“Is what true?” I ask, confused.
“You know,” she whispers, leaning so close I can smell her citrussy-fresh shampoo. I realize the rest of the table have gone quiet and are watching me too. “That you found a body.”
I freeze. Is she serious?
“Jas, stop,” the flapjack girl across from me warns, but Jasmine presses on regardless.
“We heard about it this morning.” Her voice is full of gleeful curiosity. “Is it true? Did you really find a dead girl in the halls? Is that why we’ve all been moved?”
“Yeah,” I say. And immediately regret it.
“No way!” Jasmine practically explodes from her chair. She grasps my forearms and my heart thumps, like an animal who has to gnaw off their own limb to escape danger. “You’re lying.”
“Jasmine!” The girl opposite puts down the flapjack wrapper and shakes her head. “Stop it.”
“Chill, Tasha.” Jasmine glares at the girl opposite me and resumes her inquisition. “Everyone’s saying she was murdered. Is it true? Did you see anything?” Her eyes grow wide and she pulls away slightly. “Oh my god. Are you a suspect?”
My vision blurs. Oh, no. Not here.
I cannot cry here.
I mutter something about having to go and push myself up from the bench. The table screeches and I hear the thump of my open Coke bottle behind me, but there’s no way I’m turning back. I stubbornly wipe the tears from my eyes and run to the nearest bathroom, where I lock myself in a cubicle and sit down heavily on the toilet lid.
This has to be the worst first day in the history of first days. Ever.
My sobs eventually slow down, turning into gentle hiccups until I lean back against the wall and set off the automatic flush, which of course makes me jump and sets off another flood of tears. Maybe I should listen to my mother after all. Call it quits.
I peel a wad of tissues from the dispenser and dab at my face, though why I’m attempting to save my make-up I have no idea. I take a deep, shaky breath, stand up on wobbly legs and open the door, stopping in surprise when I see a figure at the sinks. I didn’t hear anyone out here. The girl’s face is obscured by a long, shiny curtain of dark hair but then she looks up, and I recognize her as Jasmine’s friend. Tasha.
She’s currently dabbing at a brown stain on her white vest top.
“Oh, hey.” Tasha catches my eye in the mirror. “You OK? You left in kind of a hurry.”
I gesture at her top. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. . .”
“Hey, don’t worry. I’m just sorry you didn’t get Jasmine, too.” She smiles, her eyes full of sympathy. “She was kind of awful back there.”
“Yeah.” I wash my hands slowly, rubbing the foamy soap carefully over each finger, seeing glimpses of Sara’s bloody hand as I do.
“So it is true then,” Tasha whispers. “Sorry,” she says quickly. “I’m being as bad as Jas. You don’t have to talk about it.”
I sigh. Is this going to be what happens if I stay? I’ll be the girl who found a body?
“It’s OK,” I say. Might as well set the story straight. I meet her eyes in the mirror as I yank paper towels from the dispenser. “Yeah, it’s true. She was called Sara. I only met her last night and then. . .” The words stick in my throat and I lean against the wall.
“And then she was dead?” Tasha whispers. I nod and another hot trail trickles down my cheek.
And then she was dead.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah.” What else do I say? “I didn’t know her, really, but she seemed nice.”
Tasha shakes her head. “No one deserves that. Are they sure it wasn’t . . . you know. . .”
“What, suicide? No.” I swallow.
There’s silence for a moment.
