Again, But Better(55)

“I’m sure they’ll come around, Shane. Maybe they haven’t checked them yet,” Atticus reasons.

I pull out my laptop because I’m crying, and I can’t continue any sort of conversation. I really want to write in Horcrux Nine, but I can’t open it without feeling like my stomach is going to fall out my ass.

“I’m here if you want to pick this back up,” Atticus says quietly.

“Thanks, At.”

He takes out his laptop, and we sit in companionable silence.



* * *



I get an email response from Mom.


Re: I’m sorry! <3

________________________________________________

Cara Primaveri <[email protected]> 3/6/11

to Shane




We’ll discuss it when you get home.


A lump forms in my throat. There’s another email under it. From Leo.


hey

________________________________________________

Leo Primaveri <[email protected]> 3/6/11

to Shane




Heard you fucked up. Are you coming home? My mom won’t go into detail.


What does he care?

Not yet.

I press send.

A response pings in sixty seconds later.

What happened? You okay?

I blink, eyebrows furrowing.

Why are you asking? Looking for more shit to hold over me?

Send.

Another almost instant response:

I know how they are when they’re mad.

My vision blurs. I close the computer and retreat to my bunk.



* * *



I miss class again on Monday.

I spend Tuesday morning at Packed! staring in the general direction of the Paris poster across the room. I haven’t been given a task today, and I haven’t asked for one. When Declan and Donna walk by and say good morning, I nod in response. I haven’t made any tea. I haven’t gotten up. My limbs feel heavy.

At noon, I wander robotically toward Wendy’s office. She’s in there wearing a trendy yellow dress, working on her computer. I knock softly on the molding of the doorframe because the door’s propped open.

“Shane?” she asks in her posh accent. She closes out of what she’s working on and her brown eyes dart over to mine. “What’s up?”

“Hi, Wendy, I’m sorry to bother you. I just, I had to tell you—I’m quitting.”

She shakes her head quickly as if she’s hearing things. “I’m sorry?”

“I can’t work here anymore. I’m sorry,” I speak slowly, trying to keep my voice steady. “Thank you for giving me this opportunity.” I turn to leave.

“Shane! Sweetie, wait!”

I stop. Turn back.

“What’s wrong? Why would you quit? You’re not going to get the school credit,” she says softly.

“I’m sorry. I just can’t work here anymore.” I turn and power walk back to my desk. I pack my things. Donna stands from her desk as I start toward the door.

“Shane?” she asks. I turn around. Her forehead’s wrinkled with worry. Wendy’s standing watching me from her doorway. I don’t want Wendy to think poorly of me, but I can’t stay. I need this time to play catch up. I need to study. I need to earn my parents’ forgiveness. I need to pass the MCAT. I spin on my heel and leave, without saying goodbye.

What’s the point anymore? I can’t get a writing job when I go home. I have to take summer classes so I can fulfill the course requirements to graduate on time.



* * *



I’m too embarrassed to tell anyone I bailed at Packed! I can’t think about it for more than a second without feeling sick. My flatmates are so busy with their own jobs that I get away with it pretty easily. I spend my free time during the week in the kitchen and at Café Nero, trying to teach myself the class material I’ve missed these past three months.

Time goes by so much faster now that I’m not enjoying it. The days smear into one another. It’s Monday and then it’s Friday and then it’s Monday again.

I continue to barely see Pilot. It’s killing me not knowing what he knows. Does he know? How much does he know? What did Amy tell him?

I guess it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that he has a girlfriend. A serious, flew-across-the-Atlantic-Ocean-to-see-him girlfriend. I’m not even supposed to be here. I keep telling myself that. But—the Pilot-related sinking sensation in my gut isn’t fading with time apart like I want it to. It’s intensifying as we near the semester’s end. I need to know. I need to know what he knows. I need to talk to him. I need this feeling to go away.



* * *



April 1, I get an email from my father detailing my work and class schedule starting the Monday I get back to New York. It’s a schedule. No words. It’s been weeks since they spoke to me. I’ve sent four more I’m-sorry emails.

My apologies aren’t working. They’re still upset. How long will they be upset? What else can I do?

April 2, I dig the small bundle of postcards I’ve accumulated from the beginning of every writing class out of my bag, and head to the nearest post office. I send them all to my house in New York.