My grandmother liked to use the time as a recruiting trip. At some point in the day, she’d always look around and sniff, “Cute, but not a real city. You must miss that, Elena.”
Ma was the only Reyes kid who’d ever left New York, accepting a softball scholarship to Boston College and never looking back. My grandmother managed to limit her complaints when Ma was married, but after the divorce happened and my dad hit the road, her phone calls got more frequent. And now, with Spare Me closed and Ma’s osteoarthritis diagnosis—even though she hasn’t told my grandmother how bad it is—we hear from her almost daily. “Let us help you,” she urges. “Come home.”
Ma’s reply never changes. “I am home. My children were born here.” She always says that, my children, like there’s no difference between Autumn and me. And my grandmother has never questioned that, even though Autumn isn’t a blood relative. Gram feels the same way.
I might secretly think my grandmother has a point—family support would take the pressure off me and Autumn, not to mention get her away from Loser Gabe—but there’s no way in hell I’m going against my mother. So anytime Gram or one of my aunts or uncles reaches out to me privately, I give them the same response Ma does. We’re doing fine.
“What is your deadbeat father doing to help?” Gram asked the last time she called.
“Extra child support,” I said, which is true. She doesn’t need to know it’s only fifty bucks a check. Dad keeps claiming he’s looking for work nearby so he can move back to Carlton and help out more, but that’s not something I plan on mentioning to my grandmother. She’d know as well as I do that it’s nothing but empty talk.
“Oh, Mateo,” she sighed before she hung up on that call. “You’re as stubborn as she is, aren’t you? You’ll be the death of me.”
Thank God she has no idea what’s happening now, or that could get literal.
Ivy’s been quiet as we walk, seemingly lost in her own thoughts, until both our phones start to buzz simultaneously. Hers is in the bag she has slung over her shoulder, and while she roots around for it, I pull mine out of my pocket. There’s a pileup of texts waiting for me, from Carmen and my friend Zack:
Zack: Where are you? Boney Mahoney is fucking DEAD.
Zack: Stabbed in the heart or something.
Zack: Idk, rumors are flying.
Shit. How do people know already? The news didn’t mention Boney’s name, did it? Unless there’s already been a follow-up report since we watched.
Zack: Me & Ishaan are doing a special version of Carlton Speaks during lunch.
Zack: Going rogue. Don’t tell anyone.
Zack and another guy in our class started up a YouTube series last spring to report on school happenings as part of their media technology elective, and it was popular enough that they kept it going. They’re supposed to run everything past a teacher before posting, though, and no way would speculation about Boney be an approved topic.
Carmen: Hey, are you ok???
Carmen: Not a good day to miss school. Boney did, too, and everyone’s saying he got murdered in Boston （crying emoji）
Carmen: Ivy’s not here, either, which is a weird coincidence.
When I look at Ivy, she’s staring wide-eyed at her screen. “So,” she says in a high, tight voice. “Emily says the news released Boney’s name, and all hell’s broken loose at school. People are highly interested in the tip about the blond woman. And the fact that I’m not there. Can you believe that? People are actually gossiping that I…that I might have murdered Boney over a student council election!”
“Nobody’s saying that,” I protest as another text crosses my phone.
Carmen: You wouldn’t believe what people are saying about her.
“Oh, really?” Ivy gestures at my buzzing phone, brows raised. “None of your friends have brought me up?”
“Nope,” I lie, pocketing my phone before she can grab it. “Stop checking your texts, okay? We’re almost at the T—you won’t get reception there anyway. By the time we get wherever Cal’s going, people will be talking about something else.” I don’t believe that for a second, but if Ivy starts spinning out now, there’s a good chance she’ll never stop.
“I can’t! What if—ohhh. Oh, okay.” An expression of intense relief crosses her face as she holds up her screen. “My parents’ plane just took off.”
“Their plane?” I ask as Haymarket station comes into sight.