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“Went for a walk,” I say, peeling off my gloves. “Fresh air.”
“With Daneca?” Sam asks.
I frown. “What?”
“I know you took her out in that new, fancy car of yours. You got her in trouble, man.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that.” Then I grin. “But it was kind of funny. I mean, she never does anything bad, and now she’s cutting class, getting thrown in jail…”
Sam isn’t smiling. “You’re going to treat her the same way you treated Audrey, aren’t you? Barely noticing if you hurt her. I always knew Daneca liked you. Girls like you, Cassel. And you ignore them. And then they like you more.”
“Hey,” I say. “Wait a minute. She skipped class because she was miserable over you. We talked about you.”
“What did she say?” I can’t tell if he believes me, but at least I’ve distracted his focus.
I sigh. “That you’re a bigot who doesn’t want to date a worker girl.”
“I’m not!” Sam says. “That’s not even why I’m mad at her.”
“I told her that.” I chuck a pillow at him. “Just before we leaped into each other’s arms and made out passionately, like weasels on Valentine’s Day, like those really magnetic magnets, like greased-up eels—”
“Why am I your friend?” Sam moans, flopping back onto the bed. “Why?
A knock on the door startles us just before our hall master jerks it open. “Is there a problem? Lights-out was fifteen minutes ago. Keep it down in here and go to sleep or I’m giving you both a Saturday detention.”
“Sorry,” we both mumble.
The door closes.
Sam snickers and pitches his voice low. “Okay, fine. I get it. I’m insecure. But look, girls aren’t exactly getting in line, you know? And then there’s Daneca, and I figure she’s too good for me so there has to be some kind of catch, and then there is. She’s hiding that she’s a worker. She doesn’t trust me. She’s not taking me seriously.”
“You ignoring Daneca is making you both insane,” I say. “She made a mistake. I’ve made plenty of mistakes. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t like you. It means she wants you to like her and she thought she had to lie to make that happen. Which makes her less perfect, sure. But isn’t that a relief?”
“Yeah,” he says quietly, his pillow half-covering his mouth. “I guess. Maybe I should talk to her.”
“Good,” I say. “I need you to be happy. I need one of us to be happy.”
* * *
It’s a dream. I’m pretty sure it’s a dream, but I am back in my grandfather’s basement in Carney, lying on top of Lila, and my hands are tightening on her arms, and it’s really hard to concentrate on anything but the smell of her hair and the feel of her skin. Except then I look down at her and she’s staring up at the ceiling, her face slack and pale.
And in the dream I lean down to kiss her anyway, even though I can see that her neck is slit with the worker’s smile, cut too deep, running with blood. Even though she’s dead.
Then I’m teetering on the roof of my old dorm, slate tiles biting into the pads of my feet. Leaves rustle overhead. I look down at the empty quad, just like I did last spring.
This time I jump.
* * *
I’m awake, sweating through the sheets, hating myself for the hot shudder that’s running through my body. On the other side of the room, Sam is snoring gently.
I reach for my cell phone before I think better of it.
Stop it, I type to Lila.
What? she texts back a moment later. She’s awake.
And then I’m pushing open the window and sneaking out to the quad in the middle of the night, in just a T-shirt and boxers. It’s stupid, stupid like driving off campus with no plan. I’m acting like I want to get caught, like I want someone to stop me before I have to make the decisions I am careening toward.
