I haven’t left my house since the conversation with my parents. It’s been a week. No joke, Lucy has called my phone sixty-seven times. I’m not sure how many times she’s tried the house phone, because my mom had to unplug it. Again. Just like after Jordan. My mom informed me that after my speech went viral, people from all over the country started calling. Reporters, crank callers, angry assholes, fans. Fans. That gives me the creeps—fans, just like a serial killer.

Which, I guess, I sort of am.

Zach hasn’t tried to get in touch with me. Not once.

I shouldn’t be surprised. I shouldn’t be, but somehow, I am. I keep thinking that out of everyone, he should understand why I did what I did. He hated his mom too. But every time the thought crosses my mind, I remind myself of the words I sprayed on their garage, the lawn I salted and ruined, the constant thought he had that someone was out to get his family, and I’m reminded that I’m the worst person who has ever lived and I know that Zach will never speak to me again.

—

I wake up late in the afternoon, sticky with sweat, my brain still tangled inside a nightmare. I hear low voices murmuring from downstairs, and I pull my pillow over my head to block them out.

There’s a knock on my door a few minutes later, and I hear it open.

“May,” my mom whispers. I pretend I don’t hear her. I pull the pillow down farther onto my head.

She lingers for a few moments longer, and then the door shuts quietly.

I take the pillow off my head and roll over, face toward the wall. I’m trying to convince my body to go back to sleep, when the door opens again. Footsteps cross the room and a cool hand brushes the nape of my neck.

“Oh, May Day.” It’s Lucy. “I’ve been trying to call you.” She strokes my head. It’s the first human contact I’ve had in a week. Something deep in my midsection begins to relax, and it feels like a betrayal.

“Stop.” I grunt out the word and shuffle my body closer to the wall. Lucy draws back, leaving a cold, empty spot where her hand was.