The Accidentals(5)

Until that moment, I was able to pretend. And then she burst that bubble. We have to call your father. It was the single scariest thing she ever said to me.

“We’re not calling him,” I’d argued again, feeling like I might throw up.

“Calling who?” Hannah had asked from the doorway.

And that was that.

“Well, shit,” Haze says, his voice full of surprise. He clasps one of my wrists and pulls me gently to my feet. “That doesn’t mean it was a good idea. What, uh, happened between them, anyway?”

“I have no idea. Except for the obvious thing.” My neck heats at the implication of sex.

But Haze just smiles. “That much I figured out. Do you think it was a hookup? Or were they a couple?”

All I can do is shake my head. “Whenever I asked questions, she always said she didn’t know him well. That he was a stranger.” Although I never quite bought it. Mom seemed angry at him in a way that a stranger might not deserve. Or was that wishful thinking?

I hated the idea that I was the product of a one-night stand. An accidental child.

That awful night my mother told Hannah to summon him had probably been a window—a rare chance to ask questions. But I hadn’t done it. I was afraid to break the seal, as if, by acknowledging my worst nightmare, it would come true.

And then it had. My mother’s last words were, “It’s okay, Rachel.”

Haze lifts a hand to rub my back in a way that puts me on high alert. “Rae, you don’t have to see that guy again if you’re not feeling it.”

“I know.”

“We were going to drop by your house tomorrow to pick up the things you need.”

That’s something else I’m afraid to do. “It will wait.”

“Okay,” he whispers, his eyes going soft. So I know what’s coming. He cups my face in his hands, and I stop breathing. Slowly, Haze dips his chin toward mine, bringing our lips together. I become overly aware of his palms on my cheeks, his breath on my face and the quiet snick of his kiss.

I pull away as soon as I can without being impolite.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he says. Then he turns and jogs toward his car.





Chapter Two





The first minute of the day is always the hardest.

When I open my eyes, the cracked plaster ceiling overhead usually provides the first clue. And if that doesn’t jolt me with the realization that it wasn’t all just a nightmare, the gray light filtering through the ratty curtains does the trick. Or the sound of Sister Mary Ruth’s warbling voice in the hallway.

My mother is gone, and she’s not coming back.

The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach begins then, and it doesn’t let up, even if I manage to find the shower unoccupied. Even if Evie doesn’t shove anyone in the hallway. Even if nobody steals my piece of toast before it pops, the ache is there.

Before my ordeal began, I didn’t know such a place existed. Even summer school was a fuzzy idea, since I’ve never known anyone to take summer classes except for driver’s education.

It’s like a hellish, alternate universe was created on the day my mother died, and I’m trapped inside. So, with a pounding heart, I wash and dress as fast as possible.

“Good morning, dear,” the nun on duty says as I hustle into the kitchen. She hands me a tiny glass of orange juice, which she dispenses as if it were liquid gold.

“Thank you,” I whisper, gulping it down. Then I pick up my backpack and run outside, where an old blue car sits idling at the curb.

It’s sweet relief to sink into Haze’s passenger seat. He doesn’t waste time with small talk. He doesn’t say “good morning” or ask how I slept. He just slides over, wrapping his arms around me. I put my chin on his shoulder and let out a long, shaky breath.

“One month from today,” he whispers, naming the length of time until my birthday. I sniff back the tears that threaten to spill. A month is forever. I’ve only made it eight days so far. “What would happen if you just didn’t go back there?” He pulls back, studying me with those dark eyes of his.

“The social worker would come looking for me. And they’d just find me at school, anyway.”

“God forbid you blow that off,” Haze says, putting the car into gear.

I don’t bother to explain, because Haze should already know. I need my good grades or I can’t switch to Claiborne Preparatory Academy in September. And boarding school is the only thing in my life that didn’t implode the day my mother went into the hospital.

Besides Haze. Thank God for Haze.

He lets the subject drop, turning on the radio instead. Sam Smith begins to croon from the speakers, filling up the car with the sounds of someone else’s heartache.





Later that morning, I’m studying in the media center at school when an unfamiliar email arrives in my inbox. The sender’s name is completely unfamiliar. But the subject line is “Welcome to Claiborne.”

Dear Rachel,

Hi. I’ll bet the last thing you need is a letter from a stranger, reminding you that school will start up again in seven weeks. But you’re going to get four of them.

Sorry. I’m just following orders.

I’m Jake, and I’ve just finished my junior year at Claiborne Prep. Congratulations on your acceptance and all that. Claiborne is awesome, and I’m not just saying that because you already paid your deposit. It is a pretty great place. I’ve drunk the Kool-Aid, obviously, which is probably why they asked me to write this letter.