Ava turns around and gathers her hair in a ponytail. Her skin is slick with a morning sheen, but she still looks so much more comfortable in her own body than I ever could be. “Musta done a number on you, huh?” she asks.
“What?”
“I’ve never seen you as freaked out as you were last night with those guys,” she says, turning back to me with a furrowed brow. “What happened?”
I look at her pretty face, the one I’ve known for so long and have seen shift and grow and change. I could tell her the story that everyone in Roxwood thinks is true. But I know things would change, that she and Imogen would look at me differently. The way my parents do. Sometimes when they think I’m not paying attention, I can see it in their eyes, how they can’t believe their daughter is a monster. That she hurt someone so badly.
Telling her the real truth isn’t an option. Not after the deal we made, the NDA Heller’s dad slid in front of me and asked me to sign with a shaking hand. So instead, I say nothing at all.
Ava sighs. “Look, I know I’ve got my own shit going on with my fucked-up family and everything. And I know we didn’t really talk that much this year.”
We’re both quiet, the reality settling between us. ShewasMIA in the beginning of the year, so caught up with her world of black-tie functions and long weekends in Paris that she rarely returned my texts with more than a one-word answer. There was that one visit over homecoming, but even that was tense. And then after Iditched them on New Year’s, we both stopped trying. I sent her and Imogen to voice mail. I responded to our group chats with single words instead of full thoughts. It became clear they were texting more and more without me. It was all for the best, I figured. If I couldn’t tell them the truth, I couldn’t tell them anything at all.
Ava looks at me square in the face. “I want you to know that no matter what, I’m here for you. We’re a team, you, me, and Imo. Nothing will change that.” Before I can respond, she steps up onto Meg’s mattress and wraps her arms around my neck, planting a sticky kiss on my cheek.
“You’re never getting rid of me, golden girl,” she says. “I know you like I know myself.” Then she opens her mouth wide and sticks out her tongue, breathing heavily in my face.
“Ugh, gross,” I feign. I’ve always known that being in Ava’s morning breath orbit is worth it. When she shines her spotlight on you, it’s like standing in the sun.
“Meet you out front in five,” she says. “I need six plates of hash browns to get me through today.”
I climb down from the top bunk and make the bed from the ladder. When I pull the sheets back to tuck in tight hospital corners, I can still smell Ava and her blueberry-scented shampoo. She’s used it for years, like it’s her own natural perfume. Rich and vibrant. It’s a scent that lingers, marking what’s hers.
---
“French toast sticks!” Imogen squeals as we approach the dining hall. Today’s menu is written on the chalkboard in a loopyscrawl, and my stomach growls when I see chicken patties are for lunch.
“It’s like Christinaknewwe’d need hangover fuel after the first night out,” Ava says, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Come on.”
Ava pushes through the screen doors, and the room is bright, sun streaming through the windows. There’s a buzz in the air, an ease that has set in now that all the counselors are comfortable with one another, familiar within days. I inhale deeply and remind myself,You are home.
Imogen nods toward the breakfast queue and we line up behind one another. Ava rests her chin on Imo’s shoulder.
“That bad, huh?” Imogen asks, reaching back to pet her like a puppy.
Ava groans and buries her face in Imogen’s neck.
The line starts to move and I grab a warm plate from the dish rack as we enter the kitchen. There’s a clicking of silverware, and steam rises from the hot water trays full of French toast sticks, shiny syrup, and bright yellow scrambled eggs. I try to imagine what these heaps of food would look like to an outsider, someone who didn’t know that the head chef, Christina, has been here for thirty-one years, loves to drink whiskey, and plays the banjo on her nights off. Or that she always makes buttered noodles on the side for the picky kids who hate anything that isn’t beige. Or that she lost her own son in a ski accident one winter and came back the following summer divorced and hollow.
When it’s my turn, I look up to see Christina spooning eggs, her kind eyes and her graying hair pulled back under a hairnet. “Goldie, girl, what a delight!” She gives me double with a wink. “I was telling your folks how excited I was to see you. I missed you allspring.” Christina also runs the cafeteria at Roxwood High. But I avoided that place after New Year’s.
“Yeah, well, you know...” I say quietly, grateful that Ava and Imogen have already moved through the line and are now filling their mugs with coffee.
“If you ever need to talk, dear—” Christina starts to say. But I cut her off with a big smile.
“I gotta get going. Line’s backing up.”
Christina takes the hint. “You got it, doll.” She winks again, one of her big green eyes disappearing for a second.
I shuffle away from Christina, grab my own mug of coffee, and make my way to the table right in the middle of the room, where Ava and Imogen have set up shop. I slide into my seat and house a French toast stick.
“So good, right?” Ava’s eyes practically roll into the back of her head. “I need all the carbs I can get today.”
But I barely register her comments because when I look up from my plate, I see Stu and Mellie talking closely with a tall, older white man with curly dark hair and khakis. His arms are crossed over his chest and he looks frustrated and uncomfortable. He scans the room and I hold my breath, waiting for him to see me. When he does, his eyes stop.
Judah McConnell.
Heller’s father.
