to exert pressure on 
Late Saturday morning, I’m studying math and munching toast at the kitchen table when the phone rings. I ignore it, hoping Joel will pick it up in the den, until the sixth ring.
“Tori Wyatt?” says a woman. “It’s Janice Reese with Glencrest Region News. I wonder if you would—”
“No.” I start to hang up. How did she get our number?
“Wait, please!” Her voice has a catch in it that makes me hesitate. “I’ve covered a lot of stories, and something about this one sticks with me.”
I lean against the side of the fridge, ready to hang up on her any second. “What do you want?”
“I’d like to do a piece on your version of events at Mill Pond Park. Something about what motivates people to take positive action during a crime rather just than watch events unfold. If you’d just consider talking to me?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “You can call my cell anytime.”
She rattles off her number just as the door from the carport opens. Mom pushes into the kitchen, grocery bags in her hands. Dad trails her with more bags. Janice continues yakking. She sounds sincere, but I don’t trust her.
“Sorry, but I can’t help you.” I hang up the phone. Janice Reece reminds me why I’m glad to have a new cell-phone number.
“Who was that?” Mom shoves the bags at me.
“No one important.” I take the bags from her and set them beside the fridge, flinching from the weight on my cast.
Dad kicks off his shoes while Mom lines hers up beside the door. As she and Dad unpack groceries, I put my feet up on a chair and concentrate on my next algebra problem.
“It’s a good thing you’re here,” Mom says as she stacks cans in the corner cupboard. “Your father and I have a proposal for you.”
Oh no. I keep my eyes on my textbook. “I have a lot of studying—”
“It won’t take long, Tori, and it’s important.”
“So is my math exam.”
Dad stops loading the fridge. “Listen to your mother.” His voice is gruff.
“Fine.” I drop my pencil and stare stonily at them.
“We’ve been worried about you for a while now, Tori.” Mom gestures with a can of tuna.
“I keep telling you that there’s nothing wrong. Really. You don’t need to worry.”
“Now, we all know that’s not true. The head shaving? The fights? We’ve tried to get you to open up, but you’re just not talking about whatever’s going on.”
“Nothing’s going on, Mom.” I slouch lower.
“So we want you to see a therapist. I’ve found the perfect one. Maybe when you have someone to talk to—”
“Are you serious?” I straighten up. “I already said I didn’t want to.”
“We’re very serious.” Dad crosses his arms.
“Maybe you should stop interfering and let me figure things out on my own.” My voice is shrill.
“But you haven’t even been seeing your friends,” Mom says. “Alena hasn’t been around in ages. Jamarlo either. And what happened to that nice boy you were dating?”
I flinch. My cheeks get warm. “I’m going to an anti-prom party with everyone,” I say, immediately regretting it. “Is that enough proof that I’m fine?”
Mom sighs. “Tori, just think about it. This therapist is a great fit for you. She’s—”
“I have to study.” I slam my textbook shut and stack it on my binder. “I’ll be in my room.”
After my World History exam on Wednesday, the school hallways are quiet. The teachers are randomly patrolling, hushing anyone who speaks above a whisper, and the kids are either writing like mad in some classroom or studying in the library. I’m tired from trying to stay focused on details that don’t seem to matter, but I still have two exams tomorrow. My head aches, and my eyes are dry. When I get to my locker, Alena’s waiting for me.
“You need to tell Jamarlo about Matt.” She leans against the locker beside mine.
I dial my combination, groaning inwardly. “Let it go, Alena.”
“Tori, he’s one of your best friends. He’d want to know.”
“But I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, trying not to sound harsh. I open my locker and grab my bag. “Besides, he’s been…different ever since that day at the mall.”
“So? If you explain what’s been going on—”
“He’s still upset with me, isn’t he?” I ask, hoping to change the topic.
“A little, maybe.” Alena examines her nails. She hates gossiping about other people, which is one of the reasons I like her.
“Why?” I stare at her nails too. Now they’re painted silver, with blue daisies on the thumbs.
Alena’s dark eyes flash on mine. “Okay, but I’m only discussing this if you promise to talk to him.”
“Fine.” I roll my eyes.
She flips her hair over one shoulder and bends closer, like she doesn’t want anyone to overhear, even though there’s no one in sight. “You humiliated him at the mall with that—”
“Neanderthal?” I suggest.
“Yes, at the dress shop. He needed to deal with it himself.”
“But I was trying to help. That guy was a jerk!”
A line appears on her forehead. “Let me put it like this. You’re tougher than Jamarlo, and he knows it. You shook his confidence.”
I shove my things into my bag, thinking about Jamarlo. “It was such a big deal to him?”
She nods. “He’s a joker, not a fighter. You made him feel like your way is better.”
“It’s not.” I shut my locker. “I’m only acting tough.”
“I don’t know about that,” Alena says. “So when are you going to talk to him?”
I wish she’d stop pressuring me. “Soon,” I say, just as Principal Hendrick rounds the corner, his tie resting on his bulging stomach.
“You girls aren’t supposed to be here.” He shoos us toward the exit.
“We were just leaving.” I’m glad for the interruption.
As he watches us head to the double doors, we pass the posters for the grade-twelve prom. The theme is “Paris Romance,” which makes me want to gag. Of course, there are no posters for the grade-eleven anti-prom: it wouldn’t be subversive if it were advertised at school.
“And you’re coming to the anti-prom, right?” Alena whispers.
I push open the heavy school door. The outside air is oppressively humid, and my head aches even more. “I told my parents I was going.”
“Great!” Alena bounces into the sunshine. “It’s going to be a blast. You’ll be happy you went.”
My stomach compresses into a tight ball. “I hope so.” I plod after her, squinting.
At the shelter later that day, the kids paint cutouts of a paper tree to assemble on the wall. It’s part of Jia’s make-our-own-garden project. Jonah happily paints the trunk with layers of black, gray and blue—the colors of Batman’s cape, according to him. Rachel has painted most of the leaves in shades of green, with Manny’s help, and is now painting red and yellow flowers. Manny tugs on the bottom of my shorts, leaving a splotch of paint behind.
“Can you draw me the shape of a butterfly?” His voice is solemn. “Casey would want Monty to be in our garden.”
“Sure, Manny.” I smile sadly, missing her still. “She’d like that.”
I draw the outline of a butterfly for Manny and then one for me. He paints his butterfly rainbow colors. Mine is decorated with straight, purple lines.
When Rachel sees our butterflies, she makes one too. Even Jonah does, a gray-and-black one that looks somewhat like a bat.
Jia tapes the cutouts to the wall as soon as they’re not dripping. “It’s beautiful!” she exclaims when the wall garden is filled with butterflies.
Rachel nods. “Casey would be happy.”
“She’d love it,” I say. I’m amazed that, after all they’ve been through, these kids radiate such kindness.
“I miss her.” Manny grips my hand.
“We all do, stupid.” Jonah whacks his brother, but not hard enough to earn a time-out from Jia.
“Where do you think Casey is?” Rachel asks.
It’s the same thing I’ve been wondering. What town are they in? Have they found an apartment? Has she made friends at school? What is she doing right now?
“Who knows?” Jia grips her shoulder. “But wherever she is, I’m sure she thinks about you too.”
As Jia begins Homework Club, I take the brushes to the washroom in the hall to clean up. When I look in the mirror, I’m surprised how gray I look, with big circles under my eyes and smudged mascara. My hair has grown to almost half an inch. My cast has paint on it. I don’t look tough, just sad and unkempt. Too pathetic for anti-prom.
My stomach squeezes tighter. Should I shave my head for anti-prom? I can hardly style it when it’s so short. What should I wear? I have to look tough enough to survive anything that might come at me.
I finish washing the brushes and step into the hall, tumbling into Sal, who’s carrying a cardboard box of picture books.
“Whoa, sorry.” He swerves around me. “New donations.” He rattles the box, grinning. “I guess it’s story time.”
I step backward and try to sound cheerful. “Sounds good.”
His grin fades. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“Are you sure? Because you usually clench your jaw like that when you’re upset.”
“I do?”
“Yeah.” Sal puts down the box and leans against the wall. “So what is it? I mean, if you want to talk.”
“Well,” I say, “I’m upset about this party I’ve promised to go to, even though I’d rather avoid it. It’s just going to be…” I trail off, surprised that I’m so comfortable spilling my guts to Sal.
“Does this have anything to do with that guy you’ve been avoiding?”
“A bit.” I stare at him. He remembers that?
“Well, you don’t have to go, but if you do, make sure you’ve got some good friends there to help.”
Like you, I think. But I don’t dare ask him to come with me. I mean, I’d like him there, as a friend, but asking him is too scary, too complicated.
“I will,” I say, and then I duck into the school-age room for the end of Homework Club.
After my shift, I hurry home, heading straight for the upstairs bathroom and Dad’s electric clippers.
I start on my left side. Since I’m using my left hand, I’m a bit sloppy, leaving a shaved patch shaped like a Nike swoosh above my ear. I’m about to shave a second strip when I get an idea.
Using the edge of the clippers, I widen the swoosh into a stylized wing.
Not bad, I think.
I shave the rest of my head down to quarter-inch stubble and then attempt to carve a matching wing on the right side. When I get the wings mostly even, I stand back and take a look.
My stubble sparkles blond in the overhead light. I have to turn sideways to see my wings. One is larger than the other and lopsided.
I practice my don’t-mess-with-me glare in the mirror.
Maybe I can be as strong as Casey thinks I am.