He smiles and says, “I’ve done the risk assessment.”

I wonder if there’s a whole new section all about me, but I don’t ask.

I think back to all the previous students who went to Mayfield Lodge before us, how different they were when they returned. Will that be me in a week? And will I be better or worse?

It’s not the ideal time, but I have to see for myself what all the fuss is about. Plus, it’s the closest I’ve had to a vacation in years.

All the way to English, I’m reminiscing about the weekends Nan and I used to take together, and I almost walk into Mr. Collins at the door. I mumble an apology as I step past.

He’s the complete opposite of Mr. Humphries. He never looks pleased to see us, rarely smiles, and watches the clock more than we do. Some teachers are clearly in the wrong job.

“Books out,” Mr. Collins says. “Page thirty-two.”

He talks in commands, saving full sentences for parent-teacher conferences.

As I pull the book from my bag, something comes with it, falling to the floor by my feet.

It’s from a newspaper, an ad with half the page missing. But when I turn it over, I see my mom’s face smiling back at me and next to it the full, gory details of her death.

Chapter 56

I can’t concentrate, Mr. Collins’s words drifting past in a fog, the newspaper article covering the words I should be studying.

There she is: my beautiful mother. She smiles up at me, reminding me of everything I know and everything I don’t. This isn’t one of the latest stories. It’s from ten years ago. This is how the world was told she had died.

I’ve never seen this clipping before. It’s not mine. But it was in my bag, not buried at the bottom but slipped beside a book I only use three times a week. This morning, the book was on my desk at home. Whoever put the article there, they did it today. Whoever it was goes to St. Anthony’s.

“Fuck,” I whisper, and Mr. Collins stops talking and looks at me.

“Did you say something, Miss Simmons?”

A couple of people around me giggle until Mr. Collins shuts them down with a stare.

“No,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

He keeps staring for a few more seconds, then turns back to his book.

If this was someone else’s class, I could excuse myself, but Mr. Collins is an asshole when it comes to things like that. You don’t ask to use the bathroom. We learned that the hard way in sixth grade and again last September. Some teachers change when you’re in high school and some don’t.