I had barely taken five steps outside before the whispers started.
"That's the scholarship slapper."
"Didn't she, like, disappear?"
"I thought she was dead."
"Why is she back?"
The words floated toward me like arrows dipped in something sour, and I didn't even have to try to hear them. That was the worst part. I heard everything now. Even the way someone's shoe squeaked behind me. The way a boy three benches down bit into his granola bar with too much crunch. My head throbbed.
Freya's fingers found mine and gave them a light squeeze. Silent encouragement.
I already figured out how to tune the sounds out, focus on one, push the others away like background music. It didn't make it easy. But it helped.
We made it to the basketball court, sunlight slicing through the open-air rooftop like warm blades. Unfortunately, the court wasn't empty. Not even close.
