“I’m leaving,” I say numbly.

She stares at me. “Leaving? Where? How long?”

All I can do is shake my head. If I speak another word, I’m scared I’ll fall apart.

But Chanel won’t let it rest. “Is the school making you leave?” she demands, angry now, two spots of color rising to her cheeks. “Because whatever you did, it can’t be that bad. And besides, you’re one of the best students they have. No—they can’t. I won’t let them.” She spins away from me, already reaching for her phone.

With enormous effort, I manage to find my voice again. “What—what are you doing?” I croak.

“I’m telling my dad,” she says. Her mouth twists into a grimace that’s half bitter, half smug. “He’s been extra nice to me ever since I found out about—you know.” The corners of her lips pull down further, but she continues, “I bet if I ask, he can pull some strings, get the school to reconsider—”

“No.” I grab her by the shoulders, force her to put her phone away. “No—Chanel, don’t. Please. I mean, I’m so grateful you’d even want to—but it’s not the school. Well, not only the school. I just. I can’t be here right now.” My voice cracks on the last word, and Chanel’s eyes darken with concern.

We’re both silent for a while: me trying to breathe through clenched teeth and shove my emotions down; her standing completely still, gaze trained on the ground.

Then she sighs. “God, this sucks.”

The massive understatement draws a shaky, slightly hysterical laugh from my lips, and I nod.

“Can I help you pack, at least?” she asks, glancing at my bag again. “Or I could help you get a Didi? My driver’s probably coming soon, too—he could give you and your parents a lift.”

Her kindness is overwhelming, like the fierce blast of a heater in winter. I give her hand a light squeeze, too choked up to speak for a minute. “No, no, it’s fine. I’m pretty much done anyway,” I finally manage, gathering the last of my things. “And my house is almost a two-hour drive from here. It’d be too far for your driver.”

Before she can protest, I throw my arms around her small frame, hoping it can convey everything—all the guilt and gratitude—I don’t know how to say.

Then I turn and walk out the door, pushing aside the awful thought that this may be the last time I’ll ever see these halls.

Mama and Baba do not speak a single word to me the whole subway ride home. It’s better, I suppose, than being screamed at in public again. But not by much.

When we finally reach their flat—our flat, I keep reminding myself—it’s even smaller than I remember. The ceilings scrape Baba’s head. The walls are stained yellow. There’s barely enough room for all of us to stand in the living room without bumping into the dinner table or the cabinets.

Silently, Mama picks up my bag and suitcase, and for one terrible second I think she’s going to throw them and me out of the house. Force me to go live on the streets. Disown me for good.