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I ignored her dry tone. “Apparently enough of my schoolmates had skipped an MMR that we were below the herd immunity threshold.” Money still did not buy sense. I hesitated, debating, but I could tell Dr. Croft the rest of the reason. I just couldn’t look at her while I did it. I tried to focus on the donuts on the table and not the mental image of Greg Champlain on oxygen. “My best friend was hospitalized.”
“Did he pull through?” Her voice was as hushed as mine had grown.
“Yeah, he did. But his parents transferred him to a school stateside.” That was as much as I could allow. I folded my arms across my chest, like that could hold back the rest of the memory, like it would protect me from showing exactly how deeply this cut, far beyond the scars on my lungs.
Dr. Croft crept cautiously toward the facts as if she were taking a particularly precarious patient history. “Did you catch it?”
I nodded, focusing on the fries.
“Bad?”
Another quick nod.
Dr. Croft reached across the table to place a hand on my arm. Her touch was warm and steadying but also oddly electric. I hadn’t forgotten how pretty her eyes were, a very specific shade of golden amber brown.
This wasn’t just a meeting or a meal. Now this was a moment. Maybe the first moment of something more.
“Did you get sent home too?” Her voice was soft.
I shook my head. “Greg wasn’tsenthome; hegotto go home. His parents wanted him nearby.”
This was too much—too close. If I let any more of this story slip past my defenses, even Cassidy Croft wouldn’t want to come within twenty feet of the task force. I knew all too well how quickly people rejected the broken, bedridden boy I’d been. I had to lighten the mood, now.
I looked up and put on my bestMonty Pythonaccent. “I got bettah.”
Dr. Croft watched me for a second that felt like a year. “Well,” she said at last, “‘If you ever need me, just make a call. I’m still here.’”
A chill crossed my back, and I jerked away from her fingers. I knew those words. If she’d wanted a way to put me off, she’d found it.
She could not seriously be quoting Harper Tyne to me. “What did you say?”
“You know,” she tried. “The song?”
I sighed. Or maybe it was more of a scoff. Or a groan. Of course I knew the song, deep cut though it was. You had to be a serious fan—or seriously trying to anticipate the next move of her destructive fanbase—to know that one.
Of all the hospitals in all the Philadelphias, I had to be teamed up with a Tynie for the task force. What did Dr. Croft expect, I was going to introduce her to someone whose fandom tried to terrorize me? Or did she mean to make me miserable for all of my brother’s cheating?
“What?” Dr. Croft asked.
Time to set the record straight. I sat up, propping both of my elbows on the table. “I have never even met her, but if anything, you should be thanking me. Well,him.”
“What?”
“Tear Down the Toweris her best album ever.”
Dr. Croft looked incredulous. I could guess what she was thinking: a true fan liked her before she was that popular.
How had I told her about myself as a lonely, broken little boy? It was a good thing I hadn’t let her get any closer. That was all anyone ever wanted from me these days: Everett.
And I definitely wouldn’t make that mistake again. “For your information, she hadn’t written so much as a verse while she was with Everett.”
“Your brother,” Dr. Croft managed. As if she didn’t know who he was all along. She was probably hoping for an introduction to him, too.
I couldn’t contain my sarcasm. “Yeah, that dude. Clearly you’ve heard of him.”
“Just because your brother is famous doesn’t mean I have any interest in the ins and outs of his life.” Dr. Croft poked the table to punctuate her point.
Right. “That’s what they all say, and yet somehow everything still revolves around him.” No task force was worth this. I stood and pushed the remaining donuts toward her. “Enjoy your food.” I turned on my heel and started for the door.
