She whirls around, wringing a dishcloth in her hands. “It’s a conflict of interest! He’s that Snyder boy’s uncle, for Christ’s sake!”
I let go of Dad and look at her. I’d forgotten that Warren is his boss’s nephew. It’s not something that ever came up, really, only in passing mention. It never mattered before. Does it matter now? Would his uncle really fire my father because of what I did? Yours hurt mine, so I hurt you—that’s really what it breaks down to?
I never thought—I mean, my family wasn’t supposed to be hurt by this. So many people have been hurt already. It’s like a ripple effect. I thought the aftershocks were over, the casualty list limited to Warren, Joey, Noah, Andy. Me. But it keeps growing. And it’s my fault.
I want to crawl under a rock and die.
I settle for slipping upstairs into my room. Mom and Dad are too busy launching into another argument to notice my exit. I should take a shower and get the diner smell off, but I’m too tired and too sad, and it’s kind of comforting, somehow. To curl up in a ball in the middle of my bed and breathe in Rosie’s. To pretend I’m back at the diner, with Sam and Asha and Dex and Lou, where I clicked into their little system like a missing puzzle piece. Where people looked glad to see me. People like Sam.
And that’s what I’m thinking about as I fall asleep—Sam, smiling, Sam, standing at the grill, Sam, trading notes with me in art, adjusting his glasses and giving me his default look, skeptical but amused, Sam, his body pressed against my back, Sam, pressed against my front instead, Sam, his mouth near mine, not touching, just breathing, Sam, his hand warm and steady on my hip, Sam, Sam, Sam Sam SamSamSamsamsamsam—
day nine
In the morning, I hit the snooze button on my alarm clock five times before rolling out of bed, exhausted and sore all over, and then I stand under the shower for way too long, take too much time finding something to wear in my meager closet and burn my bagel on the first try and have to start all over again. As a result, I’m almost ten minutes late for first-period geometry. Mr. Callihan is writing something on the board when I slink in.