Someone once told me optimism was genetic. My dad forged a path to the bright side and I followed close behind, nearly sunburned from the glare. I lived in everlasting warmth, naïvely believing it belonged to me.

After nine months in the dark, it felt like maybe I’d never seen the sun at all.

I felt furthest from my dad’s optimism walking through the doors of Farnum High School. The scent—­an amalgam of cheap perfume, body spray, and cleaning product—stung the back of my throat. My footsteps echoed, synchronizing with disembodied squeaking sneakers from the nearby gymnasium. I’d memorized the way by my third visit.

The office had to be a solid ten degrees warmer than the rest of the school, even with open windows.

“Violet,” the woman behind the front desk, Gloria, crowed.

She gestured to the visitors’ log, as if I hadn’t done this a dozen times. “How are you doing, sweetheart?”

I bent to scribble my and Phoebe’s names. My smile didn’t fit right. “Oh, you know.”

“Boy, do I.” Hers was more convincing. “Have a seat. Principal Chambers will be with you in a jiff.”

Phoebe sat alone in a row of stiff chairs, isolating and far enough from the windows to be both embarrassing and unbearable, scowling at her lap instead of meeting my eyes. I veered for her. Her choppy pink hair spilled from a short ponytail, messily framing her face; multicolored fingernails picked at a rip in her jeans; her face was scrubbed clean of the usual raccoon makeup, eyes red. Dry blood stained the front of her—my—Fleetwood Mac tee.

I sat beside her. “Seriously?”

“He started it,” she fired at once, though her tone lacked the usual flames.