Take the Fall(59)

I shake my head. “I already asked Dina to drive me.”

“Oh.” She hesitates, taking the spoon out of her coffee. “Well, I’m taking you. There’s no need to disrupt her schedule. She’s got finals too, you know.”

I sit back in my seat. It was all I could do to drag my mom there last time to show her the campus during my interview, but now she’s suddenly interested in coming? “Alex Burke is in jail, Mom. I’ll be perfectly safe.”

“I wish that was more reassuring.” She bunches a napkin on the table in front of her and I wonder if she senses my own lingering unease. “But I want to come to support you. You’ve made sacrifices for that scholarship other kids would never make. Did they say what the problem was?”

“There’s some confusion about my eligibility,” I mumble, not wanting to explain the whole thing about Gretchen where other people might overhear. “Anyway, it’s faster to drive than take the bus. Dina said it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Sonia, I want to go with you.” My mom reaches across the table and touches my hand. “Look, I’ll admit, I’ve never really understood you and Dina. When you set your sights on a goal, you don’t look back until it’s yours. I guess I just never found anything I needed that badly.” She shrugs. “It might not be what I would choose, but you’ve worked so hard for this, I want to see you succeed.”

I’m not sure what to say. I look at our reflection in the big pane windows. My mom always says I’m a picture of Dina, but my nose and mouth are hers. Still, there’s always been something very different about us. I think it’s because she fits here, at the diner. She’s as much a part of it as the vinyl booths, checkered floor, and shining chrome—things that make me claustrophobic in a way I can’t explain.

Still, she’s never made an effort to understand or support me like this. My chest feels tight. I wish I knew where this was coming from.

I clear my throat. “Thanks, Mom. Maybe Dina will let us borrow her car so we don’t have to take the bus.”

She gives a slow nod. “How are you feeling? About this arrest?”

“Okay,” I say, trying not to think about the picture or the postcard. “He had Gretchen’s Mercedes—that says a lot.”

“It does.” Her voice is strained, but she manages an encouraging smile. “I want you to get this school stuff sorted out. You can’t feel guilty forever. You’ll still go on with your life when this is over.”

I sink in my seat. I wish hearing her say it out loud made it easier to believe.

She studies me with kind of a far-off look. “I never thought I’d say this, but after the past few weeks, I guess you leaving town isn’t the worst thing that could happen.”

My breath hitches, but when I meet her eyes, they’re clear. “No, I guess it’s not.”





TWENTY-SIX


FINGERS CLOSE AROUND MY THROAT, long and frozen, winter choking spring. I don’t gasp, I can’t struggle. I’m already dead. My neck snapped so long ago, I only thought I was still breathing. Water rushes over my face, covering me like a shroud, but then I surface, I see a face—and I’m under the waterfall, under the crush of nature. The hands holding me under aren’t hands, it’s water, seventy-five cubic feet per second, and I was wrong about the breathing, and now I gasp, but the air crushes out of my chest. I can’t move. My lungs fill with ice. All I can do is stare.

I bolt out of bed and across the room, clinging to my dresser. My hands shake, I lift my chin and stare into the mirror, and that’s when I notice my hair, shirt, and pajama pants are all drenched in sweat. I move toward the door to tiptoe down the hall, wash this all away with a hot shower. But I gag at the thought of standing under the water spray, letting it run over my body. I change my clothes, climb back into bed, and shiver beneath my sheets.

A picture . . . a postcard . . . if I don’t figure out who sent them I’m afraid to find out what’s next.





TWENTY-SEVEN


IF I COULD PICK EVERYTHING I wanted in a bedroom, it might look something like Aisha’s. It sprawls over the front half of the Wallaces’ attic with wood floors and dark green walls and an actual turret with a window seat. Bookshelves line the walls like ladders to someplace magical. There are plenty more traditional bedrooms downstairs, but I can see why she chose this one. Her closet, however, is about the size of the one I have at home—a relic from another era. While Gretchen had a spare room converted to a closet, Aisha compensates by treating the rest of her space like an extension for her wardrobe. There are hoodies draped over bedposts, jeans piled over the big comfy chair, and dresses hanging from a floor lamp. This inventory does not include the random mix of socks, T-shirts, and underwear strewn over the floor. Gretchen could never stand sleeping over at Aisha’s. She always said she preferred her own bed since it was only thirty feet away, but I think she was convinced Aisha’s room would give her hives or something. Every time we came over here, I’d notice her sorting colors or compulsively pairing socks.

It turns out I’m not the only one Aisha asked for prom dress advice. When I show up, Haley is already lounging on the bed. Ten minutes later there are footsteps on the stairs and Kirsten peeks her head into the room like she thinks she’s intruding.