I glance over as a stack of pamphlets printed on slick paper are placed in my hand. Mr. Mac stands over me, today’s casual Friday ensemble consisting of relaxed-fit jeans, a tucked-in polo in a shade of chick-fuzz yellow. “Do me a favor and pass them down, please?” The title reads You Are Not Alone, and there’s a photo of a hoodie-wearing girl with her face pressed against her bent knees. As I hand them on to the next person and the stack works its way down the line, most of them waft to the floor and are ground beneath shifting sneakers.

Somebody taps my shoulder. I turn to see Trace lower himself into the space beside me, never mind that there isn’t enough room and he almost sits on somebody’s hand. I don’t see Sage—she must be with Bree, somewhere. “What up.” He passes me my phone.

“Why do you have this?” I look back, scanning the rows. “Is he here?”

“Was. For like a minute.”

Unease is stealthy, spreading through my body with slow deliberation. “Why didn’t he give it to me himself?”

“Probably because he wanted to get out of this shithole ASAP before they start the your-friend-is-dead-but-that’s-no-reason-not-to-learn-about-the-hypotenuse-of-a-triangle speech.” Raises his voice: “Today should be canceled,” making heads turn. Hyde glares, but stays at parade rest between Klatts and Tourneau, cutting us that much slack to act out our grief and inner turmoil. “Seriously. Like Ivy didn’t rate an early dismissal.” Trace stays quiet a second, head and knee bobbing to some internal beat. “You and Kincaid, huh.”

I nod slowly, wonder if I’ll ever not feel that stab of guilt, like we’ve been caught. “So it would seem.”

“You and Bree have your little talk? Thought I felt a cold front coming down.” Lower: “She’s had a lady boner for Kincaid for pretty much ever.”

“I wasn’t trying to steal him.”

“Hey. You can’t make a play, hang up your jock, that’s what I say.”

I glance at him, curious to know what Kincaid said to him about me, but struggling not to ask because, considering what’s happened to Ivy, it shouldn’t matter. “I guess. Thanks.” Trace gives a chuff of laughter, rubbing his face with his hands, and there’s something comforting about him, bigger and more substantial than anything in our surroundings on this strange awful day, and I’m okay with the fact that he’s sitting too close and his dirty untied bootlace is lying on my foot.