Grace grabs her purse. It’s a designer purse. I watch her unzip it and riffle through it until she finds what she’s looking for. As soon as she does, the purse slips from her grasp and hits the floor. Clutched tightly in her fingers is a piece of paper. She unfolds it and then presses it against her face, breathes it in.

“Look at this,” she says. She kisses the note once before she gives it to me. As soon as my fingers curl around it, she says, “Be careful—”

I stare at the bubbly handwriting.

Daughter dear, I didn’t manage to throw something together for your lunch—I’m a flake! Here’s some money instead. Buy something healthy! Remember, Miss President, the student body looks to you to set a good example!

Love you, xo Mom

The first thing I think is, Mrs. Casper still makes Grace’s lunch? And then I cross that thought out until it’s not even there anymore because it’s the kind of thing Mrs. Casper would do and besides—it’s a note from Grace’s mom. This is what has value. This is the new money.

“Lucky,” I say.

“I know. I knew it was here … but I couldn’t—I mean I just couldn’t. Until now,” she says. “I just woke up and I really wanted it today. I miss her.”

She takes the note back and runs her thumb over it. My throat is so tight and there’s a weight in my chest that’s hard to breathe around. Memories of my mother are hazy things. They feel like a kid’s blanket, fuzzy and soft but mostly insubstantial. Grace’s note doesn’t make me wish for a woman I spent most of my life not having. It’s not that …

She looks at me. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Neither of us moves or says anything for a long time. It’s like—suspended animation. I don’t know. We could stand here for hours and not say or do anything because there’s nothing to say or do. Grace looks at her note and I cross my arms, once again fighting the urge to ask her if she remembers the sleepover. I don’t know why I want to but I won’t let myself do it.

“Hey!” We turn. Trace makes his way down the hall, twirling LaVallee’s keys around his fingers like they’re a trophy. Grace picks up her purse, hastily shoving the note inside it. He grins. “I want to show you guys something cool.”

We end up in the teachers’ lounge.

Cary, Rhys, and Harrison come with us after piling a bunch of their locker finds in the auditorium. Their company makes Trace pissy but as Cary points out, Trace doesn’t own the school. They’re still bickering when we step into the room. It’s on the second floor. The big joke is—was—all the money went here. The lounge has a fridge and flowers (tacky fake bouquets, but still, it’s a splash of color), soft couches, chairs, and nice lamps. Storage cupboards and desks. A microwave, a water cooler. Magazines.