push to my feet. “I didn’t do this, Mae, but I can see that having a mature conversation about it is out of the question.”

Her voice hardens. “I am having a mature conversation.”

“No, you’re treating me like a kid in need of serious therapy.”

“Well, that’s a starting point.”

I stare at her. Then I head for my room. I won’t escalate this. I won’t.

Mae leaps to her feet and grabs my arm. “Don’t you walk out on me, Skye.”

I spin on her. “You say you’ve neglected me? Newsflash? I’m okay with that. I don’t want to eat whatever organic, free-range crap you call dinner. I don’t want to watch rom-coms. Remember what happened to the Barbies you gave me for Christmas? I turned them into ninja princesses. Not that you paid any attention—ever. You certainly didn’t when we were falling apart, Mom hardly ever getting out of bed and Dad off on business trips screwing his business partner. We lived five miles away, Mae. Five miles. I can’t even remember the last time you checked in on us.”

“I—”

“You were busy. I get it. Now you say you want to help, but do you know what helping would have been? Taking a couple of weeks off and coming to look after Gran when she had her second stroke. Visiting just long enough to assure child services that everything was fine. If you couldn’t find time for that, then maybe you could have listened when I begged—begged—not to come back here. But no, this is what I needed. To return to a town and a school where my brother was part of a school shooting. Where every day I see people who knew the victims, and others who think having me in Riverside is an outrage to the victims. People shove it in my face, and then tell me I’m masterminding my own fake persecution. You wanted me to toughen up, Mae? Well, I’m sorry to break it to you, but I’m not that tough. I’m just not.”

I stride to my room and close the door behind me.