Page 8 of 72 Hours of You

“What are you doing? Are you stalking me? What is your deal?” I fling the words like sharp little darts at his bull’s-eye face. Leave. Me. Alone.

“Uh …” There he goes again, rubbing the back of his neck like that’s going to magically release a coherent thought into his brain. “The thing is, you and I —”

“Look,” I say, cutting him off. “I’m sorry Liam died right after you moved here, and I’m sorry that you have to deal with the cheerleaders and everyone else accosting you about it, and I’m really sorry that every idiot in school thinks the two of us have some divine insight about the whole thing, but that doesn’t mean that we need to be friends or whatever. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean that you’re responsible for me. Whatever it is you think I can give you, I can’t. There is no ‘you and I,’” I finish, letting out a big breath and crossing my arms.

I feel better, lighter. It wasn’t the nicest stuff I’ve ever said, but he needed to hear it. I can’t keep having him look at me all concerned and worried like I’m some wounded squirrel he found in the backyard and decided to keep in a shoebox and syringe-feed.

Peter shoves his hands in his pockets. “Well, okay, then. Point taken. But what I was trying to say was that you and I … are partners. You know, for the poetry thing?”

Oh.

A tiny ember of heat flares at the base of my neck and travels up into my cheeks.

“And I brought you your backpack,” he says, holding it out to me. “Since you didn’t come back before the bell.”

“Right,” I say. I take the backpack and sling it over my shoulder. “Except, I don’t do partner projects.”

Peter gets this look on his face like he’s trying not to smile. Like he’s wholly amused by this idea. Like it’s a cute little quirk I have rather than an actual necessity. “You don’t do partner projects?”

“No,” I say. “I don’t. I work better alone. Ms. Jegstrup never has a problem with me doing things by myself. She values independence.”

“Well,” Peter says, letting his grin escape. “Apparently, she also values citizenship, because she was pretty adamant about you partnering up with the new kid.”

I open my mouth to argue, but he turns around and starts walking to his next class. “I’ll DM you about the project tonight,” he says over his shoulder.

“No thank you!” I yell after him.

“You’re welcome!” he shouts back.

I’M SO AGITATED the rest of the day that I give myself five more death jump-scares, imagining I see Doom Scrolls everywhere. One person was wearing a pink beanie, one had rose-colored hair, and there was really no discernible reason for me to even think the other three people were Clockers, except for maybe their lifeless eyes during Mr. Jerzo’s lecture. It was a full day.

So by the time I finally make it home, all I want to do is pound a king-sized Reese’s Nutrageous, crawl into my crumpled-up blankets, close my eyes, and succumb to the sweet, sweet darkness. Like Ms. Jegstrup’s about to do. Fuck.

I swallow the last bite of candy and drag my teal comforter toward my chin, hoping to get two fucking seconds of peace, just as Jules barges into my room and flops down on my bed. I locked my bedroom door but I forgot about the connecting bathroom door. I always forget about the bathroom door.

She lets out a huge, extremely loud sigh, which I ignore.

She rolls over and lets out an even bigger, louder sigh. I keep my eyes squeezed shut.

She grabs my ankle under the covers and yanks. “Pay attention to me!”

“I’m asleep,” I say.

“No you’re not.” She crawls up toward my face and sniffs me. “You ate my Nutrageous!”

“It wasn’t your Nutrageous,” I say. “But yeah. I did. And it was good.”

“Bitch.” Jules’s bright red lipsticked lips pinch into a scowl. “I needed that candy. You won’t believe the day I’ve had.”

“I’m sure I won’t,” I say, closing my eyes again although I know that Jules won’t leave until she gets what she wants. Which is my undivided attention.

She’s sixteen, only a year younger than me, but I swear sometimes she still seems like such a baby. Maybe that’s because she still acts like a baby. Like right now. She scoots closer and pushes her face toward mine until our noses are almost touching. “Come on. Ask me about my day.”

I take my pointer finger and attempt to push her forehead farther away from mine but she doesn’t move. She stays there, infecting my pillow with her too-expensive Le Labo perfume and blinking at me. Waiting.

“Fine,” I huff. I clasp my hands under my chin. “Oh please, dearest little sister, won’t you tell me about your trying and difficult day? I would love to hear all the details. I want—no, I need—to know the junior class drama. Tell me at once.”

She rolls onto her back. “I don’t know if I want to. It’s personal.”