Monday morning comes and it’s all I can do to drag myself out of bed when the dog alarm goes off; it’s all I can do to get myself dressed for school. I don’t even bother with brushing my hair one hundred strokes.
“What’s wrong?” my dad asked me when he picked me up from Jessup’s party.
“What’s wrong?” he asks me now as we eat breakfast; or rather, he eats while I just sit.
But I don’t tell him, won’t tell him, can’t tell him:
I was wrong about Lucius.
Lucius is just as crazy as everyone else said he was.