There’s something quietly amazing about this moment, where I’m looking at Kara and she’s acting like she’s me. The bell rings. People filter out. Jeanette and Marta beeline for the door, but Anna holds back, waiting for Kara, who is putting on her shirt.

She turns to Anna. “Do I look okay? I look okay, right?”

Before, Anna would’ve rolled her eyes. I refuse to feed into your insecurities, Kara. Own it or fuck off. Now she says, “You look great.”

“I’ll be there in a second,” Kara tells her. Anna leaves.

She leaves the two of us alone together.

“Get the hell out, Regina,” Kara says, like the room belongs to her.

She starts fussing with her hair. She’s been obsessive about her hair since the photos from sophomore year—the wig. I remember pulling her aside in the hall after they were taken. Anna told me to tell her. Kara, do something about your…hair.

She’s thinking the same thing. She frowns, letting the strands of blond hair slip between her fingers. She turns to me.

“You made me hate myself.” She says it in a voice like it’s this epiphany she has over and over. “You know that, right?”

“I’m not sitting here and listening to how wronged you feel,” I

say.

“I just want you to understand what I’ve done to you this year is barely what you deserve. I’m going to make you so sorry—”

“But you started out too big,” I interrupt. “You went too far, too soon. I can’t believe you spent all that time with me and Anna and you never learned anything. I might have felt bad, but you pushed it, and now I’ll never be sorry.”

She stares at me. “Guess I’ll have to try harder.”

She leaves.

I don’t know why, but I start thinking about Liz. And then I think about Donnie. I bring my knees up, curling into myself as much as I can on the narrow bench. I press my forehead against my jeans, and then I start to cry. I don’t want to cry. Soon there’s a nice wet spot on my left knee because I can’t stop.

The lunch bell rings. Some girls will trickle in here to change, so they can spend the time they’re meant to be eating working out in the gym. I check myself in the mirror. I look like I’ve been crying.

I brave-face the cafeteria, entering the bustling room and wandering through a maze of bodies, straight to the Garbage Table. Michael’s already there, a tray of food beside him. He’s scribbling in his Moleskine, and his face inspires another apology I’ll never have the guts to give him. He stops writing when he sees me. He closes the book, sets it aside, pulls the tray of food toward him, and starts eating.

“Didn’t think you were coming,” he says. I dig into my pocket for an antacid. “Have you been crying?”

It’s obvious. I don’t know why he has to ask. “Why?”

“just thought I’d ask on the off chance that you have been.”

I stare at the table and my eyes well up. This is totally fantastic. I wipe at my eyes, which only seems to cause more tears, and when I chance a look at Michael I can tell he’s trying not to look like this is a big deal or that it’s weird.

“You know, you never asked me what I did to Kara to make her hate me,” I say. He stays silent and waits for me to tell him. I lean forward and press my hand against my eyes and I start laughing– I don’t know why— and crying, and I feel like a freak and I can’t stop. I lean back in my chair, taking big gulps of stale cafeteria air.

Michael stares at me like I’ve lost my mind.

“My mom must’ve had a field day with you,” he says.

“The second time I was in your mom’s office, she asked me if I wanted a Lifesaver, and I thought she was talking about herself, you know, but it was—”

“The candy,” Michael finishes. “She did that sometimes, but only to people who she thought had a sense of humor. She must’ve thought that about you.”

“You look like her,” I tell him. “She was so nice.”

“She was.”

“When I saw her, I really didn’t want her to know I was—”

I stop. I don’t want to finish that sentence, and Michael is leaning so far over the table it makes me uncomfortable. There’s a heartbreaking eagerness about the way he’s listening to me. It scares me. I need something to do with my hands. A distraction. I reach for his Moleskine and run my hands along the edges. It’s half swollen, half scribbled in. I flip it open to the first page and glimpse his handwriting— If found, return to Michael Hayden. 555-3409, 11 Hutt Avenue, Hallowell, Connecticut —before he rips it from my hands.

“If I ever want you to know what’s on those pages, I’ll show them to you,” he says, and he’s flushed, like he’s angry at himself for letting me hold it for even a second. “They’re private.”

“I guess I’ll never see them, then,” I say.

“You’re right. You won’t.”

Time is going by so slow today. I watch the minute hand on the clock snail forward.

“You really didn’t want her to know you were what?” he asks quietly.

I pull my gaze away from the clock to look at him, and he’s staring at the table. He really wants to know, but I can’t tell him, and as soon as that becomes apparent, he shakes his head and returns to his lunch, disappointed.

I pick at my fingernails and pretend not to notice.

It’s hard to wake up. Even the promise of the weekend can’t inspire me to get out of bed so I can get the day over with. The sky is overcast, gray. The weatherman says rain, but I’ll believe it when I see it.

I swallow down my antacid and coffee at the breakfast table while my parents get ready to leave for work. Dad’s the first out the door, but Mom hangs back.

“The school called,” she says, rummaging through her purse. “I know it’s senior year and you’ve got a lot of energy to burn, but if you keep cutting your classes, Regina, you’re going to start losing privileges.”

“What kind of privileges?” I ask, staring down my coffee mug.

“No more talking to Anna or any of your friends on the phone after school, no Josh on the weekends, no parties, you’ll have a curfew, the works.”

This is so depressing, I want to laugh. Instead, I chew on my lower lip and try to act, like, you know, wow. Never seeing my friends again. Ouch. I think I’ll just stop cutting class, like, immediately.

“Okay,” I say.

“Get it together,” she tells me. “And have a good day. I love you.”

She leaves. I wait until I hear her car pull out of the driveway and then I ease my way from the table to the sink. I fill my mug and watch as the bit of coffee I left in it turns the water murky before it goes clear. Thunder rumbles in the distance, and I stop dragging my feet. I get my stuff and step outside. It’s hot, but the breeze is cool. It’s going to storm.

I’ve barely thought it when the sky opens up. I do that stupid caught-in-the-rain running jog for all of five seconds before giving up. I’m soaked.

I spot Michael’s Saturn in the parking lot when I finally reach Hallowell High. He’s in the front seat, waiting for a break in the rain, but I know that’s not happening. I make my way over to the car. He rolls down the window.

“You’re drenched,” he says.

I pull his door open. “You will be too.”

“I’m waiting for it to stop.”

“Live a little.”

I almost reach for his arm to pull him out of the car but think better of it. He rolls the window up, steps out, and is instantly wet. His hair is plastered to his forehead and his shirt hugs his torso, leaving an impression of the muscle underneath. A clap of thunder makes us both jump. I stare at the school. Spending the day there makes less and less sense, the more I think about it.

“We can’t go in like this,” I tell him.

“We’re not getting into my car like this.”

“Okay.”

I make my exit. I don’t really care if he follows me or not. Lightning flashes, momentarily breaking up the gloomy gray and sending the rain down even harder. I’m halfway across the road when I hear Michael’s sneakers slapping against the wet pavement as he makes his way over to me.

It’s still raining when we push through the door to Val’s Diner. The place smells good. Frying-bacon-and-eggs-and-toast-with-butter good, and it’s been so long since I had an actual breakfast, my mouth immediately starts watering and my stomach growls. Today, I could eat.

“I can’t believe you’ve lived here and you’ve never been here,” I say, guiding Michael past rows of uncomfortable plastic booths. “I come here, I mean, came here once a month with—” That jerk I used to date. “Anyway, it’s good.”

“Checkered floors.” He sounds amused.

I slide into a plastic booth near the back. Michael sits across from me. Our clothes squelch against the plastic, and water drips off my clothes, making little puddles at my feet, on my seat. The place is full of rain refugees but no one from school, which is good, because otherwise I wouldn’t be able to eat no matter how tempting the smell.

We settle in and the waitress appears. Her nametag says angie.

“Shouldn’t the two of you be in school?” she asks, like we’re the first teenagers who have ever come here when we should be there.

“No,” I say, and then I launch into my order. “I’ll have an egg, sunny-side up, with a side of bacon and toast and home fries and orange juice with the pulp, please.”

Angie turns to Michael, frowning. He flashes a smile at her and he has a nice smile, but it leaves her totally unmoved. “I’ll have the same.”

“You two should be in school,” she says, and then she goes.

“Food’s good, but the waitstaff is self-righteous,” I say when she’s out of earshot. He laughs, which makes me smile. I pick at the jam packets in the glass bowl beside us. I select one of each flavor and line them up between us.