“Calling the police is stupid,” she says.

“They need to know the truth.”

She laughs again. “Yeah, you’re all qualified to give it, right?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’m the only person in that car that isn’t a liar.”

“I’m not a liar,” I say, but the words come out a little flat and dry.

“Aren’t you?” she asks, the smallest smile playing at her lips.

And I don’t answer, because she’s right. I am a liar. I lied to my mom about who I was with. I lied to everyone in the car about being in college.

“Look, everyone lies about something, but that doesn’t mean we’re going to lie to the police.”

“Maybe.” She shrugs. “I’m just saying, we’re all implicated in some of this shit. And when things like this go down, the police don’t go for the truth. They go for the easy targets.”

Kayla sighs then, pushing her hand into her hair. The medical bracelet on her arm jangles. It looks old and heavy on her delicate wrist.

“What’s your bracelet for?” I ask point-blank.

I can tell my directness surprises her, but she still answers. “Type 1 diabetes and a seizure disorder.”

I’m opening my mouth to respond when she shakes her head.

“It’s not mine. It’s my brother’s. Jonah.”

“Oh,” I say. “Wait. Why are you wearing his medical bracelet?”

“Because he’s dead. He died three years ago.”

I hate my reflection in this moment. After Phoebe, when I’d tell people my aunt died—they’d make a face like the one I’m making now. It’s an awkward mix of sadness, discomfort, and regret, and I remember so clearly wanting to punch everyone who wore this expression.

But you can’t do that. Instead, you have to—

“You don’t have to say anything,” she says.

Do that. You have to smile or say something reassuring exactly like Kayla just did. Somehow, even though you’re the one with the trauma, you become the comforter to the person fumbling through an attempt at sympathy. Usually you end the awkwardness with a thank you, but Kayla doesn’t.

She looks at the wall like she’s a million miles away. I thought her drugs—her shit, as she called it—was missing. But she looks like something is kicking in.

I feel differently about it now that I know about her brother. She isn’t doing this to have a good time. She’s probably just trying to dull out every awful, hollow thing she’s been drowning in for the last three years.

My mom could have ended up like this. Desperate and addicted.