It’s finally lunchtime, and all I want is to grab on to Lucy like the life raft she’s become and never let go. I walk through the swinging doors into the cafeteria to find her, but before I can get more than a couple steps inside, I’m hit by a cacophony of noises. There are people everywhere. Most I don’t recognize; they must be the original QA students. The ones who belong here. The ones who fit.

A person brushes by me and I find myself looking into the eyes of one of Jordan’s best friends, Brian Ramirez. Brian was in jazz band, too, but wasn’t a section leader. Wasn’t in practice that day.

Which is why he’s here, in front of me, instead of…not.

Brian and I lock eyes for a second and I freeze. My stomach turns as he opens his mouth to say something and I just can’t…I can’t…I can’t…and before he can get out any words, I duck behind a group of people who are coming in through the door and bolt across the room to the other side and don’t look back.

I need Lucy. Now.

I dig through my bag and find my phone at the very bottom.

I text her furiously, WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU with at least seventeen exclamation points and several I CANNOT DEAL WITH THIS SHIT–type emojis. Then I slump against yet another wall to wait.

Across the room, I see Steve Irmen. His girlfriend, Britta, died that day. She played the clarinet.

Steve is laughing, his arm around another girl.

“Girl, what’re you doing hanging out by the trash cans?” Chim saves me from total loserdom/a complete emotional breakdown/freaking out and getting kicked out of school all over again. I offer a silent apology to the universe for almost slapping her earlier.

I shrug. There’s nothing much I can say back, because it probably does look like I’m chilling by the trash cans, of all places.

She shakes her head, a worried look in her eyes. “May. It’s going to be okay. I promise. C’mon.” She motions for me to follow her as she walks off into the depths of hell (aka the cafeteria). I sigh and follow her, because my other option is to scream and run out of school and keep running and never stop. And while that’s tempting, I’m pretty sure security would catch me before I got anywhere close to off campus—and oh, also, my parents would commit me or force me in to see McMillen. Which would be super not-fun (understatement of the century). If I do anything too fucked-up right off the bat, I’ll be back to how it was right after everything happened—going to her once or twice a week, sitting there silent, wasting my time and hers.