Tragedy Girl - Christine Hurley Deriso Page 0,4

life.”

Uncle Mark leans closer. “Honey, no. No. That’s not what I meant. She’s just in hyper-management mode right now, what with getting you enrolled in school and everything. She wants the best for you; we both do. It’s just … like I said … she tries a little too hard.”

He squeezes my hand as Aunt Meg walks back into the dining room with a bowl full of hot rolls. “Might want to wait a couple of minutes for them to cool down,” she says, rejoining us at the table.

I smile weakly and pick at my food. Of course I’ve brought stress into their lives, like it wasn’t stressful enough for Uncle Mark to lose his brother and sister-in-law. He and Aunt Meg have been happily childless throughout their twenty-something-year marriage, touring Europe, going on cruises, joining tennis leagues, or redecorating their house whenever they felt like it. Now, they’re arranging discreet meetings with high school counselors, enumerating my “special needs,” and ensuring that all my credits have transferred. I feel a thud in my stomach as I contemplate that moving here was perhaps the stupidest, most selfish decision I’ve ever made. I barely know a soul on this island, and though my crash course with grief has made it easy to replace my once-active lifestyle with hours on end of burrowing my nose in a book, I can’t deny that my first day of school left me achingly lonely.

“Honey, speaking of your special needs … ” Aunt Meg says, willfully avoiding Uncle Mark’s disapproving scowl. “I think … I think it might be a good idea for you to see a therapist.”

Ah. The talk-about-her-parents-constantly therapist?

Uncle Mark’s eyes are shooting daggers at her, but Aunt Meg is still ignoring him. “I’ve called around for some references, and this psychologist named Virginia Sennett comes highly recommended. She specializes in working with young—”

“Meg, you should have discussed this with me,” Uncle Mark says in a clipped tone, and I wonder if I’ll soon be able to add divorce to the ways I’ve transformed their lives.

Aunt Meg bristles and tells him under her breath, “You know very well we talked about—”

“You know what?” I blurt. “I think that sounds like a good idea.”

Their eyes widen.

“I think it’ll help, and I really appreciate all the trouble you’ve gone to,” I say.

Long pause.

“You’re sure?” Uncle Mark asks, and I nod briskly.

Yes, I’ll see a therapist. Anything to dissipate the tension in the room. Anything to loosen the knot in my stomach. Anything to make Aunt Meg smile, and yes, she’s smiling now. Anything to assuage my guilt, to be less of a burden, to hasten this journey through Hollis Island hell.

Anything to help me choke down this meat loaf so I can excuse myself from the table at the earliest possible opportunity.

I put a bite in my mouth and swallow it whole.

Three

“Sorry.”

I glance at the guy with dark hair and deep blue eyes who has just accidentally knocked my shoulder with his locker door. I smile. “No problem.”

“The door always sticks,” he says, explaining why he opened it harder than he intended to.

“Yeah, I’m guessing these lockers date back to, I dunno …

maybe the sixth century?”

He smiles. “Nah, you’re off by a few million years. We’re talking caveman technology here.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I think you just insulted cavemen.”

We rifle around in our lockers for a moment, then he says, “I’m Blake.”

I nod. “Anne.”

He extends a hand just as I’m grabbing my first-period English Lit book from my locker, and I fumble, tucking it hastily under my arm so I can shake.

“Hi,” I say.

Blake takes my hand, laughing lightly at my awkwardness.

“Not so good at multitasking,” I tell him sheepishly.

A guy with fine, shoulder-length blond hair rushes up to Blake and stops just short of chest-butting him, forcing me to jump back.

“Dude,” Blake mutters irritably.

“My notes,” the other guy snaps. “I need my notes.”

“Fine.” Blake opens a notebook, grabs two sheets of paper, and hands it to the guy, who snatches it—snap!—from his fingertips and rushes down the hall.

“Already borrowing notes on the second day of school?” I ask with a raised eyebrow as I close my locker door.

But instead of getting the wise-guy response I expect, Blake’s eyes fall. “I had kind of a meltdown in Spanish class yesterday and had to go to the nurse’s office. I promise, I usually take my own notes.”

I push my book tighter against my chest as people rustle past us on their way to their first-period classes.