I’d been standing at my locker for a full minute, trying to remember why I’d opened it.
Hall A sounded like the inside of a drum. Lockers slammed. Somebody kept yelling Dylan down the hallway like Dylan owed him money. From the Commons came the smell of breakfast burritos, hot tortillas and browned cheese. The salsa alone made my stomach turn. On any other Monday, I would’ve been halfway to the cafeteria line.
I’d slept nine hours, but my head felt heavy, and getting out of bed had taken more effort than it should have.
At Saturday’s dinner, I’d cut Pops’ lemon chicken into smaller and smaller pieces until the plate looked eaten. That night, the thermometer still read a little warm. On Sunday, I told Dad the leg was better, which had been true for about an hour. Twice that night, I’d woken with my T-shirt damp and the sheets tangled around my legs.
My Algebra II notebook sat on the top shelf. I kept staring at it until the edge of the locker door dug into my fingers.
My jeans weren’t helping. They were the light-wash pair I’d bought in August because they’d fit perfectly, which, for jeans, qualified as a miracle. This morning, the waistband felt a little looser than usual. I kept tugging my hoodie down over it, even though nobody else would’ve noticed.
Beside me, Noelle was midway through a reenactment of her Saturday tutoring session.
“And then he goes, Miss Noodle, why do you have so many teeth?“ She threw both hands up. “Forty-five minutes, Sloane. His mother paid me to be called Miss Noodle for forty-five minutes.”
I laughed a second too late. Noelle’s hands dropped. “Hello? That was my best material.”
“Sorry. I’m listening.”
“Really? Because you’ve been staring at your notebook for five straight minutes.”
I reached for the notebook and missed. My second try went better. “I’m tired. That’s all.”
“You’ve been tired a lot.” She lowered her voice. “Are you getting sick?”
“I’m getting a lecture, apparently.”
“I’m serious.”
“Volleyball season.”
“Sloane, you’ve been playing volleyball since sixth grade.”
I shut my locker harder than necessary. Not my strongest argument, but it ended the conversation.
Stetson shuffled around the corner with his hair sticking up and a can of something aggressively caffeinated in his hand. Chandler followed half a step behind. My brother looked barely awake until he spotted Noelle. Then he straightened and stopped in front of her. “New sweater?” he asked.
“Cardigan,” she corrected.
Stetson looked her over. “Cute cardigan.”
Noelle went pink around the ears. “Wow. Thanks for the highly specific compliment.”
She smacked his arm, smiling so hard she could barely finish the sentence. They looked at each other a beat too long before remembering other people existed. The entire sophomore class had been waiting on those two for about three years. Nobody had told them.
Chandler leaned against the locker beside mine. His eyes flicked to my hand on the hem of my hoodie, then to my face. He didn’t comment. I let go of the hoodie anyway.
“Don’t,” Stetson warned him, pointing with his drink. “Don’t look at my sister. That’s how it starts.”
Chandler blinked. “How what starts?”
“You getting ideas. You’re legally forbidden. We signed an agreement in fifth grade. There was a juice box involved.”
“It was a juice pouch,” Chandler said. “You drank it before I signed.”
“Still binding.” Stetson took a triumphant sip.
“You both need professional help,” I told them, heading toward Biology before anybody could notice how much of my weight I’d left on the lockers.
By third period, I was under the fluorescent lights in Mr. Grzywacz’s room. He was already chalking equations across the board when we came in, tie crooked, coffee steaming from a mug that said I ♥ Polynomials. Somebody had to have given him that as a joke. The worrying part was that he seemed to mean it.
“Homework out. Page ninety-four, one through twenty,” he announced without turning around. “Quiz Wednesday. If you’re out, check the make-up schedule. I’m not chasing anybody down.”
Mr. Grzywacz believed deadlines were a character-building exercise. Eye contact was reserved for students who forgot their homework.
I took my usual seat in the third row by the window. Chandler sat behind me, Maekynzie behind him. While I opened my notebook, she leaned forward to ask how many problems Chandler had finished.
“Twenty,” he whispered.
Maekynzie groaned. “I managed twelve and a headache.”
I usually caught Maekynzie’s mistakes before she did. Last night, I’d gotten through six problems before the numbers stopped behaving like numbers. Now I read number seven four times and still couldn’t tell what it wanted. Under the desk, the spot deep in my left thigh kept up its slow, steady throb. I pressed my thumb into the notebook’s spiral until it left little red dents.
“Miss Deshazo.”
My head snapped up. Everyone was looking at me, including Maekynzie, whose pencil had gone still. Behind me, Chandler stopped writing.
“Number seven. At the board.” Mr. Grzywacz held out the chalk.
I stood too fast. The room tilted, and I caught the edge of my desk before I lost my balance. I turned the grab into an awkward attempt to push in my chair. Behind me, Chandler’s chair scraped.
At the board, I solved the problem correctly. My handwriting slanted downhill, but the answer was right.
“Correct. Sit,” Mr. Grzywacz said, with the enthusiasm of someone who’d been denied an opportunity to lecture me.
On my way back, Chandler’s eyes followed my hand to the desk where I’d caught myself.
Maekynzie leaned forward behind him. “Nice recovery,” she whispered. “I’d have written my name and called it algebra.”
I should’ve had an answer ready. Instead, I stared at number seven. It was the same equation I’d solved at the board, but I couldn’t remember how I’d done it.
I turned back to my notebook before Chandler could ask anything.
By lunch, the cafeteria smelled like pizza that had been trapped under a heat lamp since freshman year.
Our table was the round one near the windows, with a view of the student parking lot and, on clear days, the mountains beyond it. Tahni’s table sat dead center, where everybody had to walk past her to get anywhere. Kleo and Gemma occupied their usual positions on either side of her, angled just enough to keep an eye on us without looking like they were trying.
I sat between Chandler and Noelle. Maekynzie took the seat on Noelle’s other side, Stetson claimed the spot across from me, and Emory folded himself onto a stool beside Chandler, drumming with two carrot sticks.
Tinsley chose the seat with her back to the wall, red hair tucked beneath a black beanie. My stool felt cold even through my jeans. On my tray sat my usual turkey-and-Swiss sandwich, sweet potato fries, and lemon tea. I’d eaten two fries. The sandwich remained untouched. I’d been hungry when I got in line. Somewhere between paying and sitting down, it had passed.
Noelle was informing Stetson that she’d burn his soccer jersey before she’d ever wash it. He responded by stealing her cookie.
Chandler laughed at something Emory said, his chin tipped toward the table. Then he glanced at me, and the laugh disappeared.
I looked down at my tray. The cafeteria lights stabbed at my eyes, and I wanted to put my head on the table. I blinked until the view through the windows stopped swimming.
Two quiet taps landed beside my tray.
Tap, tap.
I blinked. Chandler’s knuckles rested next to my hand. It was our signal from kindergarten, when I’d sometimes drift off during story time and he’d tap my carpet square twice before Mrs. Lopez noticed. We hadn’t used it in years.
“Earth,” he said, low enough that only I could hear.
“I’m here.” I curled my fingers around the edge of the tray until the room steadied.
He slid a few fries from his plate onto mine and went back to his burger. A moment later, he set his forest-green jacket, the one with the corduroy collar, on the table beside my tray. He nudged it closer with two fingers, leaving me to decide whether I wanted it.
I rubbed my hands together under the table. Across from me, Stetson held Noelle’s cookie over his head like a trophy. His eyes slid to the jacket and back to my face, quick enough that anyone else would’ve missed it.
I pushed the fries back toward Chandler with one finger. Most landed on his tray. One slid off the edge and dropped straight into Emory’s water.
“I didn’t ask for those.”
My voice came out sharper than I’d meant it to. Our table quieted, and a few people nearby looked over. At the center of the room, Tahni turned her head. Gemma leaned close to whisper in her ear.
Chandler looked at the fries, then at me. He fished the soggy one out of Emory’s cup, placed it on a napkin, and said, “Okay.”
“That’s it?” I asked, even though I had no idea what answer I wanted.
“Okay,” he repeated.
Stetson looked between us. “Did I miss something?”
He asked it loudly, with his mouth full of Noelle’s cookie, pulling every eye at the table onto himself. It was the oldest trick we had. I’d have thanked him if I weren’t so annoyed that I needed it.
“Always,” Tinsley said, rescuing a perfectly good fry from the table.
I carried my tray to the trash before anyone could ask another question. When I returned, Chandler’s jacket was still beside my place. I didn’t put it on. But when the bell rang, I folded it over my arm instead of handing it back.
Tinsley’s shift at Java Junction started at four. Volleyball never practiced on Mondays, and Coach Hartman had swapped soccer practice for film, so the boys were free by four-thirty. By the time Noelle finished tutoring at five-thirty and the rest of us got there, Tinsley had already rewritten the chalkboard menu into something that read like a threat:
Oat milk is 75 cents. Don’t argue.
Java Junction was all honey-colored wood and sage-green walls, with strings of warm bulbs overhead and not a fluorescent light in sight. Every chair squeaked.
The community board by the entrance was buried beneath flyers for a Happy Paws adoption day, a missing orange cat named Pancake, and Emory’s band:
Static Honey, Saturday, Live (Mostly).
Somebody had drawn purple hearts around the last one. Maekynzie carried a purple gel pen everywhere.
We pushed two tables together under the lights. Noelle squeezed into the chair beside mine. My usual iced honey-vanilla latte sat in my hands, cinnamon floating on top. I wasn’t drinking it. Condensation slid down the cup, and I ran a fingertip through it.
A flash of platinum hair caught my eye through the front window. Tahni glanced inside as she passed. Her gaze found me, stayed a second too long, and she kept walking.
Tinsley joined us on her break and set a cinnamon roll in front of me without asking. She placed her black coffee beside it, pulled out a chair, and nudged the plate closer.
“So,” she said, “are we going to talk about lunch?”
“I’d rather not revisit the fry incident.”
Her eyes moved to Chandler’s jacket folded beside my bag. “Are you two fighting?”
“No.” I picked at the paper around the cinnamon roll. “Can we not do this?”
Tinsley studied me a moment, then leaned back. “Fine by me.”
Maekynzie set her drink down hard enough to rattle the sugar packets.
“We need to talk about Sloane.”
“Maekynzie,” I warned.
She was already climbing onto her chair. It squeaked beneath her sneakers. Heads turned. A guy at the communal table pulled out one earbud.
“Sloane Liliana Deshazo, we love you, and we are concerned.”
“Don’t full-name me.”
“Full names are mandatory for interventions.”
She counted my offenses on her fingers: nearly falling over in Algebra, not eating lunch, and throwing fries at Chandler.
“I didn’t throw anything.”
Emory raised his hand. “There was a fry in my water.”
“Thank you, Emory,” Maekynzie said, still much too loudly.
The espresso machine hissed behind the counter. My face burned, and the rest of me couldn’t decide between hot and cold. Maekynzie’s voice kept climbing, and the guy with the earbud was still staring. So was the couple by the window.
“Can you sit down?” I asked. “Please.”
Maekynzie looked around as though she’d only just realized we weren’t alone. She climbed down immediately, the performance draining out of her face.
“Sloane, I wasn’t trying to embarrass you.”
“I know.” I kept my voice low. “I just don’t want an audience.”
I glanced toward the window where Tahni had passed a few minutes earlier.
Maekynzie pulled her chair closer. “Right. I’m sorry.”
Across from us, Stetson had stopped smiling. His cookie sat forgotten beside his elbow.
“Sloane?”
I tore off a piece of cinnamon roll and put it in my mouth. I could barely taste it.
“I’ve had a long day,” I said after swallowing. “Can we please talk about something else?”
Stetson kept watching me, his expression unusually serious. Chandler didn’t say anything at all.
I tore off another piece of cinnamon roll and held it up. “See? Eating.”
Silence settled over the table until Emory leaned back, arms folded.
“Incredible. I’ve never seen anyone eat a cinnamon roll with that much hostility.”
Noelle snorted. Maekynzie laughed and shoved Emory’s shoulder, leaving her hand there a little longer than necessary. He didn’t seem to mind.
Against my better judgment, the corner of my mouth lifted. Under the table, Noelle found my hand and squeezed.
On Tuesday, during second period, I told Madame Toussaint I had a headache.
She waved me out of French II with a dramatic “Pauvre chérie,” which made half the class turn around.
Nurse Haviland glanced up from her computer when I arrived. After I explained about the headache, she pointed me toward a chair and went to get water.
Beside Nurse Haviland’s office, an open exam alcove held an old-fashioned doctor’s scale, the kind with a metal bar and sliding weights. While she got my water, I stepped over to it.
Three weeks ago, at team check-in, the athletic trainer had weighed us all. I remembered the number because I’d complained that my shoes counted.
I stepped onto the scale, shoes and all, and slid the weight until the bar balanced. Four pounds less. I stepped off, stepped back on, and slid the weight again. Same result.
I hadn’t been trying to change anything. Between practice, games, homework, and Happy Paws, I’d barely noticed how often I skipped meals because I wasn’t hungry.
Beyond the alcove, Nurse Haviland’s chair creaked. I bent and double-knotted my laces, buying myself a few more seconds.
When I stepped back into her office, she held out a paper cup of water. “Feeling any better?”
“A little.” I took the cup and thought about the stairs between here and my next class.
“Actually, I think I pulled something at volleyball. My left leg’s been sore. Could I use the elevator for a couple of days?”
Her expression changed. “How long has it been hurting?”
“Since practice.”
There had been plenty of practices since August. I hoped she wouldn’t ask which one.
“Has anyone checked it?”
“Not yet.”
She turned her chair away from the computer. “If it hurts too much for the stairs, your dads need to know. Today.”
She rested her hand on the phone. “I’m calling home.”
My grip tightened around the paper cup.
“I’ll tell them when I get home. Please? I just need to make it through classes.”
“Tell them whatever else you want,” she said. “But I still have to call. That part’s my job.”
She picked up the receiver. If Dad answered, he’d want dates and details. Pops would want to know why I’d told him it was nothing on Thursday, and Dad would want to know why I’d said it was better.
I almost told Nurse Haviland the rest. About the heat in my thigh, the damp sheets Sunday night, and the way my jeans had started feeling loose. My mouth opened, but she was already dialing.
Nurse Haviland called Dad’s number first. It went to voicemail. She left a brief message asking him to call the health office, then dialed Pops.
I studied the orange hall pass I’d brought from French while she explained that I’d reported leg pain and needed medical assessment. She didn’t mention the headache I’d used to get here. She didn’t know about the scale or the weekend temperature.
She hung up. “One of your dads is picking you up. Wait here until he arrives.”
“Which one?”
“Zack,” she said, reading the name from her note. “He said he’d be here as soon as he could.”
I folded the orange hall pass in half without meaning to. Pops was coming, and I still hadn’t figured out what I was going to tell him.
Forty minutes later, Pops filled the doorway of the health office in his Navy working uniform, his cover in one hand and my sign-out slip in the other. He must have come straight from base. He thanked Nurse Haviland, listened while she repeated everything she’d told him on the phone, and nodded at all the right places. The whole time, he watched me.
I stood up carefully. There was no point trying to walk normally anymore. Whatever that took, I’d run out of it somewhere around the scale.
He lifted my backpack off the chair and slung it over his own shoulder. “Truck’s out front.”
That was all he said until we reached the Silverado. He opened my door and waited while I climbed in, one hand hovering near my elbow without quite touching it. Then he walked around, got in, and didn’t start the engine.
“Thursday night,” he said, “I told you to tell me if it was still bothering you.”
“I know.”
“Before somebody else did.”
The hall pass was still folded in my lap. “I know.”
He nodded once, as though that settled one thing and left the rest for later. Then he took out his phone, found a number, and put it on speaker.
I’d been hearing the recording at Dr. Kerr’s office since I was in a car seat. It still played the same hold music. When a woman finally picked up, Pops gave my name and birthday like he’d been rehearsing them the whole drive.
“Left leg,” he said. “She’s had pain for a while now. The school nurse says she’s having trouble with stairs.” He paused, listening. “Today, if she has anything. We’ll take whatever she’s got.”
Keys clicked on the other end. Outside, a man in a reflective vest dragged the visitor-lot cones into a crooked line.
“Two-fifteen,” Pops repeated. “We’ll be there. Thank you.”
He hung up and sat with the phone on his knee. Before he could put it away, it buzzed in his hand. Dad’s name lit up the screen.
Pops answered without speaker this time. “I’ve got her. We’re in the truck.” A pause. “Her leg. Dr. Kerr at two-fifteen.” Another pause, longer. His eyes went to me. “I don’t know yet.”
Dad’s voice came through, but not the words. Pops listened, then held the phone out to me.
“Fiorellina.” Dad sounded like he was walking fast somewhere echoing. “I’ll meet you there. You hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“Two-fifteen.”
“I heard.”
He was quiet, like he was deciding whether to say something else. “I’ll see you there,” he said instead.
I handed the phone back. Pops said something about lunch, then hung up and finally started the truck. He didn’t turn on the radio.
Two-fifteen was more than four hours away. I’d been hiding this for five weeks. Four hours shouldn’t have felt like the longer stretch.