Tegan’s eyes lasered past me and zeroed in on Malachi, who was perusing his history textbook in a way that told me he was completely aware of his environment and ready for anything. She made a suggestive noise that made my fists clench. “I heard you had gotten together with some guy. I sincerely hope the rumors are true, for your sake.”

My cheeks were on fire. “People exaggerate. You know that.”

Her shell-pink lips curled into a lazy, speculative smile. “Too bad.”

I didn’t know whether to be flattered or to tell her to step the hell off. I was gravitating toward the latter when her smile fell away like a mask that was too heavy to wear for another second. “I wanted to talk to you,” she said quietly. “I’ve been thinking. You know. Since she died. About stuff. And people.”

I looked around, at the entire cheer squad staring at Tegan like she was crazy for speaking to me, and at the Goths, who had raised their heads to watch us like they wondered if they were about to witness a girl fight. Had she really chosen me to be the recipient of her thoughts about stuff and people?

“Tragedy has a way of making people think about life,” I said, offering the same empty statement I’d heard from one of our teachers after Nadia died. I waved my hand at her banner. “I take it this … whatever this is … is the result of your thinking?” I opened my mouth to suggest suicide prevention might have been more relevant, but her haunted expression stopped me. “This is … nice. A nice thing to do. Nadia would have approved.” It was the friendliest thing I could manage.

Tegan gave me a fragile smile. She’d always been an organizer. She liked bossing people around. But it was usually team fund-raisers and running for student council and stuff. Charity wasn’t really her thing.

“I wanted to do something real,” she said, staring down at her french manicure. “For her. Something that wasn’t bullshit. So I’m collecting food to take to Anchor House. It’s like a homeless shelter and soup kitchen kind of place. Nadia’s mom is on their board, and so is mine.” She bit her lip and looked at my hands, at my broken, unpolished fingernails. “I wondered if maybe you wanted to come with me tomorrow when I take it. We could work the lunch shift at the kitchen. They need volunteers.”

Tegan’s therapist must have put her up to this. “Where is it?” I asked.

“Pawtucket. You know, in the sketchy part?”