“Damn! You get in a fight, Mabee?”

  I shrug it off, but his eyes linger on the puffy side of my face, and I can only bluff that it’s no big deal for so long. When his eyes narrow, I glean that he’s probably piecing it together. I don’t have more than one enemy. Hell, I only have a handful of friends.

  “Ava do that shit to you?” He knows; I can tell by his tone.

  I tip my chin just a little.

  “Hope you fucked her shit up right back,” he says, leaning forward and moving to the step above me to inspect my eye more closely. “You need to get a cold compress on that. I can get something in the training room.”

  “It’s fine,” I say, not wanting the attention. Besides, the last thing I need is Lucas seeing this.

  “It’s not fine. I’ll be, like, two minutes, tops. Just sit tight,” he says, rushing in the door and cutting off a few guys heading in for practice.

  My pulse is jittery, and I keep feeling as if my heart is missing beats. I just want to get Lucas his key and be on my way. But if anyone sees me handing it to him, they’ll know I had his truck, and then maybe he wasn’t at Two-fers, and instead . . .

  “Here,” Tory says, making better time than I expect. He hands me a small plastic bag filled with ice, and one of the white towels they use at practices. I put the ice on my face first without wrapping it, but Tory stops me before I press it on my skin too hard. “No, here.”

  He’s wrapping the towel around the bag when a shadow moves over both of us where we’re sitting.

  “What the fuck happened?” Lucas kneels down next to me, his eyes glaring at Tory as if he had something to do with my face.

  “I’m fine,” I say, clutching his key in my right palm, wanting to slip it to him and run away.

  “Your ex had a field day with her face,” Tory says, a hint of accusation in his tone. There’s a short standoff between them as they hover on either side of me, the cold ice bag still clutched in Tory’s hands.

  There was a time when the thought of two varsity football players fighting over my honor seemed like a dream, but now, in the middle of it, I just want them to get over themselves—get over me!

  “Gentlemen?” Coach Loma has a very distinct voice. It’s effective on a field with a hundred teenaged boys all vying to be hotshots. He barks and they listen. One word brings Tory and Lucas to instant attention, eyes widening before their necks snap up to look him in the eye.

  “I had an accident, Coach, and they happened to catch me before I fell all the way. I went end-over-end,” I lie, laughing nervously as I rip the ice and towel from Tory’s grip and hold it to the side of my face.

  Lucas understands why I’m lying, but Tory’s reaction is a little less believable, which causes Coach Loma to question things more than I want him to.

  “Lemme see what you’ve got going here,” he says, pushing Lucas out of the way. Stress knots my stomach and chest as Lucas hops down a few steps, now too far to pass him his keys. I’m so focused on the mission that I barely respond to Coach as he peels the towel from my face and tips my chin up to have a good look at my shiner.

  “You said you got this falling down the stairs?” he asks.

  I nod, but it’s painfully obvious that didn’t happen. This is going horribly wrong.

  “Mind if I get our trainer to come give you a look? Just a little concussion protocol, and since it happened on campus, we’ll need to fill out an incident form,” he says, standing and pulling his khaki pants up by his belt loops.

  Shit. An incident report.

  “Okay,” I croak. As everyone stands, I flutter my eyes closed, wishing like hell I could go back and tell him I got in a fight. I’d still probably be dealing with a trainer and an incident report, though. Goddamn, Ava Pryor!

  Lucas’s bag is about an arm’s length from me, but my aim is shit so I can’t toss his keys with certainty that I’ll make the shot. I can discern from the heavy silent glares Coach is giving both of the boys that he’s dismissing them from my aid and telling them to get their asses to practice. My last chance is to somehow stall Lucas. As he reaches for one strap of his backpack, I reach for the other, pulling hard enough to yank it from his hand and slide it closer to me.

  “Oh, dang, sorry. I thought this was mine,” I lie. My bag is bright pink. Lucas’s is black. I’m so lame it’s painful. While everyone puzzles at me, I manage to slip his key into the side pocket before Lucas lifts the bag up and over his shoulder.

  “It’s fine,” he says, brow heavy as he stares down at me. I’m pretty sure he knows I put the key in there. That’s not what his frown is about. He’s worried about my face, and maybe he feels a little responsible. He doesn’t own Ava, though. She’s a bitch all on her own.

  “Maybe call your mom or dad, Miss . . .”

  “June,” I finish for Coach. “June Mabee.” I add my last name. He has no reason to remember who I am. I am one of hundreds of students he had freshman year for health class.

  “Right, okay. Well, call your parents, June,” he says.

  “It’s just my mom,” I respond. Not sure why he would care about that detail, but I’ve become accustomed to making the correction. I don’t like my dad getting parental credit. Of course, I’m not exactly thrilled to call my mom right now.

  Tory and Lucas reluctantly head in the locker room, and I pull my legs in to make room for the dozens of players now rushing down the steps to go change. Coach Loma is on the phone with who I assume is probably the trainer, and he nods toward my bag and mouths the words, “Call your mom.”

  I don’t want to in the worst way, but explaining would make things so much worse. I’m already neck deep in fibs. I nod and pull my phone from my bag, noting the text message from my mom that I still haven’t fully read. I swipe right by it and hit call on my phone to dial her. She answers before I even hear a ring.

  “June?” She’s frantic, and her voice is raw with exhaustion. I’m an asshole. And a coward. I don’t even know for sure if she’s a liar, or worse.

  “I’m at school, and I fell. They’re going to fill out an incident report, but I’m by the gymnasium, and Coach saw me. He thinks maybe I have a concussion?” I’m trying to keep my voice quiet and calm, but I can hear her rapid breathing on the other end quickening with worry.

  “I’ll be right there,” she says.

  “Mom, I’m fine. Abby is giving me a ride home anyway.”

  “June,” she interjects. Her voice is stern.

  I swallow.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Tell the coach I will come in through the office. Should I meet you by the gym?” I can already hear the van firing up. The thought of her rushing through campus to meet me at the gym so she can gawk at my black eye has me wanting to throw up. Of course, if I throw up, that’s a sign of a concussion, which will only make this rabbit hole deeper because I already had a concussion.

  “I’m sure we can meet you at the office.” I glance up at Coach and he nods.

  “Okay, well, I’m on my way.” By the time I end the call with my mom, the trainer is at my side, tilting my head up so he can shine a penlight in my eyes. The man is maybe twenty-two, and his degree is in exercise. He’s not really qualified to diagnose head trauma, but I don’t have any so I let him do his thing. I trace the movement of his finger as he draws it out then in again, and I promptly answer his series of easy questions, spelling my first and last names, and listing the last three presidents. I wonder if our football players can pass this part, I muse to myself.

  Once I’ve satisfied his test, Coach pats my shoulder and helps me to my feet, still eyeing me suspiciously. I only hope he doesn’t think Lucas or Tory punched me in the face. I wouldn’t want to start that kind of scandal.

  Coach sends the trainer along with me to make sure I’m all right during my walk to the office. He carries my backpack for me, but I keep my phone, texting Abby so she knows I won’t need a ride home. She writes back instantly.

  I’m here with your mom. I heard. You . . . fell?

  I sigh, reading her text and typing my response.

  Long story.

  She shoots back a laughing emoji, but she has no idea what a mess this is.

  My mom is standing at the front desk when I walk in through the side doors. She’s wearing one of her cotton T-shirt dresses, so at least she changed from what I saw her wearing this morning, and her hair in a twisted knot on top of her head. When I step through the glass doors into the lobby, she rushes to me and holds both sides of my face, smooshing them with her purse and phone still in her hands.

  “June Mabee, you have a black eye!” She tilts my head down and steps up on her toes as if looking at it from above makes it seem somehow less of an injury.

  “I’m fine.” I shake my head, glancing to the side to meet Abby’s gaze. My friend’s eyes are narrowed, but for a different reason. Abby’s taken a punch or two in her life. She’s given her fair share of black eyes, too. She’s not naïve, so I shake my head slightly once my mom lets go as a signal for her not to question—not right now.

  I shift back to meet my mom’s waiting stare. She’s so broken, and I’m to blame for a lot of that.

  “Kristen,” Maggie Williams’s familiar voice draws our attention to the main desk. My mom hesitates for a moment. In the past, when she’s run into Maggie with me, there have been hugs. Right now, though, my mom is embarrassed. Here I am, black eye and all. It’s awkward.

  “I guess there’s a form?” My mom moves around the desk to take the seat Maggie has pulled out for her.

  “It’s just a formality,” Maggie says, sliding the already-prepared document around for my mom to review and sign. She leans into my mom and whispers loudly, “It’s so you don’t sue the school.”

  “Should I?” My mom leans back, holding the pen away from the signature line.

  “No!” I blurt out.

  I cover my face and Abby slides over to stand at my side.

  “Well, I don’t know,” my mom continues. There’s a deep wrinkle on her brow as she turns her focus to me. I can no longer tell whether she’s serious about suing or using the threat to bait me into spilling my guts.

  “Please,” I beg. I’m sweating, which probably makes me look even more banged up, but it’s because I really just want to be done with this.

  My mom studies me for a few seconds then pinches one side of her mouth, clicking the pen in and out a few times before finally leaning forward and signing her name to the line.

  “Thanks, Kristen. Hey, we should get together for real sometime, ya know? Like in a place where we can have booze!” Maggie’s raspy laugh sparks a brief smile on my mom’s lips and she agrees that sounds nice.

  I walk out toward the parking lot, ready to bolt for Abby’s car, but my mom is one step ahead of me. We barely get through the doors before she catches them behind us.

  “June? The van,” she says, pointing to where she parked along the curb in front of the office like an ambulance.

  I breathe in long and deep but nod. My friend gives me a hug and whispers, “Call me” in my ear. I dump my bag on the back seat before climbing in the front. My mom is already waiting for me, and she eyes my movements like a hawk as I fasten my buckle.

  “Do I at least get to know what happened to your face?”

  It’s hard to look her in the eyes. I tell her everything, basically. It’s just that I have this horror that she hasn’t been keeping up her end of the bargain. I can’t fathom her keeping secrets from me, but a secret that big . . . she would have to.

  “No,” I answer, finally. Her eyes curse at me just before her mouth snaps shut in shock.

  “Okay, then.” She flips her gaze to the front, cranking the van and shifting into drive without hesitation. “I guess you can get used to me driving you to and from school for the next month.”

  Her tone is clipped.

  “I guess,” I say coolly, lifting my towel-covered icepack to my face and holding it in such a way that I block my mom’s view of me.

  This has to end. I need to tell her everything Lucas told me so she has the chance to either verify it, or not. Maybe she’ll lie, but at least I won’t be holding this feeling in anymore. Then I can tell her about my face and what happened with Ava, and about Lucas’s interview today. I know she would be proud. My mom loved Lucas, to the point of teasing me when she knew I had developed a crush. Of course, now that I threw the little V-card announcement at her, she might look at him differently.

  “I don’t know what’s going on with you, June, but I won’t just sit back and let you fall into yourself. You can be mad. I’ll give you time. I’ll even give you a break about today. I’m not stupid, and it’s pretty clear to everyone that you have a black eye. I just hope you aren’t in a situation where someone . . .”

  Her voice trails off and I know it’s because the thought of me letting a guy hit me touches a raw nerve in her heart. My dad never laid a hand on her directly, but he threw things when he got angry. And from the few things she’s told me about her high school boyfriends, I think she’s faced worse than my dad’s keys being thrown at her face.

  “I’m not being unsafe,” I finally say, relenting and dropping the ice pack from my eye as we pull into our driveway. My mom stops the van just past the curb, and I expect to find her eyes waiting for me as I face her. But when I look, I find she’s not looking at me at all. Her focus is glued straight ahead and her mouth hangs open wide, anger reddening her cheeks and shaking her clinched jaw. I snap my gaze to her sightline, and at first what my eyes take in seems too enormous to be real.

  The word WHORE is spray-painted in red across our garage door. The can used to create it is left abandoned in our driveway, its lid a few yards away. On instinct, I crank my neck to the left, searching the Fuller house for spying eyes. The garage is closed, as is the side door and all the shutters. But something this bold isn’t Mrs. Fuller’s style; she abhors confrontation. Asking her husband and son to ignore our existence seems more like her. The message written on our house, it isn’t for my mom. It’s for me. And I have an eye that matches it perfectly.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Someone doesn’t like me.”

  That’s all I say as I exit the van, slamming the door closed behind me. I grab some acetone and some of my dad’s old rags from the garage, then immediately start scrubbing the word off the garage door. My efforts fade the color, but the word is still there. It is still very much there.

  My mom helps for a while. She keeps her promise of not prying into more today, though I can tell as she scrubs next to me that she so badly wants to. I can’t really mask my tears, but I wear the grit on my face right along with the pain, which makes open, honest conversation less approachable.

  That word isn’t going away without paint. If I had my way, I would go buy a gallon of whatever’s on hand and roll it on. My mom says she’ll do it in the morning, after she drops me off at school.

  She is still my ride, to and from, until I do something to make it otherwise.

  Lucas will see it. I’ve been sitting in the center of my bed with the lights off for two hours, waiting for his practice to end. I only now locked my bedroom door. I want to make sure my mom won’t try coming in, though if she does and is met with a lock, she’ll flip her lid even more than she already has. She’s worried. I’m worried, too. Somebody hates me, and somebody knows things meant to hurt me.

  I can’t quite see the full driveway from my window, but I see his lights spill across the ground. They stay on for several long seconds, even as I hear his door open and close. He’s looking at the graffiti. It’s strange how, even though I am nothing like that word, simply having it on my home makes me somehow feel dirty.

  Lucas’s lights flick off and his heavy door slams shut again. I don’t bother going to the window. I’ve left it open, anticipating him. I’m not sure whether I want to pound on his chest and curse him for bringing this down on me or if I want him to hold me and make it better. I figure I’ll know when I see him.

  The skidding of his shoes on the roof shingles draws near, so I scoot to the end of the bed, my feet on the floor and my hands cupping my bare knees. I’m wearing my sleep shirt because it’s the only thing that makes me feel comfortable. Now, I feel like that word, even though it’s just a large cotton T-shirt.

  “June.” His voice is urgent as his hands wrap around the sill of the window. He lifts himself up easily, his hair wet from the shower he took after practice, his gray T-shirt sticking to his damp skin.

  I ball my fists on top of my thighs, collecting the anger building in my veins, but as I prepare to pound my hands into his chest, he drops to his knees in front of me and gently cups my face. Tender eyes examine the bruising on my face.

  “I’m so sorry,” he says, repeating it three or four times until finally holding my gaze to his.

  My hands relax and my palms grip at his shirt, and I cling to him like a bear cub, pressing the uninjured side of my face against his chest as I let out a silent sob. He lifts himself up to stand, holding me to him, one hand cradling my head while the other holds my weight. He turns to sit on the bed and I rest my weight against him. His palm runs up my back soothingly, and he tucks my face into the nook just under his jaw. He breaths out a soft hush into my ear.

  “I know, June. I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.” He rocks me with his words, slowly, lulling me into more normal breathing.

  “She painted my house,” I cry, my voice muffled against his body.

  “I know,” he says, his voice quiet and still at my ear.

  For almost half an hour, I sit like this, hugged tightly in his arms, my face hot with tears while his fingers delicately tickle along my bare arms until the shaking in my chest calms. My house is silent beyond my door, and I’m not sure whether my mom is in her room or still sitting on the sofa, staring out the front window while she sips at wine and waits for whoever painted our house to show up and do it again. I told her they wouldn’t, but she simply shot me a look indicating that if I was allowed to be left alone, so was she.