“I can’t,” I mumble, handing her back her assignment.
“You can,” her voice is sharp, “you just won’t.”
“She needs me.”
Maeve scoffs, “She needs rehab, and your stepdad needs a one-way ticket to a shallow grave.”
I flinch at her words.
“Sorry,” she mutters, “you know I just hate seeing you like this.”
“I know.”
The silence stretches, loaded with all the things we know the other will say.
“She was better before,” I whisper. “Before him.”
Maeve’s eyes soften as she nods. I sling my backpack over my shoulder just as the bell rings
“Well, no matter what happens, you know I’ve got you.”
I smile back at her and squeeze her arm.
“If you change your mind, though, just come. No questions, no explanations needed. I’ll leave my window unlocked.” She nudges me gently.
I nod. I won’t go, and she knows it.
At lunch,Maeve hands me the extra sandwich her mom always makes for me. Peanut butter and jelly, a little squished, wrapped in wax paper.
“Tell her thanks,” I mumble, taking a bite.
Maeve shrugs. “She already knows.”
I take my time eating only half, drinking water from the bottle I always refill at the water fountain. I wrap back up the other half and stash it in my hoodie pocket for dinner.
After the last bell, I head to the gym, and Maeve meets me outside. The locker room is always empty this time of day, and, if I time it right, I can shower before any of the girls come back. Maeve keeps a look out for me, pretending to scroll on her phone and bobbing slightly to the music playing in one ear.
I shower fast. The water is barely warm, and I use cheap soap that leaves my skin feeling dry. I inhale sharply as the water and suds run down my back, the cuts burning into me. Mumbling a curse, I push through the pain.
When I come out dressed, hair still dripping, Maeve tosses me my hoodie.
“Eight minutes,” she says, “new record.”
“Thanks.” I smirk, pulling the hoodie back over me and tying my hair back.
“You know I’d pay good money to see you fight someone for being in here.”
I giggle. “We don’t have any money.”
“True.”
We head out together, wet hair clinging to my neck and making my hoodie damp. No matter what I do, I always feel like there’s a thin layer of grime on my skin.
The sun’s low by the time we leave campus, long shadows casting their marks over the cracked sidewalk. Everything has a hazy film like weak tea. My boots scuff the pavement as we walk, our shoulders brushing sometimes.
“So,” Maeve drags the word out. “You’re turning eighteen next week.”
I make a noise that’s not quite a groan but not really a response, either.
