Page 28 of 72 Hours of You

Emma rolls her eyes. “Just because you say it in a rhyme doesn’t make it a thing.”

“It is a thing.”

The door opens and Ms. Shywill walks in. The principal.

“Goddamn it,” Ethan mumbles, sitting back down.

Peter glances at me, and then back to the principal. His face is ghost pale, and I can practically feel his stomach dropping along with mine. The knowing before everyone else is the worst part.

Well, it’s one of the worst parts. Seeing Peter white-knuckling his knees, little beads of sweat forming on his brow … this is actually turning out to be worse than knowing by myself.

“So.” Ms. Shywill smooths her dusty gray bob. “Ms. Jegstrup will not be in today.” Her face is pinched and tight like pulled pizza dough—ready to rip. She must know now too.

Please, please don’t let her be face down in a landfill.

Ms. Shywill pauses like she’s steeling herself for an interrogation about Ms. Jegstrup’s whereabouts. But she forgot that she’s talking to a class of high school seniors. We’re not exactly in the habit of giving a shit where our teachers are. No one asks her anything.

“Right. Well, then.” She twists her thin gold bracelet in circles around her wrist. “This absence was a bit … unexpected. So.”

Peter glances over at me, the hope drained from his face. I give him a little shrug, because what else can you do?

“So.” Ms. Shywill clears her throat. “Ms. Jegstrup did not … alert us of her absence ahead of time. As of now, there is no sub lined up.”

“Hell yeah!” Ethan whoops.

“Language, Mr. Jones!”

Ethan gives her a salute. “Heck yes.”

Ms. Shywill takes a sharp breath in through her nose. “As I was saying, we don’t yet have a sub, seeing as … well … the nature of this absence … and …” She takes another breath. “Until the sub arrives, you all will be joining the students who have free period in the cafeteria for their first module.”

Emma’s face lights up and she turns to Sophia. “Maybe this will get us out of the poetry project,” she whispers excitedly. She turns back in her seat and raises her hand. “Um, Ms. Shywill? Do you know when exactly she’ll be back?”

The principal’s face loses all its color, her tight demeanor breaking ever so slightly, like a hairline crack on a phone screen—only visible if you look in the right light.

This is it. I have the impulse to reach across the desk aisle and grab Peter’s arm. But I keep my hands squeezed together on top of my desk.

“She …” Ms. Shywill’s usually stern eyes soften and fill with tears. She touches the edges of the pearl necklace lying on her collarbone.

Ethan laughs and says, “Dude, Jegstrup isn’t, like, dead or anything, is she?”

Ms. Shywill nods just slightly, but it’s enough. Because then everything happens.

Emma and Sophia start crying, their sobs getting louder and louder, like they’re in some private competition to see who can wipe more snot and bronzer on the other’s shirt. Tennessee passes them a pack of travel tissues. Ethan slumps in his seat. And I swear to god, Luna (whose actual name is Emily) pulls her tarot deck out of her satchel and starts shuffling. Sarah eyes her deck with disgust and starts mumbling the Lord’s Prayer under her breath.

A wave of nausea crests over me. I eye the empty trash can next to Ms. Jegstrup’s desk and make a quick calculation of how many steps it would take me to reach it. I don’t dare look at Peter.

Ms. Shywill instructs us to pack up our things and head for the cafeteria, where the school counselor will be waiting for us (no doubt casually half sitting on a table to show us how relatable and approachable he is).

We file out of the classroom and into the hallway. Emma and Sophia keep crying and clinging to each other for dear life, their sobs reverberating off the walls. It makes me want to slam their heads together.

“Hey.” Peter touches the edge of my sleeve.

He stops. So I stop too.

“We’re going to be late …” I motion to the growing distance between the two of us and the blubbering mob of our classmates death-marching to the cafeteria. I don’t know what he wants from me. But I don’t have it in me right now to babysit his feelings and—

“Let’s get out of here.” Peter motions with his head in the opposite direction. Away. Away from school. Away from the pathetic wails of my classmates. Away from the poser counselor. Away from it all. And in this moment, there is absolutely nothing I want more than to be away.