I don’t move to exit the car. Once I’m outside, I’ll have to worry about screwing up again. I’m the new girl, and people will want to look at me, talk to me. I’ll have to make sure they’re actually alive. Sure, I want friends, but I also want to become transparent, blend in so well with the crowd I’m hardly noticed. I want to be normal. If I can’t manage that, I’m not sure what is next for me: Another school?

Probably not. Mom is done moving.

“Any more signs that you’re seeing things,” she threatened on the drive to Oklahoma, “and I’ll put you in a psych hospital.”

She’s already been researching facilities in our new state—I found them saved as bookmarks on our computer. Unfortunately, I knew they weren’t for her. Bringing up seeing the dead was the biggest mistake I’d ever made. Mom has enough to deal with just making it through her own episodes, even if she won’t admit she has them.

Mom must have noticed how pale I looked after her threat, because she’d reached over, patted my leg, and said softly, “Therapy helped your poppa.”

If that were true, he wouldn’t be dead, I think, rubbing the face of my poppa’s coin.

“Anora, stop grinding your teeth!”

I jerk, startled by Mom’s sudden command. It’s the first time she’s met my gaze since we got in the car this morning—the first thing she said other than “put on your seat belt.” I don’t know if she’s angry because of us having to move or if she’s nervous for me. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.

I let go of the coin, its heavy weight settles against my chest, and I relax my jaw, unaware I’ve been clenching it. Mom sighs, which seems to soften the flicker in her eyes. She reaches to brush a few strands of hair out of my face.

“Honey, I know this all happened so fast, but this…this will be good for you…for both of us.”

She smiles, so I smile back, only to make her feel better. It is damage control, something I put myself in charge of since we left.

“Would you like me to walk you to the door?”

Mom isn’t smiling now, and she taps the steering wheel with her fingers. I’m probably making her late for her interview.

I lift my backpack from the floor, stifling my impulse to take another deep breath. I need to say something reassuring. Something like, That’s all right, Mom. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. I love you.

Instead, I say, “No, Mom. That’s the last thing I need on my first day.”