Katie balances her pencil on her stack of books before spreading a napkin to serve as her placemat. She opens her bento box with separate containers for fruit, celery, beans and rice, and rolled sandwiches. As she arranges a bag of chips on the left and a bottled water on the right, I notice tear tracks on her cheeks. I should say something. Ease her guilt. She is, after all, one of the only two friends I have. Instead I pinch the bridge of my nose like it might relieve the tension pressing against my eyes.

Adam cuts his white asparagus pizza with plastic utensils. “How’s the head?” he asks, like he’s talking about math class.

“Kills.”

From our corner in the cafeteria, Adam glowers at the students behind me. “Because of the concussion, or our charming compatriots who have no problem with their lack of discretion?” Adam throws his right hand toward the surrounding tables. “No one is even trying to hide the fact they are gossiping about you.” He looks almost vicious wearing a vintage heavy metal T-shirt from a band I’ve never heard of and black liner around his eyes. “Your pettiness never fails to disappoint,” he shouts.

A high-pitched cackle erupts from somewhere behind me. It pisses me off that I recognize Cullen Henking’s laugh. The way that self-righteous sociopath mocked my dad’s death still grates my nerves.

“And somehow,” Adam says, “he’s the hero of the story. Lia, how could you let that happen?”

“I was a little busy trying not to die.”

Katie smooths the hair falling in front of her shoulder and wrinkles her nose. “I had a Cullen Henking groupie ask me what the inside of his house looks like.” Her eyes flit toward mine, like she’s gauging my reaction, wondering if we’ve moved past it. “As if I’d ever associate with him or his dad.”

“It’s gaudy,” I say. “You’d hate it.”

Katie’s smile is weak, but appreciative. As a Save the Parks supporter, she’s compelled to hate the mayor. She slides her bag of chips toward me. “Eat something.”

“She’s right,” Adam says. “You look . . .”

“If you say ‘wretched’ again, I’ll smack you.”

“Grayish.”

“They’d let you go home,” Katie says. Her dark eyes taking on the pitying stare every adult in this school has given me today.

I pull my sweater sleeve over my palm and start wrapping the fabric around my thumb. “I needed to get out.”

Shifting in my seat, I grab the chips and pretend to read the nutritional information. Even though I’ve bumped into them both a couple times today, it’s the most we’ve talked about what happened.

Adam drops his usual roguish expression. “Touchy-feely is not my thing. But today I’d make an exception.”