Page 37 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

Miles: Did you remember your library keys, your lunch, and the thing you told me last night you absolutely could not forget today?

Reese: Keys? Yes. Lunch? Not the best I’ve ever made, but yes. Mystery important thing? This feels like a pop quiz.

Miles: The permission slips for the student aides’ book fair trip that you accidentally brought home.

My attention whips back toward the kitchen and the stack sitting on the counter. I rush back to get them, send Miles a quick thank-you text, then head out the door.

Do you know what repairs an emotional check engine light? I don’t know. Probably tacos. Maybe therapy. Do you know what doesn’t? Everyone being nice about your shortcomings.

Like when I forget about attending a faculty meeting at 9:30. Marjorie gently (way too gently for Marjorie) reminds me, acting like forgetting is no big deal.

Last week, I promised Mateo that I’d order a book that he’s been dying to read, which I forgot about not even a full minute later, when a student urgently needed to know, with bookish proof, if snakes can sneeze. When Mateo comes in today, he asks me when the book should arrive, and I have to tell him that I haven’t ordered it. He just smiles and says, “It’s okay.”

Then, I accidentally double-booked the library for two teachers, and they both show up with their classes. Instead of those teachers getting upset, they exchange a glance, then one of them says, “We’ll make it work.”

And I lose my keys again. Violet finds them in the basket behind the counter that is labeled Things That Don’t Belong Here, and brings them to me, grinning.

Everyone being nice should make me feel better. It doesn’t. It makes me feel worse, because all I’m seeing, over and over, is people needing to rescue me.

Toward the end of my lunch, I head to the copy room. When I’m almost to the door, I hear one of the teachers inside say, “Reese is wonderful.”

Another teacher says, “She really is.”

Then the first teacher says, “You just have to remember to remind her a couple of times.”

I stand there, feeling struck for a few seconds. The fact that it’s true is what hurts. I really didn’t want to hear it confirmed, out loud. I don’t even go into the copy room—I just head back into the library.

I stay until well past the time I should’ve been off, figuring that if I get more organized around here, maybe people won’t have to cover for me so much. I stay so late that my empty stomach starts to protest, and I end up eating an expired protein bar I found in my desk.

When I get home, finally, Charlie is home, and Owen is over. They’re making cookies and are dusted with flour, but I must look awful, because Charlie comes right over to me to ask if I’m okay.

“I’m just tired,” I tell her. So tired, in fact, that I couldn’t even come up with some joking or lighthearted way to say it. Not really the easiest way to convince someone that I’m fine.

I head upstairs to my room and close the door. It’s not that any one thing about today was particularly bad. It’s more like every small thing over the past two days has been stacking on top of each other, building a tower of evidence that loving me is extra work.

After changing into an oversized sweatshirt and leggings, I flop onto my bed. Almost immediately, thoughts pop into my head of Arthur remembering what I love most about my job. Of Elizabeth remembering that I love bees. Of her thinking about me enough to buy me a gift not only when I was thousands of miles away, but also when I’m not a big part of her life at all.

All of Miles’s family remembers each other, supports each other, chooses each other. And I spent the entire day needing reminders. People literally have to remember things for me.

I have no idea how long I’ve been home, wallowing—thirty minutes? An hour?—when I get a knock on my bedroom door.

I don’t even get off my bed. I just call out, “Please don’t tell me that you made Owen leave so you could come cheer me up. I’m fine.” Plus, that would make me feel even worse. Charlie doesn’t get much time with Owen, and I don’t want to be the reason why she gets even less.

But it’s not Charlie’s voice that responds. “Can I come in?” Miles says.

“Um. Yeah,” I say, sitting up, swinging my legs off the edge of the bed, and running my hands through my hair.

Miles opens my door, and I say, “Did we have plans? Did I forget?”

“No. You weren’t responding to my texts.”

I immediately look all around for my phone, patting the bed around me as I do. I didn’t realize I didn’t have my phone with me. Did I leave it downstairs? In my car?

Miles sits on my bed right beside me. “And then Charlie texted to say that you’re not doing so well.”

I specifically didn’t message Miles about my woes because I don’t want to have a meltdown in his presence. I like showing people the fun side of me. I rarely cry, and never in front of people. I don’t want Miles around when my emotions are so raw that his asking the worst possible question to a girl barely holding herself together—Are you okay?— might open the floodgates.

“She’s such a traitor,” I say.