“I’m fine,” he says, slapping my hand away just as the bell rings. “I’m going to class.”
“You can’t go to class like this. Are you fucking insane?”
But he’s already striding past me, head down like he’s going to bore through anyone who gets in his way.
“Go after him,” Avon calls down, face pinched with worry as she holds onto her sobbing friend. “We’ll be here.”
My head whirls with confusion as I take after Wilder, trying to remember how long it is since we’ve had a conversation that didn’t involve my glowering anger or instant dismissal of his opinions.
I’ve been especially hard work lately, but we’ve been knocking around since kindergarten. I still thought he’d come to me if he had a real problem, the same way I would go to him. The way Maddox would.
“Does Mads know what you’re up to?” I ask, finally catching up enough to grab his shoulder, spinning him to face me.
“I’m not up to anything.” He plants his hands on his hips, expression sullen though it’s hard to know for sure through the swelling. “This just happened at roller derby. Instead of taking a corner, I collided with a wall.”
“This isn’t roller derby, unless that wall was covered in fists.” I huff out a breath, then stare at my fingers, wet with his blood. “Fuck. Forget the doctor. I’m taking you straight to hospital.”
“You’re going to class,” he says, though his aggression lowers a pinch. “Otherwise, you’ll be in remand by the end of the day, remember?”
But I have my phone out, barely listening, sending a text to Maddox and waiting for a response. “Yourearis bleeding. Like, not your lobe, your actual inner ear. Can you even hear? This is serious shit.”
“It’s nothing.” He turns to the side and spits out a wad of red, then he cracks a small smile. “You should see the other guy.”
“A minute ago, you said the other guy was a wall.”
Maddox waves from the entrance doors, eyes widening as he jogs closer. “What the fuck? You get in a car accident?”
“Clare beat him up,” I joke, relieved to see Wilder laugh until he winces and grabs his ribs. “Can you take him to emergency? This is far worse than he’s pretending.”
“Sure,” he pulls out his phone to send a text, probably to Evie, then guides Wilder to his car.
Once they leave, I feel useless. I should be with my friend, supporting him, buoying his spirits, finding out the truth. Not trapped in the school grounds by a glorified alarm clock and a judge who got up on the wrong side of the bed.
The inadequacy of my response digs deeper as Avon and Clare slip into the corridor for homeroom, not even a wave, and a foreboding sensation digs between my shoulder blades.
I try to dismiss it, but when I catch up to them outside their third period physics lesson, she cries off lunch, eating with her friend instead.
It makes sense. The girl’s just been dumped.
But when I go to escort her to a study period, time shealwaysspends in the art block, I can’t find her. Mr Simmons glares at me from the empty class like I kicked his pet dog.
I find her in the library, curled in the same corner as before, a hardcover book about Goldie, another New Zealand artist, openon her lap while she taps notes into her phone. I stand in front of her, unacknowledged until I ask, “You’re not painting?”
Avon barely glances at me. “I need to get my art history project done. The first essay is due next week.”
The one she should be doing on my mother; except I’ve never passed the original book onto her. It’s probably in the clubhouse.
“What questions do you need to answer? If you still want to use Mum, I can give you details off the cuff.”
“It’s fine.” Avon curls her knees farther up, retreating into the chair. “I’m already halfway finished.”
The obvious dismissal rankles. “Have I done something wrong?”
She rubs her forehead, the book tilting forward, and I jump to catch the edge before it can fall. Her face scrunches as she pulls it closer and I’m certain she’s going to tell me to leave, then she shuts the cover and sets it aside. “Did you tell Wilder to date Clare?”
Déjà vu hits. I addressed this question a week ago. “I already said what happened.”
“You did.”
