Say a Little Prayer(5)
Hannah shakes her head and tosses the lobotomy shirt onto the floor. When she straightens, arms folded across her chest, I already know exactly what she’s going to say. She’s only a year older than me, but thanks to Mom’s love of matching overalls, most people thought we were twins until we started school. We have the same green eyes, thick eyebrows, and straight brown hair, but Hannah keeps hers long while I get annoyed if mine grows below my shoulders. The similarities end there, though. Hannah’s like this living, breathing fairy princess who was born to float through life on a gossamer pastel cloud. She’s taller than most of the senior class with long, graceful limbs toned by years of ballet, and she’s kind in ways I can’t begin to understand. I grew up hearing, “Oh, you’re Hannah’s little sister? How lucky!” so many times that I would have completely resented it if I didn’t love her so much.
I would slap a thousand Amanda Clarkes for her without a single hesitation.
“I know,” I say before she can speak. “I should have ignored her.”
Hannah’s jaw tenses. “Yes, you should have. I know Mom and Dad already gave you the lecture, but she’s not worth it.”
My fingers tighten around an empty hanger. Of course Mom and Dad had spent our car ride home lecturing me on everything from the importance of conflict resolution to the extent of their collective disappointment, but I still don’t regret what I did. “She’s horrible, Hannah,” I say. “They all are. Amanda said—”
“I know what she said. It’s the same thing everyone’s been saying since Christmas.”
“That doesn’t make it okay!”
It’s not hard to remember the sound of Amanda’s voice this afternoon, lilting and snide and just quiet enough for Mr. Johnson standing nearby to remain blissfully unaware. I’d been cutting through the senior hallway on my way to Spanish when I passed her standing with Greer Wilson and Jorgia Rose, three identical copies of the same lacy tank top and Rare Beauty–sponsored skin-care routine.
“Hey, Riley,” she said, throwing a too-wide smile in Greer’s direction. “We missed Hannah in homeroom this morning. Where is she?”
Four months ago, it wouldn’t have been a weird question. I would have answered without a second thought and kept walking because four months ago, Hannah would have been standing with them, too. She would have motioned me straight into their little group so we could all laugh at something Mr. Kahn said during the seniors-only assembly or plan our after-school boba run. I would have sat next to Greer in the back seat of Hannah’s car on the way home with Amanda assembling the perfect play-list in the passenger seat, and absolutely nothing about it would have felt wrong.
A lot can change in four months.
This afternoon, for example, I’d just shrugged and said, “She’s at home. Wasn’t feeling well this morning,” before continuing down the hall. But Amanda’s freshly glossed lips had parted in an unconvincing display of faux concern.
“Oh? Did she get herself knocked up again?”
I’d been fully prepared to ignore her and keep fighting my way to class when Amanda turned to Jorgia Rose and whispered, loud enough for half the hallway to hear, “You know that’s where she went over Christmas break, right? Her parents drove her all the way to Cleveland to get an abortion. That’s why she stopped going to church with us, too. Pastor Young says all we can do is pray for her.”
I don’t remember turning around. All I know is that one second, my entire body flashed white hot as the anger coiled under my skin finally snapped, and the next, Amanda was stumbling into the lockers, hand pressed to her cheek, while Mr. Johnson charged down the hall to pull us apart.
Remnants of that heat still thrum through me as I sink onto the edge of my mattress. “I hate her,” I say. “I know for a fact she used to hook up with Terron Parker after your pointe class. And Greer had sex with that Model UN guy last fall, remember? The one with the ferret? It would be one thing if they owned it, but they’re going to spend next week acting like God’s personal messengers when they don’t even try to follow their own rules. I mean, they’re all still friends with Collin.”
Hannah flinches, and I immediately wish I could take it back. She doesn’t need me to remind her that her ex-boyfriend had been welcomed back into the social fabric of Madison High School without a second thought while she’s still clawing her way through senior year.
“I know,” she says. “I see them every day. I just don’t care what they think.”
“How?”
“You’d be surprised how many problems can be fixed by moving to California.”
She knocks her shoulder against mine, and some of my frustration fades. The fact that Hannah hasn’t asked me to drop out of school and come with her to Stanford next year is kind of insulting, especially since I keep having vivid, borderline-horny dreams about waking up in a town with a real sushi restaurant and a Trader Joe’s. In my magical dream land, there’s always reliable public transportation, a beach around every corner, and no sign of the Hell Is Real billboard that haunts the Madison County highway exit. It’s also blessedly free of Amanda Clarke, a perk that not even Pleasant Hills church camp can offer.
I groan and bury my face in my hands as the full weight of what I’m doing crashes over me. “I can’t believe I’m spending spring break with them.”