The grass is wet by the tree where I lie. It seeps into my skirt. Dan is on his hands and knees in front of me. He carried me here. Not from a fire. From a fire drill. I look past his shoulder. Kids talk and laugh in lines snaking across the parking lot. This is their idea of fun. A break from class. Principal Myers blows a whistle. They all begin to wander back inside. But not before glancing at me, the girl on the ground with pieces of her hair in her hands. I duck my head into the grass and pretend I am far, far away.

I do not go to school for the remaining three days before Thanksgiving break. I do not go to rehearsal. I do not answer Well’s texts. I do not listen to music or look at Mom’s guitar, which is still shoved under my bed. I do not let Ginger make me an appointment with Andrea. I shower. I eat. I rub antibiotic on the places in my scalp that are raw where I tore away my own hair.

We leave for the beach Wednesday morning. This is what Ginger and Dan do every Thanksgiving. They drive to Seaside, Florida, and stay in a condo and eat seafood instead of turkey to give their thanks. I don’t really care what we do. I don’t care about much of anything. I lean up against the window in the backseat of the Lexus and watch the world slip away.

It takes seven and a half hours to get to the ocean. Somewhere on the Alabama highway, Ginger twists around in her seat and lifts her sunglasses to look at me.

“There’s something we need to talk about.”

There’s a red barn with SEE ROCK CITY painted on it. I follow it with my eyes until it’s out of sight.

“I don’t want to talk about what happened at school,” I say after it passes.

“It isn’t that.”

“What, then?”

She twists some more in her seat to get another inch closer to me, and Dan reaches out to turn down the audio book. It’s some Tom Clancy mystery he picked up at Cracker Barrel on the way out of town. He called it his “beach read.”

“It’s about your mom,” Ginger says.

Something in my chest stirs. It’s fear raising its head.

“What? What’s happened to her?”

“Nothing’s happened. It’s good news!” Ginger’s voice is doing that thing again, fake cheery and two octaves too high, her Mary Poppins voice. “She’s coming to Nashville. Melissa called yesterday to let me know she’s requested a visit. Isn’t that great?”

Mom. In Nashville.

“Why didn’t she just call you?” Or me?

A pause hangs heavy in the air before Ginger speaks.