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“Cassia?”
I glance to the left, hastily angling the box I’m holding behind my back.
Mrs. Golden, my American History teacher in high school, is standing at the end of the aisle beside the display of laundry detergent on sale.
“Hi, Mrs. Golden. How are you?”
My manners kick in automatically despite the nerves pinballing around my stomach.
“I’m doing fine, Cassia. How have you been?”
Maybe it’s my guilty conscience, but I swear she glances at my hidden hand.
“Good. I’ve had a nice summer.”
“You’ll be a senior at Richmond, right?”
I nod, surprised and touched she knows that. She’s had a lot of other students besides me. “Right.”
“That’s where Holden Adams ended up as well, correct?”
It’s never really occurred to me before that teachers must hear some of the gossip that circulates through the student body. Partly because I spent most of high school doing nothing that was gossip-worthy.
“Yeah, he did.”
“Do you see each other much?”
I nod. “We’re still together.”
Mrs. Golden smiles. “I had a good feeling about you two. Only thing he aced all semester was the paper you helped him with.”
“Holden wrote that himself,” I say, some ancient—or never-ending—urge to defend him sparking to life.
“Oh, I know.” Mrs. Golden smiles. “It takes a special motivation to get a reliably C-student to turn in A material.”
Her smile fades as she glances down the aisle behind me. This time, she definitely looks at my hand. Silent questions swim in the air between us.
“It’s for a friend,” I blurt. Then wince, because it’s an unnecessary explanation. An answer to a question she didn’t ask.
I don’t owe her anything.
It sounds like a lie. Like an excuse.
And also…a betrayal of Sydney and the assurances I told her earlier.
I’m not perfect. I know I’m not. But I’ve never been able to shake the urge to strive for it. To be responsible and successful and reliable.
“None of my business.” Mrs. Golden grabs an orange bottle of laundry detergent and adds it to her cart. “But if you ever need anything, please reach out. Okay? I know it’s hard to believe, but I was your age once.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Golden.”
She smiles, and I can’t tell if she believes me or not. “Nice to see you, Cassia.”
“You too,” I say as she continues walking.
Then I rush toward the front of the store, relieved to find the self-checkout is open. I quickly pay for the test and then shove it into my bag before leaving.
I was planning to pick up a few toiletries for school while I was here, but my mind is a muddled mess right now. Thelist of items I thought of earlier seem irrelevant. I haven’t fully recovered from the shock of Sydney’s revelations earlier.
