“No, no one else. I was the only one from my school who applied,” says a gently lilting voice. “What about you?”
“So was I,” says another girl.
“I was beyond ready to leave Whitefish, Montana: population one thousand,” says the musical voice as one of the shower faucets turns on.
“One thousand?Are you serious?” asks the other girl, who speaks in a slow drawl. A second showerhead gets going.
“That’s what it feels like, but it’s technically like eight thousand.” It’s harder to hear Whitefish’s lilt with the two showers going. “Where are you from?”
“Augusta, Georgia.”
I peel open a pad and adhere it to my underwear.
“Is that the only reason you applied?” asks Augusta. “To leave Montana?” Her voice dips so that I can barely hear her, and something about the way she asks the question makes my hand still on the flush.
“I… This is going to sound weird.”
“Try me,” says Augusta.
“None of my friends understood.” I can’t hear what Whitefish says next because it’s too soft, so I quietly shuffle toward the door and press my ear to it.
“… change schools right before senior year and go to prom and graduation without them.”
“Same!” says Augusta. “My boyfriend even said he’d break up with me if I left, and I did it anyway. As soon as I heard about this place, I felt like—”
“A pull,” says Whitefish, completing her sentence.
“Yeah! Like…” Augusta’s whisper is so low, it’s hard to distinguish from the rushing water. “It was calling to me.”
AFTER CHANGINGinto my uniform, I head back to the room, where I find Tiffany hanging her clothes in one of the two wardrobes.
“You two are already sharing the bunk bed,” she says when she catches me watching, “so I figured you wouldn’t mind sharing a wardrobe.”
Ignoring her, I approach Salma’s mattress on my tiptoes.
“She’s still asleep,” says Tiffany, stating the obvious.
I nudge my best friend’s shoulder gently. “Sal?”
She blinks her eyes open in confusion, and I notice the bags under her eyes. I didn’t realize she was so tired—especially since she slept both on the plane and in the car on the way here. “Time for dinner,” I say.
“Ready.” She sits up with a sudden burst of energy and swings her legs over the ladder to join me on the ground.
“No, you need to change,” says Tiffany.
Bossy Barbie.
“Actually, she doesn’t,” I say, looping an arm around Salma’s elbow.
“You’re going to get in trouble—”
“My mom’sdead.” Salma’s voice catches, and I scowl at Tiffany for making my best friend have to say the words out loud. “I’m grieving, okay?”
I’m surprised she shared that because, before coming here, Sal warned me that she was going to keep her situation to herself. She felt that at our old school, where everyone knew Tía Elena from her years of volunteering, she would be the girl whose mother just died—but here, she could just be Salma.
“I’m sorry,” says Tiffany, her voice deepening with sincerity. “That’s awful.”
“I know,” says Salma, and I squeeze her arm, pulling her closer to me.
