“Quinn,” she says slowly, “I want you to listen to me. You can’t spend your life atoning for what your brother did. Do you know what I mean by atoning?”

The truthful answer is that I’m only about 10 percent sure that I do, but I’m not about to admit that. “I’m not dumb, you know.”

Mrs. Euclid bends her head toward me. “Oh, Quinn, I know. You are so smart. You’re one of the most talented students I’ve had in a long time. Your drawings are very detailed. You have such a great eye, which is always a sign of a brilliant mind.”

I know she’s trying to be nice, but for some reason there’s an eruption happening at my core. It’s that lava-spitting feeling again. My anger, the anger I’ve tried so hard to ignore for so long, is bubbling up. “You don’t have to compliment me. I’m not, like, a sad dog.”

She’s the first teacher who has ever told me that I’m smart. I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t deserve those nice words.

There’s a long stretch of silence. When I look up, I see a puddle of hurt on Mrs. Euclid’s face. It only makes the anger inside of me bubble more.

“Look,” I say, “you can tell me all you want that I shouldn’t atone”—I say that word like it’s a rubber band, stretching it out all the way in my mouth—“for what my brother did, but you don’t know what you’re talking about because what he did it’s—it’s—it’s my fault. It’s my—my—my fault.”

I suck in a deep breath. The vacuuming of tears. I’m not going to cry. I can’t. I won’t.

The silence that ribbons through the air is so heavy, it’s almost like there’s another person in the small and crowded office. The ghostly silence drifts around the room as Mrs. Euclid visibly struggles with what to say next. I bet she’s really regretting inviting me back into her office now. I look at the Yoda poster. I wish it would come alive and give me some wise advice.

“I understand that you might feel guilt, Quinn, and that’s normal. Have you talked with someone?” Mrs. Euclid finally says.

“Yeah, right. Who is there to talk to?”

“Ideally I’d love for you to have the opportunity to talk with a professional.”

I keep staring at Yoda and tracing him in my mind. His ears are the most difficult part. I wonder how long the artist spent on them. I don’t bother to answer Mrs. Euclid. I can’t. How do I tell her that I don’t come from the type of family that’s going to let me talk to a professional? That professionals are only for kids like Cora. For kids who deserve help.

“Quinn, please look at me.”

My eyes feel as heavy as stones. I can barely lift them up. But when I do, I see Mrs. Euclid’s face is like a window—clear and open. It’s inviting me in. The thing about windows, though, is that they shatter easily.