expect me to sit with them, and I don’t know how to choose.”
I don’t get dating and why people want to do it. When I was a kid, I once heard Dad yell at Mom that he was sick of her nagging. She yelled back that she was sick of his irresponsibility. When they weren’t yelling, Dad worked or watched TV while Mom took care of me. In public, they’d pretend to be in love. Couples at school act like they’re in love for a day then fight for months. Relationship love is a ton of bull that tears the people around them apart. “Don’t sit with either of them.”
Sylvia’s head jerks up. “I have to. They’re my friends.”
“If they’re your friends, then why are they making you choose?”
She doesn’t have a chance to respond as Mrs. Garcia brings the class to attention. She’s a twentysomething, overenthusiastic, slender woman with straight black hair and a big smile. In fact, that smile gets bigger as she announces that we will continue our top-five senior journal project. My groan is internal while there are several others who loudly voice their distaste for the assignment. I wonder if other people’s agony is how she gets her kicks.
“All right.” Mrs. Garcia claps. “Now is the moment of truth. I need to know who your group will be. After you tell me, sit with your group, and I want a list of possible project ideas turned in to me by the end of the hour.”
No one volunteers, and when I look back at Veronica, she’s still stuck in a daydream. Figuring the easiest route will be the fastest, I put my hand in the air.
“Mr. Sutherland, who will you be working with?” Mrs. Garcia asks.
“Veronica Sullivan.”
“What?” Sylvia says, and I can’t ignore the other whispers going on in the class.
When I glance back again, I finally have Veronica’s attention. Her blue eyes meet mine, and there’s curiosity as if she’s been caught off guard. Veronica is a challenge, a puzzle I can’t quite figure out, and I have to admit I like it.
Mrs. Garcia moves the class forward, gathering the names of the other groups, then dismisses us to work. I gather my notebook and folder, stand to head back toward Veronica, and Sylvia wraps her fingers around my wrist. “I thought you said you weren’t mad?”
Her question is barely a whisper, but Miguel is turned around in his desk and he’s also waiting on an answer. There’s lots of noise in the room. Desks squeaking against the linoleum floor, the low rumble of conversation starting, but I feel like her accusation was a shout.
“I’m not.”
“Then why aren’t you working with us? Your mom convinced the counselor to put you in this class so we can help you with the project. Otherwise you wouldn’t be in here.”
“Sylvia,” Miguel says in warning.
“It’s true,” she shoots back at him. “And he knows it. I told him everything Friday night. He said he’s not mad, but he obviously is and it’s causing him to make bad choices.”
“Maybe I don’t want to be a charity case.”
Sylvia flinches. “You’re my friend, not a charity case, and have you stopped to consider how mad your mom is going to be?”
Yeah, she probably is. “I need this project to be my choice. Not hers.”
“It’s not too late,” Sylvia continues like I didn’t speak. “Go tell Mrs. Garcia you made a mistake.”
“Sylvia,” Miguel reprimands. “Let it go.”
I use that as my cue to leave and drop into the desk facing Veronica. I slam my notebook onto the desk and look up in time to spot Sylvia glaring at me, but then she turns away.
“Something vexing thee?” Veronica asks in an Old English accent.
“I’m good.”
“You sure?” She resumes her normal soothing tone then circles a finger in Sylvia’s direction. “Because that looks like a lot of something. Nothing good, but a lot of something.”
Agreed, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. “What’s going on with our project?”
“Deflection. My favorite defense mechanism as well.”
“What?”
“I’m taking AP Psychology, which probably isn’t good for anyone. Deflection—when you deny your emotions, but then again you could be taking part in sublimation. That’s where you pour your feelings into doing something else, which will be fantastic if that means you’re going to pour yourself into this project.”
I stare blankly at her as I got nothing.
“I have good news for you,” she says. “Your mom’s check cleared.”
“Never thought it wouldn’t.” I’m lying, and it should bother me, but it doesn’t. Lately,