I have tallies to maintain.
Backpacks smack into my shoulders as I trudge down the hall, eyes on my feet and mind on my plans. After class, I’ll go home and spend another afternoon hunting through Baba’s office library for books about possession or missing memory. The answer is out there—I know it is.
I have to believe I’m getting closer to finding a solution and not just slowly running out of options.
Mr. Clay, deep in conversation with another teacher, shoots me a saccharine smile as he passes. I don’t return it.
Not all my teachers have given up trying to coax me back into my Before self, but Mr. Clay never tried to begin with. To be fair, the behavior lines up pretty neatly for Canyon High’s most despicable history teacher. Mr. Clay disliked me the moment he saw my name on the class roster freshman year. Yasmina “Mina” Mansour. Arab. Egyptian, to be exact.
Trying to win him over was my singular goal in AP Euro. I practically memorized the Bolshevik and French Revolutions to impress him, but he couldn’t have cared less. It took too long for me to understand that no grade would ever be high enough. Participation credits, haunting his office hours—none of it mattered. His opinion of me had nothing to do withme,and he’d formed it before he even looked up from that roster.
Now, his detachment is a blessing. Mr. Clay pretends to tolerate me, and I happily return the favor. It means I don’t have to worry about another well-intentioned lecture on “how things are at home” or why I left in December a decently normal, well-adjusted girl and returned a recluse.
Perfume and sweat cling together in the air. Too focused on not flat-tiring the girl ahead of me, I bump into another student. “Sorry,” I mumble, raising my head with an apologetic grimace.
A flash of leather and dark eyes confront me.
“I’ll live,” Jesse Talbot says. He gives me a passing nod before striding away, maneuvering through the crowd with ease. I stare at his back for a long beat. The impulse to follow him comes out of nowhere, momentarily clearing the lethargic haze that’s hung over me for weeks.
If anyone can teach me how to be alone, it’s Jesse Talbot.
Iwasn’t always like this.
I used to be studious, attentive. The list of my extracurriculars would make any college admissions committee weep. I split my time between my friends, dance, and Alex.
Alex. I couldn’t remember a time I had kept a secret from him. Why would I need to? In a town like Ward, where people cherish a good love story, Alex and I had the best.
Fate had already laid it out for us, just waiting for someone to turn the first page. Me, the popular captain of the dance team. Him, the handsome and beloved basketball star. An alignment of the stars over a poorly lit auditorium on a Wednesday afternoon our freshman year.
My dance team was performing a complicated routine, some nightmare of choreography that was going well until they tossed me in the air. One of the lifters at the bottom broke formation, and my falling body hit the girls at the wrong angle. We scattered like bowling pins.
The lights shone around Alex as he bent over me, a fluorescent halo ringing his golden head. He’d carried me and my broken ankle all the way to the nurse’s office, despite his coach shouting at him to get his ass back to the court. He held my hand until Baba arrived. For the next three months, he bought my lunch and carried it to the table so I wouldn’t have to maneuver on my crutches.
By the end of month one, I’d fallen in love with him. I told him at the end of month two. By month three, we were us. Mina and Alex. He came to my performances, and I learned how to style a jersey under a cardigan for his games.
When I ended it, Alex received two measly texts.
I can’t be with you anymore.
I’m sorry.
I wish I’d handled it better. Come up with a good lie, maybe faked feelings for some college guy from out of town. Any explanation would’ve been kinder than none.
But I tried to tell him the truth—I really did. The first week back from the trip, I asked him to meet me at the Grease & Grind. I chose a time right in the middle of the dinner rush. On the way there, I drove at a snail’s pace, rehearsing my speech.
In November, I found out my mother had a sister. My aunt. She reached out and asked me to come visit my mother’s childhood home in El Agamy. Baba would have never let me meet her on my own, so I lied about where I was during spring break. When I came back from that house, something came back with me. If I’m alone with someone, it’ll find me. It always does.
The crowded twenty-four-hour diner seemed like the perfect place to confess. I’d had it all planned out.
Or so I thought.
Alex was already waiting for me in the parking lot when I pulled in. A quick scan of the lot turned my heart to lead. The only people near us were a mom wrangling her kids into a minivan and a jogger.
“Let’s go,” I said, grabbing his arm. “I made a reservation for us.”
“Hey.” Alex captured my wrist, clearly worried. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Please, come on. We’ll lose the table.”
