I stared at Danny, embarrassed I’d just unleashed the way I had. But still, I knew what I saw wasn’t right. If he could only understand. “I’m not being a kid. I’m scared.”
“I can only imagine what those two are up to. But it’s none of our business. You don’t need to make the situation more awkward by getting others involved.”
“He was hurting her, Danny.”
“Knowing Amber, she was probably into it. Just give the guy a break. He’s grieving, too.”
I started crying over all of it. Dad was gone, and he’d left me in a world where no one believed what I had to say.
“Della, I’m sorry. I don’t even know what I’m saying right now. I’m only taking up for Brian because he’s my best friend. I know what it’s like between the two of you, but I shouldn’t have lashed out like that.”
He hugged me and wouldn’t let go until I sank into him, my forehead resting against his bony shoulder. I knew he didn’t mean to be harsh, but Danny didn’t know what it was like between us. No one did.
Twenty-Seven
Now
I can’t sleep. I’ve downloaded one of those pregnancy apps that tells you how your baby is progressing from week to week. Of course, I don’t know exactly how far along I am because I still haven’t had a proper ultrasound. Based on my last period, we estimate I’m between six and seven weeks. According to the app, the baby is around the size of a pea or a lentil. Strange to think something that small can make such a difference in a person. The app says expectant mothers have unpredictable sleep patterns around this stage, but I don’t blame my lack of sleep on the baby. I blame Zoey.
I now know Zoey has acted violently in the past, but I have no solid proof she hurt either Ms. Peterson or Darcy. She’s become skilled in hiding her violence, just like Brian. He didn’t stop doing bad things, as a more adjusted person would. His acts grew more dangerous, but his ability to hide became better.
I just wish I could get someone—anyone—to see the situation from my perspective. See the real Zoey. I’ve already bothered Pam enough. There’s nothing she can do without proof, and it’s wildly unfortunate we live in a society that waits for bad things to happen before doing anything.
Suddenly, it comes to me: Marge. She’s the only employee who knows more about the students’ personal lives than Pam. Marge may be riding the I love Zoey train, but if I explained to her my suspicions in full, she might be more likely to listen. I consider this possibility some more, until I lazily drift off to sleep.
On Thursday, I rush to work in hopes of catching Marge in the teacher’s lounge. Unfortunately, she’s not there. By lunch, I still haven’t seen her, so I send a text.
You at school today? I ask.
I skipped. Had to get ready for the Year End Bake Sale, she replies, with a cookie emoji.
Can I come over after school? I ask.
It’s not unusual for me to drop by her house. It’s happened in the past, although I feel I’ve barely seen her outside of school since spring break.
Sure. You can be a taste tester!
In Victory Hills, everything is a short drive away. Marge’s neighborhood is full of homes that millennials would describe as starter homes. Little square houses with two or three bedrooms, wooden fences crossing the backyards and newly-paved sidewalks crossing the front lawns.
When I park in front of Marge’s house, she’s outside loading a half dozen foldable tables into the back of a truck. Marge hosts the Year End Bake Sale annually. Proceeds fund last-minute Prom expenses. Parents contribute several items, but she bakes the majority herself.
“Hey, lady,” she says when she spots me walking across the street. At her feet is a large cardboard box. She bends over and starts rummaging through it.
“You have enough food to feed an army,” I say, peering at a box filled with individually wrapped Rice Krispie treats.
“We’ve had several donations this year,” she says, lifting the box and putting it inside the cab of the truck. “I’m waiting on some other parents to stop by, then I’ll head to school and start setting up.”
“Can I help with anything?”
“You’re welcome to shop the sale,” she says. “We’ve got cake pops and miniature pies. Tomorrow Melanie Fisher’s mom is bringing apple turnovers.”
“Sounds delicious.”
“The bags with the yellow stickers are nut-free, the green stickers mean gluten-free and the blue stickers are dairy-free.”
Marge has numerous allergies, nuts being one of them. Each year, she hosts a faculty assembly over the proper way to use an EpiPen. Bowles might get the title of principal, but it’s people like Marge who keep the place functioning.
I grab a brownie in a sticker-free Ziploc bag. “How much?”
“Please,” she says, waving me down. “Just eat it.”
I put the brownie in my bag for later. “I’ll pay you in labor. Let me help you lift these tables.” The offer leaves my lips, and my hand instinctively brushes against my midsection. I don’t need to be lifting anything, I remember.
“No need,” Marge says. “Thankfully, I’ve got an extra set of hands today.”
“Yeah?” As the words leave my mouth, I look at Marge’s front door. Standing there, leaning against the brick, is Zoey.
“I guess I didn’t tell you about my new roommate,” Marge says.
“Your what?” My words trail away. I haven’t stopped staring at Zoey. She sees me now, acknowledges my presence with a light wave before ducking inside.
“Marge, what is she doing here?” I ask, looking at her with frightened eyes.
“I guess you heard about what happened with her mother.” She shakes her head and makes a pitiful shoo sound.
“Yes, but why is she here? I thought she was with CPS.”
“I volunteered to let her stay with me until the end of the semester,” she says.
“Marge! What are
