Kayla is sitting on the counter, her back to the mirror. There’s not much to the bathroom—two stalls and a single sink with a roll of brown paper towels set in the corner beside the faucet. I stand across from her, leaning against the wall she’s facing.

Kayla doesn’t say anything or acknowledge me at first. Her eyes are glassy, and her hands are wet like she’s just washed them. When she finally looks up, I can see myself tense in the mirror behind her. Embarrassed at my reaction, I try on a smile. It fits like it belongs to someone else.

“Come to check on the burnout?” she asks.

“That’s not how I think of you.”

“You think of me?” She smiles back and it isn’t soft or real. Whatever tender, honest thing I saw a few moments ago—it’s gone now. “I’m touched.”

I feel that familiar unease again, but I shove it down hard. I won’t let everyone else’s emotions continue to throw me into a tailspin. If I can handle burying my aunt, I can handle an awkward conversation in a bathroom.

“Do you honestly think you’re the only one in the car that’s used drugs?” I ask.

Her expression is predatory in that moment, like she knows exactly how to strike for the kill. “Oh, you’re a bad girl, are you? Maybe you’ve hit a joint or two at a party. Or maybe that one time, when your friend’s mom was away, you snuck one of her Valium, because you were just so stressed.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” I say.

“I know you’re not a user. You might dabble. You might play. But you don’t use.”

I don’t even dabble, so I don’t argue. Instead, I lean back against the wall. “Well, I’m not going to talk to the cops about it, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“You’re not my problem, Freshie.”

My reflection in the mirror frowns, my mouth a bracket. Kayla tilts her head, her long hair a tangle against the glass.

“What is your problem, then? What are you worried about?” I ask.

“I’m not worried about any of you. You’re all too messed up to even know how to watch your own backs.”

“I’m watching my own back,” I say.

She laughs like it’s the funniest thing she’s heard all day. “Oh, sure. You’re tough.”

I shrug. “Okay, fine. If not me, what about Brecken? You really think he doesn’t know how to look out for number one?”

“I think he’s got a lot on his mind,” she says evasively.

“Like the fact that he was the one behind the wheel when all this happened? Or the fact that he stole the gas, which started this whole mess in the first place?”