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“This year blows,” Misty grumbles during lunch break in the cafeteria, pushing the spaghetti around her plate with her fork.

“So you’ve said. Repeatedly,” Sienna chastises, clearly annoyed by our friend’s endless complaints about freshman year not living up to her expectations.

Honestly, I’m not sure what Misty thought would happen when we started high school. It’s not like moving up a grade would miraculously help our social standing in Fairhope.

Sure, Misty has been luckier than us in some ways. Unlike Sienna’s grandparents, who depend more on her than she does on them, Misty’s grandmother is still quite young. Young enough to pass for her mom rather than her actual grandmother. Mrs. Buckley is fifty, if she is a day, and dotes on her granddaughter as if Misty were the air that she breathed.

I guess that’s only natural since Misty’s mom died from an overdose so young. Maybe some of the love Mrs. Buckley had for her daughter simply transferred to Misty. But all that undivided attention makes Misty act like a spoiled brat sometimes. Like everything should be handed out to her by right. I guess she missed the memo that kids with addicts for parents in this town are the lowest of the low and shouldn’t expect much.

“Next year will get better.” I smile at my friend, hoping it’s enough to take the sting out of our current circumstances.

I mean, things can only get better, right? That’s the whole point of hitting rock bottom. There’s nowhere to go but up from here. I hope.

Misty shoves her plate to the side, and like the drama queen she is, lies her head on the table, with her arms covering her head in lament.

“I hate it here. Everything sucks.”

“Oh, quit your whining, Misty. God,” Sienna snaps, having had enough of Misty’s pity party. “It’s getting old, you always complaining about shit and not doing anything about it.”

“And what exactly am I supposed to do, huh?” Misty snarls, her forest-green eyes darkening a shade or two.

“I don’t know. Something. Anything to quit your bitching.”

“Sienna,” I reprimand, but she just frowns at me.

“Don’t baby her, Max. You had it worse than all of us this year, and you’re not complaining. Why should she?”

“So just because my mom wasn’t a whore and no one is picking on me for it, I’m supposed to be happy?” Misty blurts out a little too loud, drawing stares from the kids at the nearby tables.

Misty’s outburst has every cell in my body begging me to sink lower in my chair until I can disappear beneath the cafeteria table. But like hell I’ll give anyone here the satisfaction of watching me shatter again. Once was enough.

“Look what you’ve done now,” Sienna scowls, turning toward the Reds, all sitting a few tables over, snickering at us.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it,” Misty says quickly. “It just came out. I didn’t mean—”

“Max knows what you meant. This whole fucking school knows what you meant,” Sienna says, getting up from her seat and grabbing her tray. “I lost my appetite.” She shoots Misty one last glare before looking at me. “If you need me, I’ll be in the library until next period.”

I nod and watch Sienna leave, head held high, uncaring of the gossip following in her wake.

“I really am sorry. It’s just… it’s frustrating, isn’t it? Why should we get labeled for something our parents did? Why should we suffer for their mistakes?”

“It’s a small town. People have nothing to do, so they gossip. That’s what small towns do.”

“Well, I’ve had enough of it. Maybe Sienna is right. Maybe I should just stop complaining and do something about it. If I want next year to be different, then I need to start changing things now,” Misty says, her gaze fixed on the Reds.

“And what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know yet, but something,” she says, rising from her seat. “See you in English, okay?”

“Sure.”

Before she leaves, she places her hand over mine. “And sorry again about saying that about your mom. That wasn’t fair.”

I turn my hand beneath hers and squeeze it, managing a smile.

But as I watch Misty leave the cafeteria, an uneasy feeling settles in my chest when she glances back at the Reds’ table.

It takes me a second to realize that with her gone, I’m now sitting at this table completely alone. Suddenly, I’ve never felt more exposed. It’s like a hundred pairs of eyes are on me at all times, dissecting me like Milo and I dissected that frog earlier this year just to see how it ticked inside.