Her words are a comfort on the raw insecurity I’ve been carrying all semester. “You shouldn’t have to change your lessons,” I say, a surge of anger at Trevor rising in me. “He’s being completely unreasonable.”
Maya just shrugs, a gesture of weary resignation. “I don’t want to rock the boat.”
“I can talk to him for you,” I offer, the words out before I can stop them. “Maybe if I just explain?—”
“No,” she says, the objection sharp and immediate. Then her expression softens. “Don’t. It’s okay. I actually had an idea when I was at the craft store earlier and got some supplies.” Her eyes light up with that creative spark I love so much. “What if, instead of general Halloween decorations, we lean into one specific, academic facet of the holiday? Gourds.”
I blink. “Gourds?”
“Gourds,” she repeats, a smile playing on her lips. “We can decorate the trailer with pictures and drawings of gourds from all over the world. We can do a lesson on Halloween about how gourds grow in different climates, their role in different cultures. The kids can even bring in their own gourds to draw. It’s festive, it’s seasonal, but it’s curriculum. He can’t say no to that.”
Her solution is brilliant, clever, and so perfectlyher. And all I can think about is that it means more late afternoons in the trailer. More time alone with her. A little thrill goes through my stomach at the thought, a dangerous little flicker of hope. “That’s genius,” I say, and I mean it. “I’m all in.”
The drive back to the school parking lot is quiet, but it’s a comfortable silence now, filled with a fragile, new understanding. I pull up alongside her car; the sole car left in the staff lot under the orange glow of a security light. We get out, the cool night air a stark contrast to the stuffy gym.
As we approach her vehicle, I see something on the windshield. A smear in the layer of autumn dust that coats everything. As we get closer, the smear resolves into letters, traced by a finger. My blood runs cold.
Two words are written there, stark and accusing.
“Trier-Outer.”
The breath catches in my throat. It’s her word. The one from the faculty meeting. The one I overheard. The one I just threw back in her face less than an hour ago. A wave of guilt and a fierce, sudden protectiveness wash over me. She sees it at the same moment, and she stops dead, her face paling. We both stand there, frozen, the silence of the empty parking lot suddenly feeling menacing. Who else was listening that day? Who is doing this to her?
Chapter Twenty
Maya
My crochet hook loops and pulls the bright orange yarn in a steady, practiced rhythm. The small, lumpy sphere in my hands is slowly starting to resemble a pumpkin, the first of many I plan to make for the “Gourds of the World” display in mine and Zachary’s classroom. Across the table, Flick is mid-rant, her hands gesticulating wildly as she describes the latest antics of her cat, Catherine, or Cat for short.
“…so I come home, and there she is, completely wrapped up in my new skein of merino wool. She looks like a mummy, or like she tried to single-handedly recreate the laser scene fromMission: Impossible. She’s just frozen in the middle of the living room, tangled in this bright pink web, looking at me with this expression of pure, unadulterated betrayal, as ifI’mthe one who did this to her.”
Alexis and Devin are howling with laughter, and despite the heavy exhaustion that’s been my constant companion for days, a real, genuine laugh bubbles up out of me. It feels foreign and wonderful. The last few days have been a blur of anxiety and nausea. The conversation with Zachary at the climbing gym leftmy head spinning, a dizzying mix of confusion yet, somehow, understanding. Then, finding those words—“Trier-Outer”—scrawled on my car sent a chill through me that has yet to completely fade. Zachary had been furious, his hands clenched as he immediately reached for his phone to call the police. But the dust was so easily wiped away, nothing was broken, and the thought of filing a report, of turning that petty, unnerving act into a whole officialthing, was more than I could handle. I just wanted to go home.
On top of everything, the new medications are wreaking havoc on my system. A low-grade nausea has been nearly constant, making all food completely unappetizing. The only thing I’ve been able to stomach are the fudge brownies Noah made. Alexis brought a whole container of them tonight, and I’ve already eaten two. They’re a small miracle of chocolate and kindness.
As Flick launches into another story about Cat’s war on houseplants, a craving for another brownie hits me. “I’ll be right back,” I say, pushing back my chair and setting my pumpkin-in-progress on the table.
I stand up, and the world tilts violently. The edges of my vision go fuzzy, then black, like a curtain dropping. The sound of my friends’ laughter seems to warp and stretch, coming from a great distance. My legs feel like they’ve been replaced with wet noodles. I take a stumbling step toward the counter where the brownies are, my hand reaching out for something to hold onto, but I only find empty air.
I’m falling. But I don’t hit the floor. Strong arms wrap around my waist, breaking my descent. “Whoa, Maya, I’ve got you,” Devin’s calm voice says, close to my ear. She gently lowers me the rest of the way until I’m sitting on the rug, the rough fibers pressing into my palms.
The blackness recedes, replaced by the concerned faces of my friends circling above me.
“Maya? Are you okay?” Hannah asks, her voice tight with worry.
“I… I think so,” I stammer, my heart hammering against my ribs. “I just stood up too fast.”
“Has this happened before?” Hannah presses, kneeling beside me. “Since you started the new meds?”
I hesitate, not wanting to worry them. But I can’t lie to her. “A few times,” I admit quietly. “Just for a second or two. I’ve felt… dizzy. I figured it was just my body getting used to the prescription. I was going to call Dr. Sharma next week if it didn’t stop.”
Devin reaches out and takes my hand, her grip firm and reassuring. “You can’t just wait a week on stuff like this, Maya.” As she squeezes my hand, her forearm brushes against the loose sleeve of my sweater, pushing it up slightly and revealing what looked like a dark stain on my skin.
“What’s that on your arm?” Flick asks, reaching over to push my sleeve farther up my arm.
I follow her gaze. A huge, angry bruise mottles the pale skin of my inner arm. It’s a chaotic swirl of purple and sickly yellow-green, tender to the touch even though I hadn't felt it form.
“Oh my God,” Alexis gasps.
