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“You think so?” Ms. Amos challenges.

“Haven’t had many complaints before.”

Their exchanges turn into white noise in my ears. I’ve heard this before. Ms. Amos says all the proper, teacherly things. Ford retorts with all the typical dude-bro-sarcasm. It goes nowhere.

Unfortunately, my mind does.Ian, Ian, Ian…

“Hey,” Chloe whispers, and I do my worst attempt at not startling. She says, “You’re daydreaming. Where is your mind hiding?”

“Nowhere. Its favorite place.”

She ruffles my hair. “I doubt that, Remy. Someone like you is always somewhere. Always.”

The bell rings. Sara’s out of her chair first and turns to Chloe. “Let’s go. We can catch Lucy if we hurry.”

Groaning, Chloe grabs her notebook and stands.

Ford hovers over my desk like a thundercloud waiting to unleash a hailstorm. “It was a joke, Remy.” Funny, nothing in his artificial smile says that was humorous.

Chloe punches his shoulder. “You’re gonna be thejokeby the end of practice today.”

“Wait, come on—”

“You’re screwed, Turner.”

Like a whipped puppy, Ford follows Chloe and Sara out the door, begging for mercy.

All the rush of escaping class has dissipated. I gather my things slowly—pens, a highlighter, notebook. At the front of the room, Ms. Amos stares at me. She doesn’t say anything.

I pause. “Sorry if I wasn’t like…” I wave a hand around; my mind can’t produce real words. “…heretoday.”

A hint of forgiveness flashes in her eyes. That doesn’t calm the wave of nausea in my belly. I disappointed Ms. Amos by not being as vocally active in class today. I hate disappointing people I admire. I hate that I might’ve let her down.

“Have a great day, Mr. Cameron.”

“Thanks.”

Once I’m outside, I exhale so heavily, my lungs hurt.

Lucy’s right—Monday’s suck so hard.

* * *

Willow scrambles past me thesecond I swing open the front door. Her sneakers squeak on the hardwood floor. For the entire drive home, I’ve been trying to figure out her wardrobe choices. I’m on the fence. To match her Princess Leia puffs, she’s wearing a ZAP! comic book-style shirt, a ballerina tutu, and orange and black socks to go with her purple high-tops.

“Mom let you go to school like that?”

She drops her backpack in the hallway. After a quick twirl, she throws a hand over her giggling mouth. Her two bottom front teeth fell out two weeks ago. “Yes!”

“Okaaay,” I sing as she rushes off. Willow is a hell of a lot more confident at seven than I am at seventeen.

I barely have my backpack off before Clover’s charging up to me. I drop to my knees. Clover climbs into my lap for face-licks and sniffing.

“I missed you too.”

Mondays may be awful, but Clover makes up for it. My nose is pressed behind one of her ears. She smells like Dad’s just let her in from the backyard: like grass and that butterscotch-y aroma pine sap gives off. Her fur is still sun-warmed.

And then my nose wrinkles at new scents—acrid, smoky, burnt spices.