As we walk through the hallways, it’s as though every pair of eyes is connected to me by a string, following my every move. Several strangers call out greetings and well wishes as I walk by, and I nod at them awkwardly, straightening the hem of the sweater I borrowed from Audrey. Somehow wearing one of her things felt less like stealing from a stranger than wearing the clothes in my own closet.

“We’re good friends, right?” I blurt, and Zoe turns to me, looking surprised as she slows down. Heat rises to my cheeks, and I scramble to explain. “It’s just—I have all these pictures on my bedroom walls of us together.”

“Yeah,” she says, voice subdued. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable by bringing it up, but we’ve been best friends since middle school.”

“It’s okay,” I say, internally reminding myself that none of this is my fault. “I’d rather know about everything than be kept in the dark.”

“I guess that makes sense. This is yours.” She brings us to a stop in front of a locker, and I pass her the combination from Mrs. Gallagher, watching as she twists it open. I’m greeted by another photo of us tacked to the inside, along with a few others I recognize from my room. “You’ll need the red notebook and the copy of Macbeth for our first class.”

In the picture of us, I’ve got my arms looped around her shoulders and we’re laughing, oblivious to the other people around us. For a brief moment a scene flashes through my mind—a crowded living room, a throbbing bassline, a feeling of dread, faces that feel both familiar and nameless. But then it’s gone before I can register any of the details, and a headache forms at my temple. I’m unsure if the images are from an actual memory or just something my brain conjured out of thin air.

“I’m sorry about . . . all this.” I fiddle with the books in my hands.

“You don’t need to apologize to me for something completely out of your control,” she states. “Because I won’t hear it.”

“Okay.”

“Besides, maybe your memory will come back once you see Damien,” she teases. “Speak of the devil.”

Turning around, I immediately recognize the boy approaching, the touchy one in all of the photos of us together. As he strides toward us eagerly, I register that his coffee-colored curls are longer than in the pictures, his skin golden and sun kissed. The boy next to him is bulky and intimidating, though the expression on his face looks more like a child’s on Christmas morning.