Ithadonlybeenfourteendayssihe“youthtransa”they’dsealedinthatXimendingrehearsalroom.
Andthiseleventh-gradeundercssman—who’dgrownupsick,whowasnowsuffogunderexampressure—hadactuallydrivenherselfthisfaroubbornness.
“…Areyouanidiot?”
Eliansworeunderhisbreath.Hisvoicewassolowitbarelyexisted.Itdidn’tsoundlikehewasscoldinguchashewasangryathimself—angryhe’dofferedthosedeviltermsinthefirstpgryhe’dpushedagirltothepointwhereshehada39°C102.2°Ffeverandstilltriedtherselftocramschool.
Craheardthecursethroughthefog.
Thefeverhadturhoughtsintosludge,buttheinstinherboheinstinctthathatedrelyingonahatstayedguardedbydefault—rickedawakebyhiswords.Sherealized,slowly,thatshewastooclosetoElian.Closeenoughthatallshecouldbreathewasthes.
UnderElian’sstartledgaze,Crabracedbothhandsoicseat,bitdownonherpalelowerlip,andpushedherselfup—swaying.
“Whatareyoudoing?”Elianreachedoutautomaticallytosteadyher,browtight.“Sitdown.It’snotyourtur.”
“…ThisspotistooclosetotheAt.”Cradidn’tlookathim.Shedodgedhishandandtossedoutthereasoninavoicesoweakandhoarseitwasbarelythere—logicthatsoundedlikeascestudent’sexpnation,awasobviouslyanexcuse.
Draggihatfeltfilledwithlead,shemovedtothefarthestedgeofthewaitingareaandsatinawindowseat.
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