“We heard from Mrs. Green this morning,” Mom said. Annabelle lowered herself into a chair. Not the police, at least, but not good.

“She couldn’t get the whole story out of Jeremy,” Mom started. “But he said something about you getting hurt because of something you were doing with a high school boy who just left you after you fell?”

That phrase got stuck inside Annabelle’s head and bounced around there. Just left you. Just left you. Just left you.

“I . . . We were all hanging out together,” Annabelle said. “Me and Jeremy and . . .” She wasn’t going to be the one to tell on Kayla if Jeremy hadn’t. “And a bunch of other people. And they . . . It was nobody’s fault. I fell and we got separated and they didn’t realize I was hurt.”

That wasn’t quite right anymore, though. They did know, after she’d texted Connor. Or he did, anyway. But he probably thought it wasn’t that bad, since she hadn’t made a big thing about it. Maybe she should have made it sound more serious?

“We trusted you, Annabelle,” Mom said. “I was afraid swimming with high school kids would be too much for you to handle.”

“It isn’t!” Annabelle insisted.

“Was it that Madison kid?” Mitch asked. “Connor? I don’t like the kind of attention he gives you. I’ve seen him talking to you way too much when I pick you up from practice.”

For a split second, that thrilled Annabelle—the idea that Connor’s attention was so obvious that even Mitch had noticed.

But then Mitch got up from his seat and paced around the kitchen. His whole face was red. His neck, too. He was wearing a light green shirt, and his face and neck clashed with it.

“He’s not . . . It’s not . . .” Annabelle started.

“No high school boy should be paying that kind of attention to you,” Mitch boomed, and Annabelle jumped. She’d heard him yell at his own daughters before but never at her. “You’re a kid.”

And now that phrase joined in with the other one, bouncing around inside her skull and jarring her every time they collided.

You’re a kid. You’re a kid. Just left you. You’re a kid.

“You lied to us about who you were with last night,” Mom said. “You knew the deal, Annabelle. No more high school team now. When you’re all healed up, you can go back and swim with the middle school.”

“What?” Annabelle squeaked, but Mom held up one hand.

“You had one strike left after missing tutoring. This was a big strike, Annabelle. We trusted you.”

Annabelle looked at Mitch, sure he’d fight for her. He might be mad, but he knew how important it was for her to stay on the team. She was sure he’d remind Mom that a person was supposed to get three strikes, that’s how strikes worked—but he only shook his head.

“I’ll call Colette this afternoon,” Mom said. “She’ll understand that this won’t work out. That you’re just not ready.”