“Anything else?” I said it so bitchy. So incredibly bitchy.

“No,” she said. “Sorry to bother you.” She said it sadly, which I knew was my opening to apologize. Instead I walked out and closed her door, hard.

I blamed the wrong person. Not my mom. She was sick. She needed me. It was Rennie. And maybe if Rennie had been a better friend, maybe I would have had more patience. Taken better care of my mom that day. It’s unforgivable, really.

I take the daisy, the one Rennie put in my locker, and I throw it into the garbage can. I don’t know if she’s still watching, but I hope to God she is.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Tuesday, I’m late leaving last period because our test goes long. I run straight to the pool, expecting to see Reeve in the water doing laps. But the pool’s empty; he’s not there. I wait for a few more minutes; then I go sit on the bleachers and text him.

No pool today? :(

Nah. I’m done with that.

??? Can’t talk now. I’m working at my dad’s office. Huh. What does that mean, he’s done? With what? With working out or with me? If we don’t swim today, I won’t get to spend any alone time with him before Thanksgiving break, because tomorrow’s a half day.

I think fast. The only thing for me to do is go to him right now and ask him what he meant. Make a show of how much I care.

I hightail it out of the gym and drive over to his dad’s office. It’s not far from school. It’s in a small building that looks like a colonial house. There’s a white-and-black sign that reads tabatsky property management out front.

Reeve’s truck is parked out front, no other cars. I flip down my vanity mirror and dab on some lip gloss and fluff up my hair. Then I grab my purse, hop out of the car, and walk up to the building.

Reeve’s sitting at a desk; there are keys all lined up in front of him, and he’s sorting through them. He looks up and starts to say, “Hi, can I help—” His eyes widen when he realizes it’s me. “What are you doing here?”

“I was worried when you didn’t show,” I say. I scooch closer to him and perch on the edge of the desk, which is when I notice he’s not wearing his walking cast. “Oh my gosh! No more boot!”

“Yeah. Earlier this afternoon.” Reeve keeps sorting keys, making piles, and not looking at me. And he doesn’t sound that happy about it.

“So why the face? We should be celebrating! Pancakes on me.” I poke him in the side so he’ll finally look at me. “I knew all your hard work would pay off.”

Flatly he says, “It didn’t.”

“What? What do you mean?”

Reeve stares straight ahead and says, “I asked Coach if he would time my sprints today. I was pumped to show him how much progress I was making in the pool, and I figured if I could win him over, he’d help me train and maybe make some phone calls for me to the scouts. Tell them I’m back on track, that I’ll be in fighting shape by the time spring workouts begin, and to save me a roster spot.” He clears his throat, like the words are getting stuck, and I feel my heart sink for him. “Well, it was a complete joke. I’m nowhere near where I used to be. I’m slower than the defensive line, and those guys weigh like three hundred–plus pounds. It’s over. I need to face facts, figure out what I’m going to do now. “

“Wait. Maybe you won’t get the top programs, but I thought there were still a few D-three schools,” I begin. “Like what about Williams?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not even good enough for a practice squad, Lillia. I’m done. My ass isn’t going to college. No football scholarship. I’m staying right here on the island.”

I stay still and quiet as he tries to yank open a file drawer. It’s stuck, and he pulls on it so hard that the keys he’s organized slide together into a heap. Reeve’s face goes red; he looks like he’s going to cry or maybe punch a wall. “Fuck!” he yells.

I jump in my seat and he shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he lets out a choked sound. He’s crying. Reeve Tabatsky is crying.

I’m not sure what to do. Rennie’s so good at comforting him, at saying all the right things. I’ve never been great at comforting people.

“Don’t apologize,” I tell him. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

I’m the one who should be sorry. Next fall, Reeve should be a football god at a division one school, doing keg stands and hooking up with random girls. That’s his destiny. The thought of Reeve stuck here on the island, going to community college and living at home . . . it’s too sad to even think about.

Reeve sinks back into his chair; he hangs his head in his hands, and his shoulders start to shake. He’s sobbing like a little boy. Meanwhile I keep my eyes on the floor.

He gets quiet all of a sudden and he says, “Remember what you said to me on Halloween night?”

You deserve everything you’re getting, because you’re a bad person.

My stomach lurches. “Reeve, I was—”

“No, you were right. I’m not a good guy, Lillia.” He wipes his eyes with the backs of his hands. “I did something to someone a long time ago. I hurt someone bad.”

“Who?” I breathe. Mary. He has to be talking about Mary.

“A girl . . . The more I think about it, the more I think maybe this is me getting what I deserve, so I can’t—I can’t even be upset about it.” He nods to himself. “In a way it’s like a relief. I’ve been waiting all this time for my punishment. Maybe . . . maybe this is it.” He sounds so resigned. So hopeless. It makes my heart hurt.

I rest my head on his shoulder. “Don’t talk like that,” I whisper. It’s crazy, but I feel genuinely bad for him.

He lets me sit like that for a moment and then he says, “Can you please go?”

I sit up straight to look at him, but he won’t look me in the eye.

That’s when it comes to me. An idea. And before I’ve really thought it through, I’m telling him a way to fix things.

“We have this family friend. He’s my dad’s coworker’s son. He’s a football player. Not a star quarterback like you, but still. He took a fifth year of high school at a prep school, and it was like a whole other year for recruits to check him out.” I say all of this super calmly, like he hasn’t been crying and he didn’t tell me to leave. I say, “You could do that, Reeve. If you train hard, and you get your grades up, I bet you could get a scholarship at a prep school somewhere, and then colleges would look at you again. It would be your second chance.”

He lifts his head; his eyes are red. “I told you, Cho. I don’t deserve a second chance. I’m no good. You shouldn’t even be around me.”

“I don’t want to hear you talking like that,” I snap. I never thought I’d feel this way, but maybe Reeve does deserve a second chance.

Reeve looks startled. Then he says, “Why would some fancy school give me a scholarship? My grades aren’t good enough for a scholarship.”

“Duh, you’re an amazing quarterback. If their team sucks, they’re basically paying to make it better by having you go to their school. I could ask my dad to talk to his friend, get more information. This could be your ticket out.”

He’s shaking his head. “I don’t know. It seems like a long shot.”

“Don’t give up on yourself. All you need is more time to heal and get strong again. Sure, spring workouts might be too soon for you, but what if you had another year to recuperate? You might not get to go to some big football school, but at least it’ll be a real college and not the JICC.” Reeve opens his mouth, but before he can answer, I grab him by his shirt collar. “Listen to me, okay? It’s worth a shot. I’ll help you study, if that’s what you’re so worried about.”

Reeve almost smiles, which makes me feel so good. “Oh yeah? That’s generous of you, Cho. Just so you know, I’m actually not a Neanderthal; I’m a pretty smart guy.”

“I never for one second thought you were dumb,” I tell him, dropping his collar and smoothing it out. And then, like it’s already decided, I say, “Tomorrow you make an appointment with Mr. Randolph and see what he knows. He’s bound to have some contacts at prep schools; I think he went to one. Then you register for the December SAT test date.”

“I already took the SAT,” Reeve says. “My score was fine.”

“Fine?” I repeat. I give him a doubtful look.

“Yeah. It was easy. At one point I put my head down and took a nap. I think maybe I had a hangover that day.”

“Well, what was your score?” I challenge.

“1920.”

Oh. That is pretty good. I’ve taken it three times, and it was only on the third try that I broke 2000. So Reeve is smart. He does have a chance at going to college. “Then take the test one more time. If you scored that high without even trying, who knows what you could do if you studied?”

I tell myself not to feel guilty for helping him. If I can fix this, if I can help make it so he still gets his football scholarship . . . everything will still end up the way it’s supposed to. Mary can still have her pound of flesh, and Reeve can still go to college.

I clap my hands together, cheer-style. “So first we reorganize these keys and then we go to the library. And if you do a good job, you’ll get a snack after.”

Reeve smiles for real this time. “You’re a piece of work, Cho. Did you know that?”

I smile back smugly. “Oh, trust me. I know.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

I’m practically sleepwalking as I shuffle down the hall to English class. I can hardly keep my eyes open. I stayed up super late to finish reading The Scarlet Letter for today’s discussion. I’m too shy to actually talk in class, but Mrs. Dockerty loves to randomly call on the quiet kids.

I should have been doing a few pages a night, but of course I left it to the last minute. It’s such a sad story, and I can’t say that I enjoyed it. It hit a little too close to home. The scars that Hester carried all through her life, the guilt and shame she felt even though it wasn’t her fault. And when she died at the end, I was in tears.

Needless to say, it was not a fun read.

I walk through the classroom door. I’m the first one, which is odd, especially since my last class was on the other side of the high school and it feels like everyone is counting off the minutes until Thanksgiving break begins. Not even Mrs. Dockerty is here yet. She’s probably in the bathroom or something. I fall into my seat and lay my head on the desk and rest my eyes for a minute.

I wake up with a start, my cheek stuck to the cover of the paperback. I lift my head slowly, trying to figure out how long I’ve been out. The class is suddenly full; everyone is in their seats. But there’s no Mrs. Dockerty. Instead a man is sitting on her desk. I guess we have a sub. I quick wipe my mouth and take out my paperback.

“What did you think about Bartleby’s decision never to leave the office? Did it make him sympathetic? Or were you frustrated?”

A bunch of hands fly up. I glance down at my copy. I don’t remember an office anywhere in The Scarlett Letter. Or a character named Bartleby. Maybe I didn’t read closely enough?

The sub calls on one of my classmates, who says, “I thought it was annoying. If you’re not happy working at a place, why would you stay?”

Another kid across the room says, “He’s unhappy, but he doesn’t know how to fix it. He’s paralyzed. He’s got nowhere else to turn. Life at the office is all he has going for him. Without it, he’s nothing.” This kid doesn’t even wait to be called on. Which is crazy. Mrs. Dockerty is very strict about not talking out of turn.

The substitute nods, pleased. He hops off his desk and gives a stack of papers to each row of desks. Once he’s up, I see something on his desk. It’s a brass name plate. It says mr. frissel.

Oh my gosh, I’m in the wrong class. I realize this as the papers are being passed to me. The boy sitting in front of me turns around.

It’s David Washington, the boy I kissed on Halloween night. I don’t think he recognizes me without my makeup and the pink streaks in my hair. But I definitely recognize him.

I get up with a start. “I—I made a mistake,” I announce. I grab my things and run out the door. But not to the class I’m supposed to be in. I head straight home. It’s a half day anyway.

When I get there, I’m still upset, so much so that my hands are shaking as I set my bike against the side of our house. Only one light is on inside, over the kitchen sink. The rest of the rooms are dark, like the sky.

I hear a knock around the front of the house. I edge past the corner and see two of the ladies from the Jar Island Preservation Society, with phony smiles plastered on their faces. They’ve stopped by before, always unannounced. I already know Aunt Bette will not answer the door.

I was there the first few times they came. We stood together in the doorway as they recommended landscapers who could come help clean up one yard or passed the name of a handyman who might replace the broken shingles in a way that would “maintain the original integrity” of the house.

Sure, our house isn’t in the best shape. Not when you compare it to the other homes on the block. This part of Jar Island has the oldest houses; almost half have been officially designated as landmarks. And some people take that designation super seriously, making sure that every detail is true to the period and that any renovations are done with special materials that would have been used at the time, like slate and cedar.