My music selection is a slow bleed because I’m not fully awake. The Postal Service, SZA, and Syd. I’m drawing faces in the window fog—dragons and devils. A ghoul followed me home from Matteo’s house yesterday. I haven’t seen one of those things get so close to me since . . . well, since the first time I ever saw one like that, in my bedroom when I was ten.

Mom’s getting my attention from the rearview mirror, her jet-lagged eyes doting and impatient. I pull out my earphones.

“I know you’re tired of me asking,” she says. “You sure you don’t want to get your license?”

“I’m sure.”

I look out the window. I could never trust myself on these roads, where the cars crash as often as they reach their destinations.

We arrive when everyone else is already in class. St. Clair’s front lawn is so green it looks artificial. It probably is. So the trees and tulips in the big lawn out in front of the school where we stop the truck could be fake too. Maple leaves sweep the air from the brick walkways to the belfry. The stone saint on her post looks unhappier than usual to see us.

Benji gets out first and shuts the door without a word, like always.

Mom sighs. “Have a good day, Jake.”

It doesn’t sound all that sincere. I think his negativity rubs off on her, and then she transfers it to me.

I get out and stand there on the asphalt, watching the truck head in one direction and my brother in the other.

I’m always by myself.

Ms. Kingston is teaching when I make it to English, harping on about something I’d have been lost on even if I’d arrived on time.

She stops mid-speech when I enter, puts a hand on her angular hip, and gives me a green-eyed hate glare. “Nice of you to finally join us. Have a seat.”

I steal a chair in the discussion circle next to Fiona Chan. All I really know about her is she’s the one person in class who doesn’t stare at me like an escaped prisoner when I get here late.

Ms. Kingston’s still watching me as I unpack. “Anything you’d like to say?”

“Oh. Sorry.”

She shakes dead brown hair out of her face. “Anyway. Now that everyone has arrived, we can turn back to our discussion. Everyone should have read through page one hundred and nine of The Great Gatsby. Chad? You started our discussion last time. Who are you passing the baton to?”

Chad Roberts—he’s one of those rugby dudes who can’t mind his own business. Chews his gum extra loud and throws his voice in your face when he speaks. Just needs to be heard. His girlfriend, Laura Pearson, sits right next to him, doe eyes fluttering every time he makes a move.