Beyond the door, the room stiffens with silence. Secrets are catnip to me, so I flatten my sweat-dampened ear to the door and forget my agitation with these women for gossiping about my family. The red-headed secretary—Maryann—must’ve whispered because I can’t hear anything. A second later, the other woman gasps, “NO.”

“YES,” Maryann replies.

“Oh, so she’s looking to marry rich then?”

“I saw it all. She’s angling to be a preacher’s wife by Christmas.”

WHAT. THE. HELL? What did this rude-ass Maryann see? Was my mom with the Reverend? I debate scramming out of here before any more upsetting details come spilling out of this office, but the thrall of gossip can’t be denied.

“I’ve got two words for her,” the first woman says, “good and luck.”

The second woman moans in agreement. “Barking up the wrong tree; it’s sad. Someone ought to tell her.”

Wrong tree…?

My chest shrinks and pinches inward as the fog thickens in my head over the repeating words: wrong tree, wrong tree, someone ought to tell her.

“You know what else,” the first secretary says, “that poor boy needs the Reverend in his life like a hole in the head.” Except this time, Maryann doesn’t understand. The previously kinder secretary lowers her voice to a conspiratorial hush and adds: “You know, you saw him. The boy. Came in here all sassy and hands on his hips, giving us the business.”

“Clair…” Maryann says warily, as if fearful of the turn her toxic gab session has taken. I don’t like it either. I don’t know why. I don’t know what me putting my hands on my hips is supposed to mean, but I know one thing: the fog is clouding my brain. I press closer to the door—no longer to catch their gossip, but out of a burning need to understand what it is they know about me that I don’t.

“You know, he had those bracelets on,” Clair says. Like a homing beacon, my eyes lock on to my wrist and the series of bracelets I put on today: a thick leather strap and two colorful ones made of yarn. It’s how my dad always wore them, and there’s nothing wrong with them.

It doesn’t mean anything.

“Someone ought to tell her…” a voice echoes.

“I’m not saying anything you’re not thinking, Maryann,” Clair hisses. “You watch: if that boy’s mother gets her way and gets in with the Reverend…it’s gonna go down. I know stories about the Packards, that whole family, that’d keep you awake for days.”

The fog grows too enormous to contain. It swallows every thought, not just the ones about the Reverend. Maybe it’s the heat, maybe I’ve been crouching too long and am losing circulation. Pins and needles flood my whole body like a leg that fell asleep.