“You and I have known each other since then. We get along well.” She gives me a wink. I know it’s supposed to be comforting, but instead it’s like I’m on the outside of my own inside joke.
“It’s okay if this feels overwhelming,” Mom says, eyes on me, like I might shatter at any moment.
“Yeah, there’s no way for it not to be,” Ms. Jones says, clasping her fingers together. “But I got your back. All of Ridgedale does, really.”
I wonder if a school-wide email went out this morning.
Dear students, teachers, and parents,
Longtime tenth grader Carter Cohen once again failed to turnseventeen. His shitty-ass condition continues. Proceed accordingly.
With great Ridgedale cheer, Ms. Jones
“And if you decide you want to stay home today,” Mom says, “ease back into school tomorrow, or even wait until after winter break, that’s perfectly fine too.”
It’s a tempting proposition. I would also be open tomove to foreign country and assume new identity.
“Absolutely,” Ms. Jones says. “Yours is a unique situation, which means it often requires a unique approach. But it might bring you some comfort to know that, as you shift back to a sophomore schedule, your homeroom and English teacher will be Mrs. Destin, same as when you last remember being in school.” She slides a stack of textbooks toward me. “In fact, we’ve kept your day as close to what you remember as possible. Unfortunately, some of your teachers are no longer with us.”
“They’re dead?” I ask. “Which ones died?”
“Oh, no, no. I mean they’ve retired. Or moved to different schools.”
“Oh, good. I thought you meant they were dead.”
“I understand how it sounded like that. Thankfully, they’re all alive.”
We sit in a brief awkward silence.
“Okay, I’ll stay,” I say. “Mrs. Destin is cool and, well, fuck it, you know? Why not? Might as well lean into this shit show.”
“Carter!” Mom says.
“Sorry, I know. Pardon my language.”
“It’s really fine,” Ms. Jones says, shaking her head as if she totally gets it. “You’re processing a lot right now. Just try to keep things cleaner during class.”
“Fuck yeah,” I say, giving her a wink.
Once I’ve hugged Mom goodbye and am walking down the hall to my locker—#357, according to the Post-it Ms. Jones handed me—I’m immediately rethinking my decision. I wanted to end the conversation and get the hell out of that office, which may have led me to choose poorly.
Too late now, though. I’m in this.
I put my thick green hoodie away in the locker along with the books I won’t need till later.
I could be wrong, but it feels like kids are staring at me.
Does literally everyone know about my situation?
Maybe Ms. Jones reallydidsend out an email.
I generally hate being stared at. Unless it’s because I just said something funny.
Even more unsettling than the staring, though, is that I don’t recognize a single one of these kids. The entire school is populated by kids I don’t know. Or kids I don’t know that I know.
There is officially no way in hell this could be a prank.
I slam locker 357 shut and head toward homeroom. Head down, eyes forward.
