“And snobbery,” I mutter.

“Regardless,” he talks over me. “It’s too late. I’ve already applied you for Harvard, Yale, and Stanford.”

“What?” I bristle. “How –”

“Your father was very accommodating. He only wants the best for you, and provided all your personal information.”

“But, my required essay –”

“I pulled a few spectacularly funny yet poignant and observant essays from your English and World History classes. They fit nicely.”

“My SAT scores –”

He holds up a paper. “Your father informed me you took the ACT before you left Florida, at his behest. You never got the scores because you moved, but your aunt sent them along. Take a look.”

Four massive, black numbers glare back at me; 32, 35, 33, and 9

“Exemplary scores across the board! Marvelous. You must have been in a much better state of mind for that test.”

“I can’t –” I’m speechless. “Where do you get off deciding where I should go to college?”

“Your father also told me you’re a particularly dutiful daughter, and that your mother is going through a rough patch in life. Trust me when I say I understand –”

“Do you?” I snarl. “I doubt that, baldy.”

He smiles patiently. “I had a father who was ill. Cancer. I stayed behind for three years while my friends went off to college to take care of him. He kept telling me to leave, but I couldn’t bring myself to. When he died the guilt that I couldn’t save him crushed me. But the way he told me he was proud of me – me, the boy who worked gas station night shifts – that he was proud of me, that made me feel even guiltier.”

I go quiet, my rage simmering instead of bubbling. I had no idea Evans had a life like that.

“So what, you tell me your whole sobby life story and I feel sorry for you and decide to go Stanford, is that it?” I ask quietly.

“No. I just wanted to tell you that I understand. I know what it’s like, to be kept against your will, even if your heart wants to stay. You’ve written the idea of going out of state completely. You’re willing to settle for a school that wouldn’t challenge you, just to take care of someone you love.”

I clench my fist around the armchair. Evans smiles.

“Sometimes, we can’t do the things we want to do for ourselves. Sometimes we wait for someone else to do them. You can’t always wait like that. You have to seek out change on your own. But in the meantime, I had to step in.”

I snort. He presses on.

“Even if you get accepted, you don’t have to go. Choose whatever path you like. But I can rest easy now, knowing at least you can see the open paths before you.”

The bell rings. I put my pen down and gather my stuff. I can feel Evans staring at me like a massive, balding elephant who smells. Like a poop-covered busybody.

I stop at the door and look over my shoulder.

“Thanks. I guess.”

“Consider it an apology for the pictures.”

“It doesn’t make up for it. You’d need like, a million cakes and a dozen clones of Johnny Depp to even begin to make up for that.”

“There’s a very good cloning program at Duke –”

I politely scream UGH and slam the door shut behind me.

-14-

3 Years

22 Weeks

4 Days

Knife-kid comes up to me nearly four weeks after Avery’s party – right before Thanksgiving break. We’re watching a movie in English, bags of chips and trays of cupcakes littering the counter from the last-day-before-break party Mr. Teller let us have. It’s dark, and people are whispering and laughing and making plans for break and not paying attention to the movie at all.

Knife-kid slides into the seat beside me.

“Hello, Your Pointy Highness,” I say. “What brings you to the neck of my new girl woods?”

“You aren’t new girl anymore.”

“Oh? So what am I?”

“Weird girl.”

I laugh. “Better than fat girl.”

“They call you that, too. But weird is the most used.”

I smirk. We watch the TV for a few seconds before he starts talking again.

“You and Jack like each other.”

I hunch my shoulders and squeeze my face together. “Are you high?”

“I saw you at the Halloween party. You danced together, and then you pulled him into that room.”

I feel my mouth drop open.

“I did not!”

“I saw,” He insists. “I’m only bringing it up because Jack’s cool. He’s the only one who’s never been a shithead to me in this place. And he seems kind of down. Lately. Ever since that party.”

“Down?” I sputter. “Jack? His face muscles have atrophied – he doesn’t know how to make expressions, let alone look ‘down’.”

Knife-kid shrugs. “He just seems bummed. You and him are the only two I don’t fantasize about stabbing. So. I thought you should know.”

“Oookay, nice talking to you. I gotta go. To India.”

I make a bathroom excuse and escape, running down the hall. Jack is in P.E. right now – I know because Kayla’s been chanting his schedule in her sleep like some weird ex-boyfriend purging ritual. I’m fueled by rage and at least seven cupcakes made by someone’s talented mother. How dare Jack lie to me! I mean, I know lying was standard issue back in the day when we were still warring, and maybe it’s also standard issue for everyday high school life, but c’mon! I trusted him! Bad move, but I still did it! I’m definitely not panicking about what actually went on in that room, I’m just concerned. Somewhat. And also making high-pitched eeeeee sounds.

I burst out of the front doors. Cold air nips at me as I run to the field, where the P.E. class is playing a lazy game of dodge ball. People stand still to purposely get hit so they can be out and sit in the grass and text and talk. Jack is lying on his back in the grass, looking up at the clouds. I march over and graciously kick his ribs.

“Ow! Shit –” He hisses and sits up. His glare stops short when he realizes it’s me.

“What happened in that room?”

“Isis –”

“What happened. In that. Room!” I shout. The P.E. teacher is too busy talking with the football coach to notice, but everyone else looks at me warily.

Jack runs a hand through his hair and breathes out, slowly. Now that we’re close I can see the dark circles under his eyes. When did he get those? And why does he look skinnier? His cheekbones and jaw stick out unhealthily.

“It was nothing,” Jack whispers. “Okay? Nothing. You just fell asleep.”

“Knife-kid said he saw me dragging you to that room. I was drunk. I can’t remember. So you better tell me the truth, or I swear to you, it’ll be a war all over again –”

“What do you want me to say, Isis?” He growls. “Do you want me to be the bad guy? Do you think I took advantage of you?”

I slap him, but he recovers quickly. The entire class goes silent, the dodge ball game ceasing at the sound of the slap to watch.

“Tell me what you did –”

“I didn’t do anything!” He shouts. “I didn’t do anything, I swear on my life!”