Chim leads me to a table filled with people I recognize from Carter, most of whom I have no desire to see—now or ever again. A girl with bright red hair waves at me from down at the end: Juliet Nichols’s best friend, Hannah. One of those people who would come up to me during the few weeks we were back in school before I got kicked out, all May, I’m having a rough day. I miss Jules so much. How are you doing? Do you want to come do yoga with me after school? And I’d want to scream in her face, scream and maybe never stop screaming, but instead I’d somehow force the word no out from between my lips. (Who knew that two letters could take a thousand years off your life?)

This isn’t our normal lunch crowd. In the past, it was always just me and Chim and Lucy and sometimes Jordan and Brian and his other best friend, Marcus, and then Miles and some of his soccer guys after we started dating. Sometimes a rando girl or guy—Lucy’s flavor of the week—but that was it. Hannah should be eating with Juliet at their table filled with other kids who played in the wind section of the band. Not with us. Not with me. Not without Juliet.

Not instead of Jordan.

I can’t do this. I start to turn and head back toward the cafeteria doors, but a hand grabs my arm. That hand belongs to—thanks be to Baby Jesus—Lucy. I start to let out a whimper of relief but manage to stop it before it leaves my mouth.

I’m pathetic enough as it is.

I slide into a seat next to Lucy and lay my head on her shoulder. I mumble into her shirt, “I saw Brian and he tried to talk to me, and I just couldn’t, and I ran away.” I let out a choked sob, and Lucy puts her hand on my arm.

“Oh, honey. Brian…You still haven’t talked to him?”

I shake my head without lifting it off her shoulder. She knows how many times he called me over the first few months after the shooting, trying to talk about Jordan, to remember him, but I sent him to voice mail every time.

She strokes my hair. “I’m sorry, May. I promise. It’s gonna be fine. Half the day down, only…”

“A trillion to go?”

She laughs. “Always so dramatic. More like a hundred twenty-five and a half days.”

“Your ability to do math like that in your head is just wrong.”

“It’s easy.”

I snort. “For you, maybe.”

“So, tonight—wanna hit the house?” Lucy’s smart. Talking about our extracurricular activity is a surefire way to make me feel better.

I nod, my face still pressed into her shoulder. No need to mention I was just there last night.