I was light-headed from the smell of the methylated spirits that I was using to clean out the disgusting sinks caked with old paint, so I sat down for a moment.

I was getting used to silence from Sam. We’d both talk to Jed on the way to and from school, and then at home we went to our separate rooms.

On that last day I finally asked what I’d been wondering ever since Sam stared Mr. Khouri down outside the teachers’ lounge.

“Why did you want to have detention anyway?”

Sam shrugged as he kept sifting through the drying racks. “Didn’t seem fair not to.”

“I don’t get it. Those kids were picking on you. You didn’t do anything wrong. . . .”

Sam’s face went bright red—his biggest tell—and his eyes quickly darted away from me.

“Did you? Sam?”

“What do you care?”

I shrugged and started scratching at a deep cut on the wooden table I was sitting at, digging my fingernail into the rough groove. “I don’t care, really. So maybe that’s the best reason you should tell me: because I won’t make a big deal about it.”

Sam didn’t speak, so I heaved a sigh and went back to the sinks, pulled the disgusting rubber gloves on, and got back to scrubbing.

“You didn’t tell my mom about Lachie, or anything?”

Over my shoulder I said, “I didn’t, actually—you’re welcome!”

He sighed behind me, and then said, “Thanks—for that day.”

I didn’t turn around, because I didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t that I’d been doing as Luca asked, trying to be a better person and maybe a big sister. It was something I couldn’t explain. When I’d seen Sam cornered, my feelings took over.

“Lachie hates my guts,” Sam whispered.

I still didn’t turn around.

“I did something last term, and now he hates me.”

“What did you do?”

He huffed. “Told him that this town sucked and they could all get lost and go jump because I was never coming back. . . .” He took a deep breath. “Because I was going to go live with my dad.”

At that, I spun around.

Sam shrugged, and I watched as he started fiddling with some leftover butcher’s paper, tearing it into strips. “But then—that didn’t work out.”

“Anika wouldn’t let you?” I asked.

“Dad didn’t want me to. I asked him over Easter, but he said . . .” He shook his head but didn’t finish that sentence. “Doesn’t matter. He doesn’t want me.”

The bell rang then, making us both jump a little, and I was glad. Kids started filing in, and there was no time for me to tell Sam that I was sorry, or ask why his dad said no, or even what Anika would have done if he’d said yes.