I don’t reply as I throw my stuff on the floor next to Clay. My bag falls over and the book slides out. I shove it back inside with a quick glance at Gram, but her focus is on the road ahead.

My plan had been to go home and call Olivia so we could find the right language. But now I’m not sure what to do.

7. Meninges

Just like a water filter protects us from drinking gross stuff, our meninges are made up of three membranes that protect our brain and spine: the pia layer, the arachnoid layer, and the dura layer, or PAD. These three layers “pad” the brain and spinal cord. They provide a supportive framework for the central nervous system and protect it. The more I think about it, the more I realize I have to be the meninges and protect Gram. No matter what it takes.

Gram smiles when I slip into the front seat of the van. “Good lesson?”

“Not bad. Max taught it. I guess he did okay.”

“He’s such a nice boy. Such good manners and so handsome.”

“Mmm.” I push away thoughts of Olivia and Piper and the hurt that bubbled up when Olivia refused to meet my eye. I have to be even more careful about hiding my secret. No one but Gram can ever know the real me. No one else would understand. And if she forgot who I was…

I have to find a way to keep that from happening.

Everything seems to lead back to the book. I could ask Gram what language it’s written in, but I also don’t want to set her off. Just talking about the book earlier seemed to make her memory worse.

“Gram, do you know another language?”

She glances at me, her eyebrows rising like they do when I ask for the sugar cereal she never lets me get. “Why?”

“Max… um… Max speaks Spanish fluently.” Since she seems to think Max is the sweetest boy ever.

She smiles again. “Of course! He must have grown up speaking it. It will be natural for him.”

“I was thinking about learning another language,” I say. The lie tightens inside my throat. It feels like the time I drank milk and broke into hives.

“Perhaps Max will teach you some Spanish.”

“Maybe.” And maybe I’d rather shove toothpicks under my fingernails. Bad enough he’s teaching my riding lessons with his know-it-all smirk. Being nice for one second doesn’t automatically erase years of lording it over me.

“I always think it’s good to know more than one language,” Gram continues. “Most people in Europe know three or four. My mother could speak at least that many.”

“I didn’t know that,” I say softly.