Page 7 of Reasons We Break

Before Simran can type out an explanation, TJ’s name lights up her screen.

When Simran picks up, TJ says, “I knew the secret was out, but I didn’t know it wasthatout. Was your mom judging me?”

“Of course.” Simran gets up to stretch. Dealing with someone else’s problems is always a refreshing change. “I said no when she asked if I knew, by the way. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. We agreed on that already.” They’d discussed it around the third time Simran acted as TJ’s alibi. In the same grim way governments decide their plan in the event of nuclear war, TJ insisted she go down alone in the lie.

But it still doesn’t feel great. “I thought you were careful about what you post.”

“It wasn’t me. It was someone at a party months ago, when we were in Kelowna for Christmas!” TJ sounds irritated; she goes to university in Ontario, across the country, and comes home a couple times a year. “Okay, but seriously, who posts a selfie with people kissing in the background? What the hell?”

Simran winces. Being caught holding hands is one thing, but...kissing? That’s nuclear.

She pauses while picking up the fruit bowl her mother left. Come to think of it, this might actually be thebesttiming to tell her parents about transferring to Vancouver. In comparison to TJ’s news, it’s nothing. They’ll be so relieved that the most deviant Simran’s ever been is going a few hours away for school, they won’t even think to be sad.

TJ, meanwhile, sighs. She sounds like she’s walking somewhere. Simran envisions her tottering around campus in impractical heels, long hair blowing into her face. “My mom’s called four times already. God, mysecret boyfriend. She’s going to kill me.”

Simran pops a grape in her mouth. Tonight, she decides. She’ll tell her parents tonight. “What she’sreallygoing to kill you for is avoiding her calls four times.”

“Whatever,” TJ says. “I’ll figure it out. Maybe I’ll ask your sister for help. She’s the expert in parental blowups, right?”

Simran glances up at the childhood photo of herself and her older sister on the mantel. She hasn’t seen Kiran in ages. “She’s the opposite of an expert,” she mutters. A clattering noise from outside draws her attention to the window.

Simran’s not the only one socializing. Her mother has her cell to her ear as she bends to pick up the jug of wiper fluid she dropped. It’s spilling on the ground. All so Simran can finish her homework. Yet here she is gossiping with her cousin instead.

Guilt creeps up on her. She turns to the couch. “I’ll call you later. After I get back from Hillway, maybe.”

TJ doesn’t get the hint. “Ooh, Hillway. Howisthat girl you’re mentoring? Did she try to punch you again?”

Simran pulls her computer back into her lap. Hillway House is an organization for troubled youth to help them integrate back into the community, usually via volunteer service. Since Simran started there a year ago, she’s mentored her fair share of interesting people, including her latest, a girl who took a swing at her in their first week together. “Laura graduated from the program. I’m meeting my new mentee today.”

“Is it too much to hope they’renotan asshole?”

“None of them are.” Simran checks her email inbox, but the Hillway coordinator, Paul, still hasn’t sent the new mentee matchups. “They’re just struggling.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s okay for them to hurt you.” TJ’s voice softens. “I know you like helping strays, but be careful, okay?”

“All right, Mom,” Simran says, exasperated. “I really have to finish this assignment, so—”

“You’re starting homework an hour before the deadline again, aren’t you?” Simran doesn’t reply, just starts scrolling through her code. “Look, I get it. This is your version of an extreme sport. But is the adrenaline worth—”

The front door opens—her mom has returned. Simran lowers her phone. TJ’s still rambling on the other end, but Simran smoothly hits end call before her mother can notice.

However, her mom doesn’t even look up. She’s a little pale, actually.

“Everything okay?” Simran asks.

“Of course.” Her mother straightens. “Your wiper fluid was empty, by the way. If you’re going to have your own vehicle, you need to keep an eye on these things.” Although she’s scolding Simran, she sounds half distracted as she heads for the stairs.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Simran calls.

Her mother mutters something unintelligible before yelling, “Your class starts in twenty-five minutes! Do you ever look at the clock? I swear you’ll be late to your own wedding.”

Well, that sounds more like her. Simran gets up.

Dr. Chen smiles at Simran when she speed-walks into his chemistry class. Simran returns it before finding a seat near the back of the lecture hall. She prefers sitting far away so she can answer emails, study for other classes, or, as in this case, finish assignments that are five minutes from being due.

She pulls her tea mug and laptop from her backpack. A notification pings in the corner of her screen. Paul—the Hillway coordinator—has finally emailed. She ignores it. The math homework takes priority. On her way here, she even triple-checked her calculations by hand at the traffic lights. It should work. So why isn’t it?