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"You can't, you gotta be here when Gabbie gets out of rehab."
"What?" I yelp, leaping to my feet again, starting my scramble right back up. "Oh fuck, what did she do?"
"Nothing. Mom's lawyer said it was voluntary. And it's some swank rehab in Saint Augustine. He said she's gonna be there awhile. I almost turned down Princeton because of it, but the lawyer said I had to go. It's for the best."
I'm so confused. Mom doesn’t have a lawyer. That costs money. Rehab costs money. I don't care what this man is telling Kyla, Ivy League schools cost money. I stare down at my fingernails, and those cost money, too. It took the lady three hours to get them to look this good, and I know I'm going to ruin them the moment I return to my real life.
Or whatever I'm returning to, because none of this sounds real to me.
What is real, though, is the pregnancy test my hand rests next to and the second line coming in faintly.
Positive.
