Chapter 7 - The Morning The Bus Line Kept Talking
Mom dropped me off early because she said she didn't want me rushing. I wore my gray hoodie and black leggings and my sneakers with the left lace shorter than the right. My hair was in a low ponytail because I didn't want anyone touching it. The morning air outside Jefferson Middle was cold enough to see breath, and the sidewalk was crowded with kids cutting across the drop-off loop while parents idled in the pick-up line that wrapped around the parking lot.
I stood near the brick wall by the main doors where me and Maya always met. She was already there, scrolling on her older brother's phone, her backpack half open. Two girls from our homeroom were behind her talking loud about a sleepover.
"My cousin got a karaoke machine for her party," one of them said. "Like with actual microphones."
Maya looked up and waved me over. "Did you decide?" she asked.
I shifted my backpack higher on my shoulder. The strap dug in. "Decide what?"
"Your outfit. For your grandma's thing." She said it like it was normal, like she was asking about a math quiz. "You said last week you might get to wear the blue dress."
My stomach dropped. Last week on the bus I'd told her Grandma was having a birthday dinner and Mom said I could probably wear what I wanted. I'd said it hopeful. I hadn't known then.
I stared at the doors. A teacher was holding one open, greeting kids by name. The announcements were buzzing faint inside. I could smell bus exhaust and someone's cinnamon gum.
"I haven't decided," I said. I kept my voice even. It wasn't exactly a lie, but it felt thin.
Maya frowned a little. "Is it Saturday? My mom said she saw the invitation on your mom's fridge when she dropped off the fundraiser forms."
I swallowed. I didn't know what invitation she meant. Maybe there never was one for us. Maybe Mom had just put Katie's on there to be polite. I didn't want to explain that in front of the other girls.
"It's kind of adults-only now," I said. That was what I landed on. My hands were cold inside my hoodie pocket. I squeezed my thumbs.
Maya nodded, but she kept looking at me. "Oh. That stinks. Are your cousins going?"
I thought about Mom's voice at the table. So Katie's kids aren't coming either? And Grandma's answer, flat as a plate. They're different.
"No," I said. Then I stopped, because that would be lying for them. For her. I breathed in through my nose. The cold hurt a little. "I mean, yes. They are. I'm just not."
Maya blinked. "Wait, why?"
I shrugged. I wanted to keep it small. "Grandma said I'm not invited."
Saying it out loud on the sidewalk made my ears ring. The girl with the karaoke-machine cousin turned her head. I looked down at my sneakers.
Maya was quiet for a second. She didn't laugh or make it weird. She just said, "That's messed up."
I didn't answer. I didn't want to cry at school. I pressed my back flatter against the brick. It was rough through my hoodie.
First period was English with Mrs. Patel. We were supposed to silent-read for twenty minutes. I opened my book but I kept reading the same paragraph. The classroom was warm and the fluorescent lights hummed. Someone's pencil kept tapping.
Mrs. Patel walked the rows, stopping at desks. When she got to mine, she paused. She didn't say anything at first. She just looked at my page. I hadn't turned it in ten minutes.
"You okay this morning?" she asked quietly, so only I could hear. She crouched a little beside my desk. Her voice was low.
I nodded fast. "Yeah. I'm just tired."
She studied my face. She'd taught sixth grade too, so she knew me when I talked too much. Now I wasn't talking at all.
"There's a check-in slip on my desk if you want it," she said. "No grade. Just if you need to get something out."
I shook my head. "I'm fine." My throat felt tight. I didn't want to write it down and have her read it and call Mom and make it bigger.
She didn't push. She tapped my book lightly with one finger. "Okay. I'm here."
At lunch, Maya saved me a seat near the windows. The cafeteria was loud, trays clanking, milk cartons popping. She didn't bring up Grandma again until the other kids got up to dump their trays.
"Did you do something?" she asked. "Like, to make her mad?"
I picked at my sandwich crust. The bread was soggy. "No."
"Then it's not about you," she said.
I wanted to believe her. I thought about Mom holding my hand on the walkway outside the brick house, Dad behind us. I thought about the gift box on our counter at home, still closed. Mom hadn't told me what she was going to do with the money part. She'd just said we were leaving, and we did.
"I didn't want to lie and say I was sick or something," I said. "I'm just not going."
May you like
Maya nodded. "You shouldn't have to."
The bell rang. We stood up with our trays. My hands were shaking a little, but I carried it steady to the trash line. Nobody else asked me about the party after that. The hurt stayed in my chest all afternoon, private and heavy, like a note I wasn't passing to anyone.
