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“Hello, class,” I singsong as I breeze through the doorway, pretending like I’ve just arrived. “How are we today? I’ve got cookies for everyone . . . except Jessica.”

“Like Jessica needs any more cookies,” Gretchen says, holding her hands out from her waist. Maddie erupts into giggles, but Tress is frozen in place, her face a tight mask.

I don’t know what happened. It’s not like she’s friends with Jessica or anything, and my impression wasn’t that bad. I hit the high notes of Ms. Frampton’s voice, the cadence of her speech with a little downturn at the end. No . . . wait. That’s not right. I wasn’t doing Ms. Frampton at all; I fell back on mimicking a voice that I’ve heard a million times.

I was doing Annabelle Montor.

And by the look on Tress’s face, I nailed it.

Chapter 26

Tress

Sixth Grade

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

It’s true, but not because I have to pee. I’m going to puke. I’m going to lose Coke and Doritos and Oreos all over these girls who have parents. I push past Felicity, and she reaches for me, her fingers glancing over my arm. It’s just like my mom said when I rolled around on the ground with Dad and Goldie . . . I can hear you, but I can’t see you. I might never see my mom again for as long as I live, but I just heard her voice. And it came out of Felicity Turnado’s mouth.

“Don’t touch me,” I growl, ducking out from under her reach.

I can’t be near her right now. I slam the bathroom door so hard it bounces off the frame, and I know that April might be coming to investigate—loud noises at the Turnado household aren’t a thing—but then I’m over the toilet and losing everything, and I couldn’t care less what April thinks about slamming doors.

I flush it all down and roll over onto my back for a second while I get myself under control. I don’t think Felicity meant to do that, don’t think she had any intention of bringing the image of my mother back to me, full force, right when I was beginning to think I might be the kind of girl who still went to birthday parties. Who still laughed with other girls. Who might even still have friends.

The leg of Felicity’s pajama bottoms is bunched up above my knee, the sliding dive I made to get to the toilet in time giving me a fresh burn right across the kneecap. There will be a scab to match the other leg in a couple days. A tear slips out, and I reach above me, roll out some toilet paper to dab my eyes and the sweat from my forehead. I’ve got to get cleaned up, get myself under control—get my shit together, Cecil would say. I give my nose a good blow and then open the cupboard to throw the wad of paper away. April has all the trash cans in the house tucked away in corners, behind doors, out of sight. I toss the tissue, miss, and have to dig around to find it, knocking over a box of tampons in the process.

Felicity must have started, I realize . . . then think about the fact that I didn’t know. I didn’t know because she didn’t tell me. And she didn’t tell me because—

“Because we’re not friends anymore,” I say aloud.

We’re not. I knew that. I knew it when I got a text from her and had to double-check that she actually meant to invite me to her party, that she didn’t accidentally text the wrong person. I knew it when April carried my boots outside. I knew it when Felicity hugged me—so tight, too tight—with a desperation to deny what she already knew, too.

We’re not friends anymore.

And, while that may be true, something else is as well. There’s a box of tampons in this house, and there aren’t any where I live now. When I asked Cecil to add them to the shopping list he told me it’d be a cold day in hell before someone caught him in that aisle, and that I should just hold it until I got to school.

“It doesn’t work that way,” I’d told him, but he said he’d gotten this far in life without learning women’s business, and that was just fine. Which for him, I suppose it was.

Me, I need tampons.

And here are some, right in front of me.

I grab the box and stuff it down the front of Felicity’s pajamas. If I get back into the bedroom and get under the pile of blankets I can slip it out of my pants and into my backpack once everybody else is asleep. I straighten up, close the cupboard and give my reflection one last check before turning toward the door, where a shadow slides away.

Gretchen’s quick, but I’m faster. You don’t live around wild animals for months without developing reflexes. I grab her wrist as she tries to spin away from me.

“Let me go,” she says, pulling away. But I’ve got her in a good grip; I can feel the tiny bones of her wrist grinding together as I clamp down.

“Guys?”

Felicity and Maddie are standing in the bedroom doorway, confused. I let go of Gretchen’s wrist and she holds it against her chest.

“What’s going on?” Felicity asks, eyes moving between the two of us.

“Tress stole your tampons,” Gretchen says, shooting me a nasty look as she rubs her wrist.

“Did not!” I say, lying reflexively. Everyone looks at the obvious outline of a box in the waistline of my pajamas. Felicity’s pajamas. Felicity’s tampons.