“I didn’t wear mascara.”
“Exactly.”
I groaned and pressed both hands to my face.
Mathieu exhaled sharply. “Can we not do this here?”
Rachel shot him a look that could have sliced titanium. “Then when, exactly? After you corner her again?”
His jaw twitched. “I wasn’t?—”
“You were,” she snapped. “And you’re doing it again. Just with less furniture involved.”
“Rachel,” I hissed.
“No.” Her voice softened only when she looked back at me. “You’re shaking.”
I hadn’t realized I was.
Mathieu finally looked at me then—really looked. The defensive anger drained out of him all at once, replaced by something worse.
Regret.
“Frankie,” he said quietly in French, “je suis désolé.”
I’m sorry.
My throat tightened.
I didn’t answer.
Madame walked over a moment later and asked us to read our sentences aloud, which was the only reason the three of us didn’t explode into open conflict.
I survived the period by sheer willpower and the fact that Rachel kept a steadying hand on my knee under the table the entire time like she couldn’t bear for me to come apart.
When the bell rang, Rachel shot up.
“You’re walking with me,” she said.
I didn’t argue.
Mathieu stayed seated, staring at the desk like he’d broken something he didn’t know how to fix.
I didn’t look back as Rachel dragged me out.
Coop lookedlike he hadn’t slept in a year.
He sat slumped over his desk, hoodie pulled tight around his face, one leg bouncing uncontrollably under the table. When he saw me, his expression flickered—something like guilt, something like worry, something like hurt.
“Hey,” he murmured.
“Hey.”
He shifted his books, making space for me automatically. The teacher started going over vocabulary, but Coop leaned in, real quiet.
“Archie told me,” he whispered.
“Oh god.”
