He says I’m his. His forever.
—Page 18 of Tessa Waye’s diary
Suicide.
At first, I’m gaping because I can’t believe it, and, then I’m gaping because I’m struggling to breathe.
Suicide? No way.
“No. You’re wrong—she’s wrong. There has to be some mistake.”
“Wick, I’m really sorry. I didn’t think. Please. Sit down.”
Sit down? I’m not—I glance down. Blink. Well, look at that. I am standing.
I’m also making a scene. Across the computer lab, Mrs. Lowe’s homeroom students are trickling in. Gazes slide in our direction.
Find me.
But I can’t. I’m too late. Poor Tessa.
“Wick?” Griff edges close. Too close.
Well, shit, now I really can’t breathe. I need to get out of here. I need to focus. Why would Tessa commit suicide? And why the hell would someone leave me her diary?
“Wick!” Griff’s long fingers circle my wrist. The touch burns me straight to my bones. “Are you okay?”
What? I look at him and regret it. I recognize the expression twisting up his features. Griff thinks, because he knows about my mom, he knows about me. He thinks he understands—that he gets me.
He so doesn’t. I’m not even sure I do.
“What’s going on here?” Mrs. Lowe—red-eyed and rumpled—elbows her way through the students now staring at us. She takes one look at me and grabs my sleeve. “Miss Tate, are you sick?”
No, but I’m going to be if you don’t move. The woman’s breath reeks of coffee. As much as I love caffeine, I almost gag.
“It’s my fault.” Griff eases himself in between us, and for a moment, all I can see is how his shoulder blades press through his faded polo. “I told her about Tessa.”
The teacher’s eyelids squeeze shut like she’s making a birthday wish. “You poor thing. I guess you would’ve found out sooner or later. Principal Matthews didn’t want to break it to everyone like this, but Miss Maxwell’s already told half the school. Here. Sit down.” She pushes me into my seat, pins me with one hand. “You look horrible.”
Gee, thanks. “I’m—”
“You look like you’re about to have a panic attack.”
“No, she’s just . . .” Griff trails off, which is far better for him than he realizes. If he had agreed with Mrs. Lowe, he’d be waving good-bye with a stump.
“Is it a panic attack, dear?” Our teacher peers into my face again, and for the first time, I notice how her makeup is smeared from tears. “Do you need a paper bag?”
Seriously? I stare at her and try to formulate some sort of response. Yes, I was kind of hyperventilating. No, I’m not having a panic—
Wait a minute.
“Yes, ma’am.” I rub my breastbone like my chest is shrinking and try to look ill. “Yes, I am. I think I’m going to be sick.”
Mrs. Lowe nods like this stuff is totally normal, like it’s just another day in the Wick Tate Neighborhood. It kind of makes me hate her.
“Do you want to go to the nurse?” she asks.
Hell yes, I do. The nurse, the moon, the ninth circle of hell, I don’t care where I go as long as I’m away from the feeling of Griff’s hands and everyone else’s stares. I need space, and the nurse’s office will have to do.
I shove myself up, stabbing both palms into the desktop. Mrs. Lowe steps back, but Griff gets closer, and heat swallows my neck.
“I’ll go with you.”
The hell you will. I jerk my elbow away, not realizing until now he was holding it—he was holding me. “I’m fine.”
“You look like you’re going to faint.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat, amazed the sentence can even make it out of my mouth. My teeth are clenched. “I just need to go to the nurse’s office. She’ll know what to do.”
I don’t wait for them to agree. I push my way past them, even though Griff reaches for me like he doesn’t want me to go, and Mrs. Lowe is screeching about a hall pass. I shoulder my bag and run for the door.
In the hallway, everyone’s pairing off, clumping into groups so they can hug and cry.
Not a single person notices as I weave past. I’ve never been more grateful.
Nurse Smith’s office is near the front of the school, part of the campus I carefully avoid because of its close proximity to the principal’s office. And the attendance office. And the counselors’ office.
You can probably see the theme here. I’m not a big fan of authority figures, and they’re not a big fan of me, either. But even though I’m not very familiar with this side of the school, it’s easy to find the glass door to Nurse Smith’s office, because it’s crawling with people.
Good God, they’ve brought in reinforcements.
Counselors, from the well-adjusted look of them. It’s almost enough to make me turn around, but Nurse Smith sees me first. “Wicket?”
Great. We’ve never met, but the nurse knows me on sight. My charming reputation must precede me.
Nurse Smith presses one hand to my forehead. “You look pale, Wicket. Are you about to be sick?”
No . . . well . . . maybe. I haven’t decided yet. There’s a migraine starting to bloom behind my left eye.
“Sick to my stomach,” I say.
One of the counselors comes forward. She’s wearing a man’s dress shirt and looks like she purchases cat food in bulk. “The principal said we could start working with the students. Does she need one of us?”
“No,” I announce, a little loudly for someone who’s supposed to be nauseous, but whatever.
Nurse Smith waves off the other woman and steers me into a chair by her desk. “Sit here. I’ll get you a wet washcloth.”
Yeah, sure, fine. I rub my temples while the five counselors watch with interest. They look primed and ready to save the world, one hysterical student at a time.
“Wicket,” Nurse Smith says. “Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. Don’t think about the nausea. Find your center.”
Great. Give the woman some glasses and a notebook and she could be Dr. Norcut, the psychiatrist Bren sends me to. I suck air in through my nose, count to five (get bored by three), and blow everything out my mouth.
“Now.” The nurse sits down in the chair next to me, hands me the washcloth. “Tell me what happened.”
I spend a minute wiping and re-wiping my face, because if she makes me answer, I don’t actually know what I’ll say. I mean, where do I begin? Eleven years ago when my dad started cooking meth in our garage? Four years ago when they found my mom at the bottom of a building? Or does it just go back to this morning, when I found out someone knows about my hacking and left me Tessa’s diary?
I shake my head like I have no idea, but behind my eyes, Find me glows.
Nurse Smith shifts closer. She pats my hand, but her fingers just end up bouncing off my knotted fists. “Did you know Tessa?”
I nod, but it feels like a lie. This shouldn’t hurt like it does. Even though we were in the same grade, Tessa and I haven’t spoken in years. She is . . . was popular. I’m not. She was from a prominent family, and I’m not. It sounds like a stupid divide some after-school special could fix, but it isn’t. Even if her father hadn’t decided my dad was dangerous and I was trash, we still wouldn’t be friends. She would have left me.
Another reason it’s pathetic I still miss her.
“Wick,” Nurse Smith continues. “The police ruled it a suicide, and we were going to break it to the students with the help of counselors, but . . .” She pans both hands apart in a helpless gesture. “It sort of got away from us. I’m so sorry you’re upset. Did you know Tessa well? Did you notice changes in her?”
“Nothing was any different,” I manage. In fact, Tessa and I were exactly like we’d been for the past five years.
“Did she tell you anything about how she was feeling?”
“No . . . nothing like that.” But she used to. We used to tell each other everything, but even before Tessa’s death, I was the only one who remembered that.
Nurse Smith goes quiet, and for a long moment, we just watch the counselors prepare their grief management booklets and business cards.
“You’re hurting pretty badly, aren’t you, dear?”
I have no idea what to say, but I sneak a look at her anyway. Nurse Smith takes it as an agreement. Her eyes go all crinkly.
“Honey, you got a lot going on.”
You have no idea. I stuff a growl down my throat. Nurse Smith doesn’t have a clue, and that’s the point. It means I’m doing well at keeping my hacking secret. No one knows.
Right?
“Maybe you should take some time off.”
Not a bad thought. I keep staring at the floor. This is all I can really concentrate on anyway, but from the sound of it, Nurse Smith is heading somewhere good with this time-off stuff.
Even if I’m not looking at her, I can feel her worry. It’s in the way she touches my shoulder, in the way her voice rounds and softens. She feels sorry for me and I don’t want any part of it, but then, suddenly, I see the pity as a way to escape.
“Of course this would upset you. It’s totally understandable after . . . well, you know . . . your mama and all.”
There’s another pause. She wants me to spill, but I won’t. I focus on where her white sneakers meet the floor and think maybe I won’t have to. For once, there’s no reason for me to lie.
My dad taught me this trick. People hate silence. They will, almost always, fill it up. If you remember that, their need can become your leverage. It’s another angle you can work.
So right now I will say nothing, and the nurse will fill up the gap with something. I just have to hope it’s something I want.
Nurse Smith’s hand slows . . . pauses between my shoulder blades. “Would you like to go home?”
Bingo.