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It’s always that last hill that does me in. It’s so steep, so long. Up past the middle school, past McBurney Farm, past the flashing lights at the four-way stop.

I have to stand in my bike’s saddle to make it. My thighs burn. Even on the coldest day, I sweat. But once I reach the crest, it all feels worth it.

There’s this delicious moment. Picture a feather, suspended in midair, about to float to earth. The hard work of the hill, of school, behind me. Ahead of me: home.

In winter, I pedal down hard and fast. The wind bites my face, but anticipating the warmth awaiting me makes the pain almost pleasurable. On milder days, in spring or early fall, when the afternoon sun oozes like honey, I take my time, coasting down, arms at my sides. On those days, the wind sometimes feels like it might lift me up right out of the seat, like I could fly the rest of the way home.

When I reach the summit today, my thighs don’t burn. Not even a little. Going up felt like going on the flat. Maybe after nearly four years of this route to and from school every day, with only a few weeks until graduation, I’m finally used to it.

On the way down, I lift my hands to my sides, whipping past the church, past the Circle K, past the car wash, past someone’s white ten-speed bike chained to a lamppost. I don’t have my helmet on, so my hair flies behind me like a superhero cape.

I round the corner onto our block.

I don’t see Mom’s car in the driveway, which maybe means she’s out with Missy, at youth group or therapy or whatever the latest thing is they’re making Missy go to because she’s a weirdo who has no friends.

If the house is empty, Calvin can come over, unless he has work or wrestling practice.

I can’t remember what he told me in p.m.

homeroom.

I also can’t remember if Missy has something today, and usually I keep track of that so I know when I can sneak Calvin in.

What day does she have youth group again? What day is it, even? It’s strange that I can’t remember, considering I’ve spent the last seven periods writing the date on the heading of various notes, quizzes, and assignments.

At the last graduation assembly, our principal, Mrs. Wu, warned us against senioritis. She said it typically afflicts students after they get their college acceptances. They blow off homework, ditch class, oversleep, forget their own names. “Because you sense the end is coming,”

she said. “But it’s not here yet, so while it’s okay to loosen the grip, don’t let go until the ink on your diploma is dry.”

Mom always leaves the garage door open for me, but today it’s down and locked. There’s been a spate of break-ins, so I guess we’re being security conscious. Nice of someone to tell me.

I park my bike next to the gate and hop the back fence. The patio door is also locked, but there’s a spare key carved into the false bottom of a papier-maché rock that Missy made. This is what she does—crafts hiding spots, writes elaborate notes in code. She wants to be a spy when she grows up, like it’s a legit career option. And Mom wonders why she has no friends.

“Anyone home?”

I call as I nudge open the door. The house feels not just quiet, but uninhabited, like Aunt Pauline’s place when she’s out of town for months on end and we go to collect her mail. Not even Mr. Fluff comes out to bunt against my legs.

It’s also freezing in here.

I pad across the living room to the thermostat.

It reads sixty-eight degrees, which is what Mom leaves it at when no one’s home.

But the house feels like a meat locker, the way it got when the furnace went on the blink last winter and we all had to sleep in the living room, with space heaters and the fireplace going all night.

I can hear the heater ticking, see the air blowing against Mom’s knitting supplies.

I shiver.

I better not be getting sick! I go to grab an afghan from the front-hall closet, but the shelf where Mom keeps all her crocheted blankets has nothing but Mr.

Fluff’s cat bed—I guess Mom got him a new one—and a bunch of moving boxes labeled .

How very on-brand of Mom to get a jump on college packing before I’ve even graduated.

There are no blankets, so I grab a random gray hoodie that’s hanging next to Mom’s old trench coat and flop down onto the couch.

I flick on the TV to catch the last fifteen minutes of my favorite talk show, only I can’t find the channel it’s on—I can’t find the channels, period.

Something is just off with me today.

I go into the kitchen to grab the phone to call Casey like I always do after school.

Only when I start to dial, I can’t remember her number.

Or Calvin’s.

Or ours.

I stare at the handset and try to summon the digits, but the numbers just stare back at me, not about to give away their secrets.

The harder I try to pull up the numbers, the farther away they swim.

Okay.

This happened once at school when I thought too hard about my locker combo.

I had to close my eyes and let muscle memory take over.

I put the handset to my ear, but nothing happens.

There’s not even a dial tone.

I shiver harder this time. The kitchen is usually the warmest room in the house because the ancient gas stove always emits heat, but it’s as cold as the living room.

I really hope I’m not getting sick. I put my palm against my forehead. Alexa had mono and was out of school for five weeks. I have prom coming up. And graduation. The most important weeks of my life—I cannot miss them.

When the garage door opens, I’m a little bummed because it means Mom’s home and Calvin can’t come over, but I’m also relieved because if I’m sick, she’ll take care of me.

It’s what she does. I head to the door that leads from the kitchen to the garage to meet Mom, catching a glimpse of a framed photo on the wall of me in my cap and gown.

“Hey, Mom,”

I call before she gets out of the car. “When did the graduation portraits come in?”

She doesn’t answer. I step into the garage.

From inside the car, Mom begins to scream.