“Uh, other than the fact that my mom wanted to demonstrate how to use a condom, yes.”
Cooper’s face turns a brighter shade of red than I’ve ever seen. “I’m going to pretend like I didn’t hear that.”
“Perfect. Let’s go.”
Cooper’s sleeping in calculus.
I try to be inconspicuous when I snap a photo and send it to him with a message that simply says,slacker.
His phone must startle him because his eyes shoot open. He pulls it out of his pocket and holds it under his desk to check the message. His dimple makes an appearance as he reads it and types something.
My phone lights up on my desk.
Summer Cooper:well if someone hadn’t kept me up all night
I glance back at him, his ears pink.
Summer Cooper:shit I didn’t mean it like that. obviously.
Summer Cooper:I’m too tired for this conversation. Please ignore me.
I snort.
Half the class—and Ms. Hanby—turns to look at me.
“Would you like to share what’s so funny about derivatives, Ms. Mitchell?” our teacher says.
A thin coat of sweat dampens my face instantaneously. I’ve never gotten in trouble in class.Ever.
“Nothing,” I say. “I was just… sneezing and coughing at the same time. Body malfunction.”
Someone laughs behind me.Cooper.
I press my lips together so I don’t laugh again.
“Well, perhaps you should see the nurse if it happens again,” Ms. Hanby says, glancing from Cooper back to me.
I nod. “Will do.”
Ms. Hanby goes back to walking us through the problem on the board, and I scratch the side of my face with my middle finger.
I grin to myself as Cooper’s muffled laughter fills my whole chest and nestles itself between my ribs.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Between my music and the sewing machine, I don’t hear the doorbell ring the next morning. And I don’t hear the footsteps climbing the attic stairs. I don’t know anyone’s there until someone taps my shoulder.
“Hang on,” I shout over the music. “I have to finish edgestitching this seam real quick.”
“Bitch, I didn’t come all this way to watch you sew.”
I turn around so fast, the chair almost topples over.
“Fernie!” I scream. She laughs as I jump up and tackle her in a hug. “What are you doing here?”
“You didn’t make it to New York, so I figured I’d come to you,” she says. She looks around my room—at Mom’s art hanging on the wall, at my makeshift curtains, at my single dresser and clothing rack, at the old TV and DVD player—and turns back to me, her face stamped with apprehension. “We have to save you from this place.”
I chuckle. “It’s not as awful as I thought it’d be.”
