Page 219 - My FlipBook

EIGHTEEN

Greta went to school an hour before classes ended for the
day in order to to see the guidance counselor, Mr. Abbott.
She needed to know if her plan to finish the school year was
feasible. She said something vague about there being a lot
going on at home. When he probed for more details, she

added, “It’s personal,” and stared at the floor until he got on
with withdrawing her from her courses. That was the easy
part—something solid checked off her list. Part one finished,
she waited by the front door of the school for part two. Terror
beat her sense of satisfaction to death in less than a minute.
She had to leave. Vomit roiled at the base of her throat—she
could taste it.
Sauntering from the bus stop, Alice wore a bag over one
shoulder and a black leather mini. Sandy at the end of Grease,

all badass, sidestepping puddles leaking from the slushy
March snowbanks on either side of the walkway. She sized
up the school, from the silver letters mounted on a brick wall
to the arched doorway, a look of distaste on her face.

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