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“She wants you for our yearbook staff,” Nash said, and flinched as Angie elbowed him in the side.
“You didn’t let me sell it,” she said.
“The play starts in forty-five,” Nash said. “We don’t have that kind of time.”
Angie rolled her eyes and dug into her bag. “Fine.” She pulled out a yearbook from last year and slid it across the table. “As we discussed earlier, college apps are the thing now and you need extra-curriculars, right?”
I nodded, flipping open the glossy book of photos. “My dad commanded it, so it shall be.”
“So?” Angie clapped her hands. “To paraphrase The Breakfast Club, are we not exceptional in that capacity?”
“Maybe,” I said, flipping through the pages.
I had zero interest in being on the yearbook staff. Or a cheerleader again. Or obeying my dad’s edicts at all. I looked at the faces in the photos—students laughing together, working on projects, singing in talent shows and winning ribbons for science fair exhibits. An entire book dedicated to normal kids doing normal things. I knew many of them—probably more than I could guess—had their own horrible shit to contend with, but they looked so much better at moving past it than I was.
I wasn’t moving at all.
A waitress took our order, and I went back to browsing the yearbook while the others chatted around me. I turned to a page of Harmony community activities. And there was Isaac Pearce onstage. Frozen in a dramatic black and white shot. I leaned closer.
“Why, Miss Holloway,” Angie said. “We’re becoming awfully curious about Mr. Pearce, are we not?”
I ignored her and scanned the photos of Isaac with captions beneath each: Angels in America, Buried Child, All My Sons.
“He’s been doing this a long time?” I asked.
“Since grade school,” Angie said.
“Oh, I see,” Nash said with a roll of his eyes. “Tonight isn’t arts appreciation, it’s inducting a new member into the Isaac Pearce Fan Club.” He looked at his girlfriend. “I hope you told New Blood she’s barking up the wrong tree.”
“I’m not barking up any tree,” I said, a deep ache clanging in my heart. The idea of being with a guy, ever again, was repellent. Having him stand close to me. Being in the closed confines of his car for a date. Being kissed. Or touched. A boy’s body pressed close to mine and not knowing its intentions. Or its power.
I shut the yearbook with a snap, cutting off both the visual of Isaac and the thoughts that could send me into a level-10 panic attack.
“He’s pretty to look at,” Jocelyn was saying, “but a serial college-girl screwer. He won’t even look at us children.”
“Children?” I said. “He’s our age.”
They all shook their heads.
“No?”
“No. His mom died when he was eight,” Angie said. “He stopped speaking for, like, six months or something, and had to be held back a year.”
I frowned. “He stopped talking for six whole months?”
Angie nodded. “Maybe longer. He was in our third-grade class. Before he got pulled it was weird to see a little boy—what…? Eight years old? Not saying a word?” She shook her head. “Poor guy.”
My mind conjured a little blond boy with smoky green eyes having the words punched right out of him by his tragedy. “What got him talking again?”
“Miss Grant, the fourth-grade teacher, directed a little show and convinced him to be in it.” Angie raised her hands. “The rest is history.”
I nodded slowly. She gave him someone else’s words to speak.
“But he lost a year of school,” Nash said.
Caroline nodded. “He’s eighteen. No, wait…” She counted on her fingers. “He’s probably nineteen by now, right?”
“That’s got to be hard,” I said.
