Then Jamie says, wrinkling her nose, “What’s that supposed to be?”

For some reason—maybe a desire to prove I’d survived this year despite her best efforts—I’ve included photos of the damage to my locker. A shot of Jamie sneering as she said something awful about me to Nikki and Angel. One of Josh looking menacing as he watched me when he thought I didn’t notice. And a collage of all the comments people had made about me on Facebook and elsewhere with the picture of me and the faceless Blake in the center. My mom was right. Photoshop was handy.

An uncomfortable silence falls over the room. I’d taken these pictures without ever planning to show them to anyone. George had taught me to always have my camera ready, then let my instincts take over. My instincts had made a record of what happened to me—the good and the bad.

“We should delete those,” Jamie says, reaching for the mouse. “I told you she was a wreck.”

Mr. Horowitz politely but firmly intervenes. “Miss Winter-burn, I asked Miss Quinn to share all her photos. Not just the pretty ones she thought we’d print.”

Jamie’s jaw drops, and I realize my own mouth has fallen open too. I try to hide a small smile, but I can’t help it. I’m savoring this moment.

Mr. Horowitz leaves up the collage, and then turns his heavy gaze on my classmates. They shift and fidget to varying degrees, and he lingers longest on Jamie. “What don’t you like about these pictures, Miss Winterburn? Is it because they don’t show us as the best version of ourselves?”

Frustration colors her cheeks a brilliant red, and Jamie looks away, refusing to answer. Mr. Horowitz finally closes out the screen and rises. I’m about to go back to my desk when he holds a hand out to me.

“Miss Quinn, you once said that I didn’t know you. I’m very sorry for that.”

I give an unsteady nod and shake his hand.

He smiles and adds, “Please tell me you’re going to do something with all this talent. I’m going to be sick if you tell me you’re planning to be an accountant.”

I smile back. “I got accepted into Boston University’s photojournalism program.”

“Ah! War correspondent?” he guesses, his brows disappearing into his curly mane.

I nod, pleased he remembered our conversation on the bus and my passion for telling the stories of our soldiers.

“Congratulations. I see great things in your future.”

Mr. Horowitz claps his hands, bringing the moment to an end. He whips our class back into action, dividing everyone into teams to go through the photos and decide which ones should go where.

After class, I rush out, intending to find Blake.

Jamie’s voice stops me. “You don’t deserve it.”

I spin to face her. Everything about her is brittle and cruel. I don’t ask what she means, but she continues anyway.

“To profit from what you did to Carey. You don’t deserve it. Not that college or the attention.”

On our field trip, Blake told me that I egged her on. He’s right. She pushes, and I push back. I don’t need to do that anymore. Jamie doesn’t matter. With everything she has going for her, she’s loved a boy who would never love her back. Maybe she’s moved on now with Jimmy Manning, the boy she kissed on the bus. Then again, she’s always loved Carey, even when she dated others. Jamie’s stuck in this ghost world, and I’m busting out.

I smile, and she looks wary. I think, Just try to stop me from taking what I want.

In the end, all I say is “Good-bye, Jamie,” before leaving her behind.

*   *   *

I find Blake at the auto shop.

He’s lying on his back on a dolly with only his feet visible like the Ford 4Runner’s eating him alive. After a quick glance around for Mr. Breen, I bend down to tug on his leg to get his attention. A thud followed by a curse bursts from under the hood.

I almost giggle, but the glare on his face when he rolls out the dolly stops me.

“Q, you scared the shit out of me. I thought I was alone.”

“Sorry.”

He sits up, rubbing his head, and I watch him, trying to gauge his mood.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey.”

Blake stands and walks over to the counter against the wall that’s covered with tools. He picks up a dirty rag, wiping grease from his fingers. I’m at a loss. When he left me Monday morning, everything was good between us. More than good.

“Everything okay?” I ask hesitantly. “You seem upset.”

“I’m fine,” he says, but he doesn’t sound believable.

When I called and left messages during the past few days, I thought maybe he was too busy with the Breens and work to call back. Maybe I’d been too caught up with George to notice when he didn’t return my messages. Now it occurs to me that I should have paid more attention.

“What’s going on, Blake?”

He sighs. “Nothing, Q. I told you. I’m just busy. I have two more cars to look at after this truck, and I’m a little shorthanded.”

I try again. “So, let me help. Tell me what to do.”

“And if Mr. Breen shows up?” he asks. “Listen, I have a lot to do. I’ll call you later.”

“Wow.” I stand, shoving my hands into my pockets so I won’t hit him. He sounds dismissive, as if I’m some girl making an unwanted pass. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“What did you expect?” he says belligerently. “I work here. This is the Breens’ shop. Did you think we’d kiss and hug and be the perfect couple?”