“Alex just called me.”
The engine’s still running as he jumps out and wraps his arms around me.
And just like that, my present smacks me in the face, and for the second time in fifteen minutes, I sob into my big brother’s shoulder.
“Come on, let’s go back to Burlington, and we’ll figure it out.”
I tell him everything on the way, getting the practice in before I break the news to my mother.
Truthfully, that should have been the worst of it, but I’m numb as I repeat my predicament. I’m barely listening to a word she says, because all I can think about is Story and the devastated look on her face.
Once my mother is done, I call Story again, only to be sent to voicemailagain.
HENDRICKS: Story, please pick up the phone. I’m freaking out, and I need you. I need my best friend.
I try her two more times.
HENDRICKS: Stor, I don’t know what I’ve done to make you so mad, but please talk to me. Call me back.
She never called. And I lasted thirty-six hours until I cracked and went in search of her.
Only I was too late.
CHAPTER 1
Story
Miss MacIntosh.
Ms. MacIntosh.
Sophie.
I step back, pick up the eraser, and wipe away my name.
Then wipe away Ms. MacIntosh. Not sure what I’m trying to prove to a bunch of five- and six-year-olds. Miss MacIntosh, it is.
Then I scrub it all off and start again, writingGood morning, welcome back. My name is Miss MacIntosh.I turn to face the room.
The classroom looks as good as I can get it.
Bare walls have been replaced with posters of the alphabet and numbers. Colored paper chains stretch across the ceiling, giving the impression we’re inside a Big Top. I’m certainly no interior designer, but anything’s better than beige.
If I were still in Australia, I would have been much more prepared for the beginning of term. I like to start planning the return from each break a few months out, but to put it bluntly, the end of last year went to shit, andI’ve done my best with the tools I had.
Now here I am in the classroom I never thought I’d return to while I try to muster up the enthusiasm my soon-to-be pupils deserve. But I’ll be damned if my enthusiasm isn’t being shoved out to make space for memories I don’t want—namely, of sitting in the desk second row from the front, my six-year-old hand in the air, desperate to answer a question.
This time, I don’t let the memory take hold. Instead, I jump up, shake out my arms, my body, and finally, my head, hoping it might shock some sense into me.
Maybe this morning won’t be so bad, and my anxiety is giving me a rough ride just for the hell of it.
“Knock, knock.Hellooo.”
I turn to the door of the classroom to see a head peering around it. A blond head, belonging to a very smiley woman around my age. Her smile is so wide I’m tempted to ask what she’s taken, and if she can give me the name of her dealer.
“Hey there.” I do my best to match her fervor as she walks in, though it’s more bounce than walk.
“Hi. Hi. Sorry to barge in before the morning chaos begins. I couldn’t make the meeting yesterday, so I wanted to introduce myself. I heard you just moved here from Australia. Wow.” She sets down two full coffee mugs, both bearing the Valentine Prep School crest, and taps a glossy red fingernail on her name badge, which reads Miss C. Scott, next to a matching red apple. “I’m Celeste. I teach the other reception class with you. I brought you a coffee—” Her eyes catch the paper chains roped across the ceiling. “Andwow, I love what you’ve done with the place.”
