And you’re not even taking notes. Who do you think you are?

Quick! Pretend you’re sick again and bail before you humiliate yourself.

But after Karly handed out lumps of gray clay and full spray bottles of water so we could keep the clay wet and told us to choose from a ton of tools on her desk to experiment with, after I started messing around with different scrapers, wire-end thingies, pokey sticks, spatulas, and texturing tools, the weight on my shoulders started to lift and the voice went away. All we had to do was create texture—any texture. Smooshing and smoothing and shaping the clay made me think of . . . nothing.

I didn’t think about how I’d hurt my sister. I didn’t worry whether anyone in class was judging what I was making, whether Izzy was mad at me for not texting him back all weekend (because I hadn’t known what to say), or whether Jackie was scowling at me. I didn’t bite my nails (because they were covered in clay). I didn’t miss home. I didn’t obsess over the man in the yellow scarf.

I didn’t think about Colette.

I just made texture. I used certain tools to take away pinches of clay, and different tools to add them elsewhere. I sculpted mini mountains and valleys, over and over, in a pattern that ended up looking like dragon scales. It was mesmerizing.

Way sooner than I’d thought possible, Karly called, “Time for lunch!”

Disappointed, I cleaned up my space and my hands, the worries that working with clay had pushed away rushing back into my brain like a fast tide.

Except then Izzy was there, wearing a vintage Batman shirt, smiling at me.

“Good talk this weekend,” he said, shuffling his feet.

“Ohmygod, sorry I never texted you back,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “Are you feeling better?”

“I am, thanks. Seriously, though, that cat meme was funny. I just had a lot going on. And sorry about how I acted at the rec center. Sorry for being . . . short.”

He looked at me with a silly expression. “Actually, I think you’re pretty tall, unless you’re from Themyscira.”

I stared at him, confused.

“Wonder Woman’s planet? No?”

“I mean sorry for—”

He cut in, laughing. “I know what you mean, I’m just kidding. It’s all good. That was a lot of sorrys.” He got his reusable lunch sack out of his bag. “Hey, hurry up or we’ll have to sit at the picnic table with the splinters.”

Relieved that Izzy wasn’t mad at me, I got my sack lunch and followed him out of the room.