I CLICK THROUGH the website, tallying the missing assignments as I go. Eleven. Eleven assignments will get me back on track for graduating. Less than I thought, honestly, but more than I feel like doing. Keeping up with my high school work—online only now—was one of the requirements my mom set before agreeing to let me stay here. She must not have realized I was way behind before I even left.
Which means I probably have a very tiny window before she calls my dad to flip out on him about the missing assignments. Which would suck. I’ve been tallying the good days (the mental equivalent of a chalkboard saying It has been __ days since the last incident) and we’re at five now.
Five is a good number, actually. I’ll take it, especially when it comes to my dad, who hasn’t been able to decide whether to kill me or ignore me for as long as I can remember, especially since the whole Chandler McNally thing last year. I shut my laptop and head downstairs, the steps of the old Victorian creaking in a way I sort of remember. I try not to be bitter about the fact that it’s been so long I don’t know where to step to avoid it. It’s fine.
Gray’s coming over tonight to help me strategize my plan to get in good at Verona. She was shocked when Dad informed his entire team that I had an in. She doesn’t know that it’s Peak. Mainly because I’m pretending it’s not. I can keep her separate. This is easy, this is Compartmentalizing 101, and I’m a seventeen-year-old pro at this, so yeah.
Peak is Peak. She lives in my phone. She exists in the land of memes and magical one-off nights. It’s nice, and it’s mine. For once, I have something that is. Especially since Mom hasn’t even bothered to send me more clothes and stuff like she swore she would. She’s been busy with work, which is whatever. So yeah, Peak. Lives in my phone. Is my secret. Is her own separate thing.
If she happens to also give me enough dirt to make the entirely separate person called Jubilee Jones (compartmentalizing! yay!) like me enough to share some info my dad can use, then fine. What he does with that information has nothing to do with me. At least that’s what I tell myself between stomachaches. It’s just business. I can have my cake and eat it too. I don’t feel guilty. I don’t feel anything at all. Promise.
I open up the kitchen cabinet, huffing out a breath. I asked Dad to get Fruity Pebbles and Lucky Charms at the store, but he just restocked his PowerBars and protein shakes and talked to me about how important nutrition is if I want to bulk up. Considering I’m not trying to bulk up and that my entire being consists of a combination of sugary cereal and anxiety, this does me no good.
It’s fine.
Then today he ordered me a pizza before he left, which I love, but he got pepperoni, which I absolutely hate. I like extra cheese. Peppers and onions in a pinch. Pepperoni over my dead body. I try to focus on the fact that he tried and not the fact that he got it wrong. Soon Gray will be here anyway, hopefully with some actually good food.
The door slams open as if on cue, and she comes flying in, nearly tipping the drink tray. Her arms are full of greasy bags; she’s even got one in her mouth. I take the drinks and reach for the bag in her teeth. She growls before letting go, and I roll my eyes.
“Don’t think you’re getting any of those cheese fries just because you helped carry them,” she says.
I laugh and bring it all into the living room, flicking on the TV and dropping onto the giant couch. I’m not totally sure if we’re allowed to eat in here—I mean, Dad never does—but the way Gray follows me without hesitating says it’s probably okay. I bet they do this kind of thing a lot.
I pretend that thought doesn’t sting.
“How are you settling in?” she asks, pulling out various plastic containers full of more