“Yeah. Fine,” I say, but then I stop. It’s not enough for me to know this was temporary. He has to know, too. If he sticks around…

He cocks his head and frowns. “What is it?”

This situation is only going to get worse the longer I string him along. As long as I have something precious, someone else can take it away.

“I just think…this is becoming too serious for me.”

“What?”

“I still want to be friends.” I wince. “But I just think we need to cool it and go our separate ways for a while.”

“Cool it,” he repeats. His eyes dart back and forth, like he’s struggling to process what I said.

“Yeah.” Careful to control my voice and not let him hear how much it hurts me to tell him. “I know it’s short notice about the dance—”

“The dance?” he asks, like the implication hadn’t occurred to him. Like he’s now starting to get how far I intend to pull back.

I wish I could tell him why, but it’s better this way. Safer. For him. For me. For everyone.

“Listen, it’s late,” I say. “You should go.”

“Sure.” His voice sounds like it’s coming from very far away.

“Thanks,” I say, throat thick, and then I drop the window before he even walks away.

I close the window and curl up next to Zara again and think about the last few weeks as more and more tears fall. Such a short amount of time for someone to break through my walls, to make himself a part of who I am.

I’m still the same, really. Still dirty and scarred and broken. Still lost. But Jackson changed things. He changed the way I see things.

He has the strongest hope I’ve ever seen in someone. But he’s not naive, not stupid. His life isn’t so perfect. Maybe he’s never been beaten and raped and hated the way I have. He’s never had to lie to survive. But he’s seen horrors in his own right, and somehow he finds a way to see the best in people. He still believes.

I can’t destroy that hope in him. That’s what would happen if he knew the truth.

As much as I want him—as much as I need him—I won’t see him get hurt because of me.

Chapter Thirty-One

When my alarm goes off and I roll over, my body feels like lead. Every movement is stiff, painful. It’s not a feeling I’m new to, but it’s strange that I’m feeling it now. It’s not like anything actually happened last night, nothing physical, anyway.

Still, my head pounds and my body feels heavy. I drag myself out of bed because I refuse to feel sorry for myself. Step number two for surviving the streets is to keep moving. Keep fighting. Always, always fighting.

I have no idea what today will bring, but I do know that it will be one hell of an uphill battle. I’ll feel better if I can get through it. If I let it stew, it will drive me crazy. The only way to move on is it to get the worst of it over with.

When I leave my room, I remember Zara, whom I fell asleep with, but she isn’t in the room anymore.

Shit. I should have gotten up earlier. If my dad sees that I let her inside…

I walk out into the kitchen, bracing for the worst, but I see Zara scarfing down a bowl of dog food while my mother does the dishes. That’s interesting.

“Oh, sweetheart. I was going to let you sleep in a little and drive you in myself.”

I shrug. “That’s okay. Where’s you-know-who?”

“You know your father. Work, work, work. He left before the sun came up.”

Yikes. I never even thought about that. Getting up early to let Zara out would have put me right in Dad’s path. I should feel comforted that I got so lucky, but all I can think is how even that careful plan so quickly got away from me. I really don’t know what I’m doing.

When Mom looks at me, her eyes are slightly creased, like she’s trying to read my mind.

“I kind of just want today to be a good day,” I say.

She nods. “Then let’s make today a good day.”

Maybe my mother really has changed. Maybe she doesn’t see me as the hooker in her house. Maybe she sees me as the daughter she lost but got back.

Great. One more person to disappoint.

I’m so numb that I’m not even surprised when I find a new crumpled note in my locker the next day.

I knew he had more to tell me, more he wanted from me.

I knew this wasn’t over.

It was only a matter of time before he made his intentions very clear.

The note reads:

You see what happens when you don’t give me what you owe me?

You’re going to give it to me or I’ll tell everyone.

But I’m generous. I’ll take half. One last time, then I’ll let you go. Nothing is too much for my beautiful Exquisite.

I crumple the note and throw it back into my locker with the rest. I’m too scared to even throw them away in case someone reads them. They might be vague, but their words carry too much weight.

I let the numbness take over. I can’t think about any of it. Not now.

I avoided Jackson on the bus by letting my mom drive me in, and now I avoid him at art class and lunch. He sits with his old friends, which, if I’m honest, kind of stings. But he’s only doing what I told him to do. He’s respecting what I want. And I told him to leave me alone.

His friends must be eating it up, telling him, See? We told you she was bad news.

Well, they were right. Being with me just got him hurt. My only comfort is that pushing him away will save him from even more pain.

Alex talks a mile a minute about some college party she’s going to this weekend while both Jen and I sit in silence, pretending to listen.

“Okay, what’s up?” Alex says, like she’s accusing me of something.

“What?”

“Last I saw, you and Jackson were as chummy as ever, and now you’re all solemn and he’s avoiding us all.”

I shrug and look over to his table. Our eyes meet, and he looks away like he’s been caught doing something wrong.

“What happened?”

Jen perks up a little, like she’s finally interested in something we’re talking about. Great, even she’s into my life drama.

“We got in a fight, kind of,” I say.

“About what?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, okay?” I grab my books, leave the table, and stomp all the way out of the cafeteria. I shouldn’t start shit with the only friends I have left, but I can’t handle being interrogated right now. Nothing good ever comes out of being questioned.

I head to the bathroom to hide out the rest of the lunch period, and when I shut the stall door behind me I realize I’m not the only one with this idea. The girl in the stall next to me is sniffling like she’s trying desperately to stop crying.

I ignore it at first, ‘cause it’s none of my business, but even I can’t ignore a poor person suffering.

“You okay?” I don’t say it to be all warm and fuzzy nice, but it comes out softer than I expect it to.

“No,” the girl whines.

I take in a deep breath and try to channel the people who have made the most difference in my life. People like Jackson and Sarah.

Except I have no idea what to say. Do you want to talk about it? is too cheesy, so what else?

But maybe it’s not about being like Jackson or Sarah. About being like someone else. It’s about being me. The me who has enough power to help someone else, even if I can’t help myself.

“Whoever made you cry deserves to get the shit kicked out of them.” Probably not the best advice in the world, but it felt good to say it. “You have to get your power back.”

I don’t know who this girl is, or what’s making her cry. But there’s truth in what I said. I don’t have any more power. But I can help her get hers. I’ll do anything to make sure no one else ends up as hopeless as I’ve become.

“How?” she whispers.

“Guess it depends. What is it that’s making you feel so bad? So weak.”

“My boyfriend…he’s blackmailing me.”