Undead Girl Gang(5)
“You’re not next in line for the Rausch Scholarship anyway. It’s given to students who embody the Fairmont mission statement, and there’s nothing in there about being a fuckwit,” Aniyah says, glaring down at Caleb. “Besides, it’s an alumni-awarded scholarship. If they gave it to the principal’s son, it’d look shady as hell.”
“Stepson,” Caleb corrects loudly. People wandering to their seats pause and look over at our table. The attention feels predatory. More eyes, more suspects. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure that there’s a moment in my acceptance speech that commemorates the three girls who couldn’t keep up anymore. Or maybe I won’t. Everyone will have forgotten about them by the end of the school year anyway.”
He starts to laugh again, looking around at the other tables for people to join him.
I know he’s mostly talking about June and Dayton. They weren’t nice when they were alive. They used to make fun of Riley for living above a funeral home. And they made fun of me for being fat and Mexican. They found the things about other people that made them different and highlighted how that made them shitty. It was like they learned how to be popular from TV and didn’t understand that being known didn’t have to be synonymous with being a dick.
Last week, I probably would have sat back and made a note to try a new curse to see if I could make Caleb fail all his classes so that he’d never get the stupid Rausch Scholarship.
But my fuse is shorter than it was last week, and Caleb said three dead girls, which, by my count, makes this more personal.
My boot shoots out, connecting with the bottom rung of Caleb’s stool with enough force to knock it out from under him. Arms waving in panic, he topples over into Aniyah and some people who were walking behind her. Textbooks clatter to the floor with gunshot-loud bangs. Aniyah’s legs waggle in the air, her backpack holding her to the ground like a felled turtle. Caleb is holding his face and screaming curse words into his palms. There’s no blood. For a second, that bums me out. At least he’s stopped smiling.
I turn and see Mr. Cavanagh hanging up the phone on the wall. He jerks his head toward the door. “Not okay, Mila. They’re expecting you in the office.”
I leave the classroom picturing Cavanagh’s disapproving frown lines filtered through creek water. Riley had him for fifth-period chem.
“Miss Flores?” The secretary stops me as I reach for Ms. Chu’s doorknob. “You’re here to see Dr. Miller.”
I pause, turning around. There’s a second door in the office that I’ve never paid any attention to. It’s not as fancy as Ms. Chu’s frosted glass with her name etched into it. The one on the other side of the room is the same metal door as the ones leading to the classrooms, painted institutional cream. The sign to the right of it says: Dr. Miller, school psychologist.
I bite my lip hard and dig my nails into my palms. I should have seen this coming.
I look back at the secretary. Her eyes are pitying and liquidy.
Oh God. She knows.
Part of me is really tired of being pitied. But part of me doesn’t feel like I’ve been pitied enough. I mean, my mom has been accusing me of being psychotic this week because I haven’t been able to instantly bounce back after my best friend died. The secretary—Ms. Pine, if her nameplate is to be believed—is close to my mom’s age, but her brown skin is papery and her curls are starting to fade to gray. She looks like she’s going to be someone’s super-loving grandma someday. I bet if she wouldn’t be immediately fired for inappropriate conduct, she would totally give me a hug right now.
No one has hugged me since Riley died.
But Ms. Pine doesn’t know that I’m supposed to be hard as nails. When you earn a reputation as a grumpy witch, there are no tender hugs coming your way, no matter how sorry people feel for you. You don’t suddenly get to be squishy when bad shit happens.
“Go on in, sweetheart,” Ms. Pine says. She sounds so sincere that I can’t even be mad at her for being part of this nightmare.
I step into Dr. Miller’s office. One step is about all I can take because it’s a glorified closet. Actually, it might have been a real closet. It has no windows.
All four walls are painted lavender. Directly across from me is a giant vinyl sticker that reads: Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass. It’s about learning to DANCE IN THE RAIN!
The font is very aggressive.
Dr. Miller is a thin white woman with fluffy blond hair like goose feathers. There’s a pad of paper, a plain red folder, and a cup of steaming tea in front of her. Her computer is turned off.
Was she just sitting here, staring at the door, waiting for me to show up? That is terrifying.
“Camila Flores?” she asks with a slight tilt to her head. She has a neck like an ostrich.
“I go by Mila,” I say. I realize she’s waiting for me to close the door behind me. I do, and it thunks into place. The walls reverberate, making the vinyl words wiggle.
“Please have a seat.” She points at the only other chair in the room, which happens to be directly next to my leg. It’s a standard school chair—maroon plastic, the same as in most of the classrooms. It doesn’t go with the lavender walls at all. I’m starting to think that Fairmont doesn’t spend a lot on the school psychologist. Does Ms. Chu even know that this isn’t a broom closet?