“There must be some dream you have,” I say. “Something you imagine when it’s dark, and you’re about to fall asleep, and Ryan is staying over at someone else’s place.”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “There’s a dream.”

“Well?”

“It’s you, Jane. You’re the dream I have in those moments, when I’m too sleepy to stop myself.”

A fist closes around my throat. Heat floods my eyes. I’ve always suspected, always known, if I’m honest, that he wanted more from me than I could give him, but he’s never come out and said it. I’ve never had to tell him no before. “Noah.”

“It’s okay. I know you don’t think about me that way. And I know you’re made for better things.”

“No, Noah. It’s not like that. We’re the same, you and I—”

“We’re not. You’re going places in your life. Hell, you’ve already gone somewhere. And me? I’m going to be here, working at the same grocery store for the rest of my life. They’ll promote me to assistant manager someday, and that will be it for me.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Don’t tell the truth? Go back to your rich people. That’s where you belong.”

There’s a click. I look at my screen. Call ended.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Jane Mendoza

My eyes are puffy from crying the next day, but I scrub them hard with soap and paste a pretend smile on my face. I have an email back from the school agreeing to accept the work with stones and paint in lieu of scanned pages. There’s lots of verbiage about all the exceptions being made, and how grateful we should be, but the important thing is that it’s going to work.

Paige is going to pass first grade, and she’s going to do it herself.

My pride knows no bounds, and we forage together through the woods, painting onto rocks and trees and even a particularly large mushroom. We recreate worksheets about writing and math and social studies. When we’re done with eight of them, we move on to creative designs—the abstract swirls and splashes she loves so much.

We take a break at a patch of wild blueberries, pulling them off sharp branches until our hands are pink and our lips are colored blue.

A text comes in on my phone. I tense, thinking it might be Noah. Instead it’s an unknown number. Meet me in my study tonight at 9 p.m.

Mr. Rochester, then.

I wonder if he already knows about the school thing. I’m excited to tell him.

Groggy and heartbroken, but also excited.

While wandering, we come across a tree that has a large wound in it.

“Hit by lightning,” Paige says, her small voice knowledgeable.