“You’reback?”Mrs.Lin’svoicecamefromthelivingroom,hergazesweepingoverCralikearadars.“HowwastheEnglishvocabquiztoday?”
“Istudied.Seventy-five.”Craslippedoffhershoesaedthescoreinaneven,unremarkabletone.
“Englishislikebiology—it’syourlifelineifyouwanttogetintoanationaluyonthescetrack.Itotdrop.”Mrs.Linstood,watgherdaughter’squiet,obedientposture,hervoicesofteningslightly.“AndthatRockMusicClubofyours…onceyou’reinthesedsemesterofeleventhgrade,shouldn’tyouquit?Wouldn’titbebettertouseyourweekendafternoonstodomoremathproblems?”
Cra’sstepspaused—justslightly—atthefootofthestairs.Shepushedherrimlessgssesup;therefleonthelenseshidwhatevermovedinhereyes.
“Clubwon’taffectmygrades.”Hervoicestayedcalm,buttherewasastubbornnessinitthatrefusedtobend.“I’mgoingupstairstoshower.”
Beforehermothercouldsayanythingelse,Crawentupquickly,turhedoorknob—
*Click.*
—andlockedherselfihecrampedroomthatwasbarelyfourtatamimatswide.
Theroomwastiny.Asinglebed,adesk,andasimplewardrobefilledalmostallthespace;eventurningarouawkward.ButtoCra,thiswasherbunker—herair-raidshelteragainsttheentireworld.
Shetossedherbackpatothebedand,fromthedeepestinnerpocket,pulledouttanesemangavolumeslikeamagi—coversprihwide,watery-eyedgirls.Shedroppedherselfontothesoftmattress,thenreachedoutandpressedthepybuttonontheoldCDstereobythebed.
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