“My mom’s idea of good music is Blake Shelton,” Lola says, as dry as toast.
I rinse the soap from my hands.
The lights flicker overhead.
I glance up at them, then back at the mirror and gasp—an intake of breath so loud and sharp, Lola brings her bare foot to the bathroom floor and makes a very R-rated exclamation.
I spin around, then look back at the mirror, my heart galloping.
Rafe.
I just saw Rafe.
He was right behind me in the mirror.
“What is wrong with you?” Lola asks.
I swallow, unable to find my voice. Or get a handle on my heart rate. I want Lola to leave. I want to shut off the lights, stare into the mirror, and say his name three times like Bloody Mary. I want him to come back. I want him to tell mewhat he’s doing. Why does he keep appearing like this?
But Lola isn’t leaving.
She’s too busy gawking.
I tear off some paper towels, dry my shaking hands, toss them in the bin, and step out into the empty hallway. I hurry to a nearby display case and stand in front of the tempered glass, willing Rafe to come back.
But only my vague reflection blinks back at me.
Frustrated, I bypass Langley’s classroom and head instead to the library. I stop in front of a shelf filled with yearbooks. I remove the one with my mother and flip to the staff photos in the back. My mother was here, thirty years ago. Was anyone else? If so, did they know her? Would they remember her? I don’t come across a single familiar face until I reach the Ws.
“Mrs. Wilch,” I whisper.
One of the English teachers.
According to her byline, she also oversawthe poetry club.
Goosebumps march up my arms.
I return the yearbook and hurry upstairs to the English department before Mr. Langley or Jude come searching for me.
She has no class in session.
Just an open door, a room full of empty tables arranged in a horseshoe, and faded literary posters lining the walls. Mrs. Wilch sits at her desk, eating a sandwich while grading a stack of essays.
I knock on her half-opened door.
She looks up.
“Hi,” I say. “My name’s Selah.”
“Hi, Selah,” she replies, her attention dropping to my hand, as though looking for a note or a pass. Perhaps I’m an office runner with a message. When she sees neither, her attention returns to my face. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“You used to be in charge of the poetry club,” I say.
“The poetry club.” Her expression goes soft and dreamy. She sets her sandwich on a napkin and folds her hands on top of the essays. “Not many people remember that club. It didn’t last very long. Poetry is a dying art, I’m afraid.”
“Do you remember a student named Clara Green?”
Mrs. Wilch blinks a few times, then gazes upward as though trying to recall.
