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Felicity

Seventh Grade

We’re driving home from Dr. Gabriella’s, the rain a white sheet outside the windshield.

“So . . .” Mom turns on the defrost, hoping I’ll fill in before she has to ask.

I don’t.

“How did it go?”

“Fine,” I say. This is my go-to answer. School is fine. My friends are fine. My therapist appointment was fine.

“Honey, if you don’t think Dr. Gabriella is helping you—”

“She is,” I say quickly, realizing my misstep. “I . . . she is.”

Mom’s eyebrows draw together, but she doesn’t push me further. I know I need to go on, share more about what happens during my sessions, but the truth is I talk a hell of a lot more about my mom than I do Tress Montor.

“I . . . Gretchen’s dog has an infected toe pad,” I say. Because it’s something I heard about all day. Big news. World-ending stuff.

“Oh,” Mom says. “That’s too bad.” But she’s not really listening. She’s squinting at something in the distance, a shape on the side of the road. “Is that someone walking?”

We get closer, the wipers clearing the windshield for a single moment when Tress looks up and makes eye contact with me.

“Holy shit!” I say, and Mom gasps.

“Felicity Turnado! Language!”

“That was Tress, Mom! We’ve got to turn around and pick her up, give her a ride.”

Mom doesn’t stop. She doesn’t even slow down.

“Mom?”

She glances over at me, her mouth a thin line. “You say Dr. Gabriella is helping you; I believe it. And I’m not undoing any of that by picking up Tress Montor.”

“But . . .” I spin in my seat, watching Tress disappear into the storm. “It’s raining.”

“Yes,” Mom says, speeding the wipers up a notch. “It is.”

Chapter 34

Tress

Seventh Grade

It’s Lenore Usher who finally picks me up.

“Tress?” My aunt calls, rolling down the passenger-side window.

I climb in, dripping all over. “Sorry,” I say, pulling my wet clothes away from my skin.

“Sorry,” I say again when I notice a huge clod of mud I dragged into the car. Lenore has that effect on people; you just start apologizing to her, even if you don’t know what you did wrong. Because she makes you feel like you definitely did something.

I glance at her, but she’s not looking at me, or the mess I’m making in her car. She’s focused on the road, staring over the wheel as we climb into the hills.

“I missed the bus,” I say, even though she didn’t ask.