Being summoned to the office was rarely a good thing.

  I told myself this was different—Northbridge different, not “you’re suspended” different—but my stomach still did that slow elevator drop as I walked down the admin hall. Ms. Cho’s door was half?open; Patrick gave me a small nod as I passed.

  The moment I stepped inside, I felt it.

  Pressure. Hanging in the air, filling all the space between molecules. Like walking into a room that had forgotten how to breathe.

  Not this again, I thought, jaw tightening.

  “Diana,” Ms. Cho said. “Have a seat.”

  I followed the tilt of her hand to the chair in front of her desk—and froze halfway there.

  I wasn’t alone.

  Sketch sat in the other chair. Backpack at his feet. Coke can on the desk. Sketch—but not. His posture was loose in a way it never was around adults, shoulders down, eyes soft and unfocused like he’d just come out of a really good nap.

  My stomach sank and my hackles went up at the same time.

  “What is Sketch doing here?” I demanded, too loud.

  He turned his head, slow and lazy. “Hi, Diana,” he said, voice syrup?smooth. “I missed you.”

  Oh no.

  I dropped into my chair because my knees weren’t interested in supporting me anymore. The pressure in the room pulsed, brushing against my skin like a too?warm breeze. Not aimed at me. Aimed at him.

  “You’re doing your fucking Jedi mind trick on him?!” The words flew out before I could edit them.

  Sketch…giggled.

  Actually giggled.

  “Jedi mind trick?” he echoed. “That’s such a great line.”

  Everything in me went cold.

  “Diana, be quiet.”

  Cho’s voice cracked across the desk like a whip.

  I shut my mouth. Instantly. It wasn’t just the tone—though I’d never heard her even raise her voice before—it was the way the pressure in the room abruptly leaned on that one word. Quiet. My throat closed around whatever I’d been about to say next.

  Her expression didn’t change much. Her eyes did.

  “Compose yourself,” she said, each word clipped. “And watch your language.”

  I stared at a spot on the desk, heat crawling up my neck. Shock and anger tangled inside my chest.

  “I was aware you could be contrary. Difficult, even.” Her gaze was steady on my face. “But I never took you for stupid.”

  “If this is because—” I started, the words tripping over each other.

  She lifted one finger.

  It was like someone pressed mute on my mouth. The word died in my throat.

  “Are you incapable of the simple skill of reading?” she asked, almost mild. “One would think block letters and small, easy?to?understand words should convey meaning. Words such as your eyes only.”

  My stomach dropped straight through the floor.

  “I—” I tried again.

  She didn’t bother to raise her hand this time. She just looked at me. The disappointment there stung more than the anger.

  “Now I need to decide what to do with Mr. Tosconi,” she said. “It’s a pity. I thought you valued him.”

  The intercom on her desk buzzed.

  “Dean Cho,” Patrick’s voice said. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but you are needed in Alchemy 204.”

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Her jaw tightened. “Can’t this wait?” The words came out terse.

  “No, ma’am. I’m sorry. It’s…emergent.”

  She exhaled once through her nose. “Very well.”

  She stood. And the pressure evaporated.

  “Do. Not. Move,” she said, each word its own command.

  Then she swept out, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving me alone with my best friend, a Coke can, and a room that still remembered her weight.

  ***

  Sketch blinked, slow, like someone had just turned the lights up in his head.

  He looked at me, really looked, and the lazy softness in his eyes cleared a notch. His mouth twitched into a nervous smile.

  “Did I…did I get you in trouble?” he asked.

  The question hit sideways. “What? No—”

  “There was this boy,” he went on, brow creasing. “He came to the school. Like a spy. Schmoozing with Montana, talking to your friends.” He huffed a short, bewildered laugh. “He saw the sketchbook. I’m sorry. I know you told me to keep it at home.”

  He was apologizing. To me.

  Like I was the one who’d been dragged into an office and had my brain messed with.

  A cold, sharp guilt slid under my ribs. I’d made this whole mess. I’d told him about the monsters. I’d handed him the secret books. I’d told him my crap and sworn him to keep it, and then I’d gone off to monster school and left him in a normal one where a Kindred could stroll in like a transfer student.

  I didn’t know what Cho was going to do to him. Kill him? No, that was dramatic, even for my brain. Mind?wipe him? Could they do that? Erase his memories of all of this, of me?

  It was all my fault.

  The thought cracked something open.

  “I’m sorry,” I choked, and then the rest tore out. “I’m so sorry—”

  I burst into tears.

  Not the dainty movie kind. Full?on, ugly, hot tears that blurred the room. I lurched forward, grabbed Sketch by the shoulders, and pulled him against me like I could physically shield him from whatever Cho had in mind.

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I babbled into his hoodie. “I did this, I dragged you into this, I should’ve—I’ll find a way to fix it, I promise. Whatever I have to do, I’ll make sure you’re okay, I swear—”

  He froze for a second, then his hand came up, awkwardly patting my back in little thumps.

  “It’s okay, Diana,” he said quietly.

  But it wasn’t.

  After a while his arms came up around me and he shifted over so we were sharing the same chair. He held on while I cried.

  All the guilt, the insecurity, the pressure of a school that was too hard, a world that was too scary, a friend I kept hurting—it all spilled out on him in the form of tears.

  I sniffed. It…felt nice. He was warm and solid. Present in a way too few people were. He rested his head lightly against my shoulder and just let me cry it out, drawing strength from a boy I had never really thought of as strong.

  He was there. Just there. Not flinching at the tears and snot soaking into his hoodie, not trying to fix it or tell me it wasn’t that bad.

  I didn’t deserve him. I had never deserved him.

  I dragged in a shuddering breath and pulled back just far enough for him to see my face. My eyes burned; my nose was clogged. I tried for a smile anyway.

  “I’m going to fix this. Okay?”

  He studied me for half a second, then nodded and lifted a hand to my cheek. His palm was warm and a little rough from pencil calluses.

  “We will fix it,” he said, quietly correcting me.

  Something in my chest unclenched. We. Of course he’d say that.

  We sat like that for a while. Sharing the chair, turned half toward each other, his hand resting lightly against my cheek.

  The door opened.

  Sketch’s hand dropped, but instead of scooting back to his own chair, he slipped an arm around my shoulders and faced forward with me tucked against his side.

  I could feel Cho taking it all in as she stepped behind her desk—the red?rimmed eyes, the damp hoodie, the way Sketch didn’t look rattled so much as…steady. Our semi?united front.

  “Okay,” he said, and his voice was calmer than I felt. “How can we fix this?”

  Cho’s gaze flicked to him. Something like approval crossed her face.

  “I have been thinking about that on the way back,” she said. “You”—she pointed at me—“are going to board. I want you where I can keep an eye on you.”

  “What—” The word tore out of me. “But—”

  Sketch’s arm tightened a fraction. “That’s fine,” he said before I could launch into a full protest. “Reasonable.”

  Her eyes widened just slightly. I could almost feel her recalibrating him in her mental filing system.

  “As for you, Mr. Tosconi,” she said, shifting her attention fully to him, “can I trust you to keep our secrets?”

  He met her eyes, shoulders squaring. “I have so far,” he said. “And I don’t have any plans to change that.”

  She watched him for a beat. The air in the room went still.

  “You have, haven’t you,” she murmured. Not really a question. She nodded once, decision settling. “All right. It’s settled.”

  Her next words knocked the breath out of both of us.

  “You will enroll at Northbridge,” she said.

  We just stared at her.

  “Wait—Northbridge?” Sketch stuttered. “I—uh—I don’t know if my family can—”

  “You will be a scholarship student,” she said, cutting him off neatly. “Don’t worry, Mr. Tosconi. I expect you to pay it off.”

  He blinked. “Pay it—?”

  “We will discuss the details after Ms. Sinclair leaves.”

  Then her gaze snapped back to me, and the temperature dropped a few degrees.

  “Wash your face,” she said. “And get to class.”

  I didn’t need telling twice. I slid out from under Sketch’s arm, grabbed my backpack with shaky fingers, and fled.

  Out in the hall, my reflection in the nearest glass door looked blotchy and wrecked, but I didn’t care.

  Sketch was safe.

  And he was going to be here.