The pressure builds inside me. It floods my arms and my fingertips, and makes a hard drumming noise inside my ears. I walk over to Delia. I have no words. The pressure animates my hand and I slap her hard across the cheek with an open palm. Her face jerks to the right, and a red mark blooms across her skin. I lift my hand again, aiming to even out the blows.

“Don’t.” Lottie grabs my arm and pulls me back. “Only we understand, Adele. Only we know.”

And that is the saddest and truest sentence I have ever heard.

25

Witches and Worse

Mrs. Thomas lets us eat dinner in our room on Saturday, Sunday, and Monday night, a privilege normally reserved for students who are too sick to get out of bed. Lottie and I are healthy in our bodies, but Darnell’s death has wrapped us in a sadness we cannot shake. Breakfast and lunchtimes are hell. Whispers follow us wherever we go, and the seats on either side of us at the dining table clear as if by magic. Dinner in our room is better, though. We sit shoulder to shoulder, alone but together.

In the hour before Monday lights-out, I pull open my drawer and I take out a piece of paper and a pen. I write: