John brings me back to school about halfway through the last period, and I try to talk him into hanging around, but he smirks and pokes my arm, not unkindly. "I got things to do," he says. "You feeling better?"

"Yeah." I am. My throat is raw from the three cigarettes I stole from him while we sat on the ledge of the abandoned building with our legs dangling, not really talking. It's nice, not to talk. John didn't gasp over the scandal of my parents separating, the way I know my friends will, though they'll disguise it as sympathy, and he doesn't really have a lot to say about his own parents, but he told me funny and increasingly off-color stories that may or may not have been true until I stopped bothering to be shocked and started giggling instead. I know that as soon as I get home it's all going to come crashing down on my head, but it's nice not to think about it all for a little while.

I shiver a little as I watch him peel out of the parking lot in the rustbucket he calls a car, and think I probably should go inside. I know I won't. Inside is ninth period American History, and Cheryl and Amy, who will drag me into the girls bathroom and hug me and ask, in hushed tones, if the rumors are true. I don't know if I can handle that right now.

Allison is in my History class, too, but I'm not sure I can handle her right now, either. I feel inside out. I can't stop remembering how disgusted she and Brian were - how absolutely disgusted they were with me, and I don't know if they'd be sympathetic now. If they laugh in my face or just walk away, like I half-think they might - like I probably deserve - I think I might just fall apart into a million little pieces.

It's better to be alone.

The weather's nice, and it's not a long walk home. Maybe Marion will be back. She stays with her granddaughter when she's not rooming with us, and I know Mom started calling there as soon as she sobered up yesterday morning. Maybe she managed to offer a big enough pay raise that Marion came back. I hope so. Mom can't cook for crap and there's only so many times you can order in Chinese before it starts making you break out.

And, well...Marion, she's like family, almost. She's worked for us since I was ten, and she was always the one who made me hot chocolate when I had to study late, and told me to eat all the food on my plate because I was too skinny. She taught me a little bit of Spanish, even though I was taking French lessons and I kept getting the two languages confused. But she's old, and I think she's been sick of dealing with Mom and Dad for a long time now.

I kick a pebble and watch it skid down the sidewalk and bounce off the brick wall of a building. Maybe if Mom can't get Marion to come back, I'll go over there myself and try to talk her into it.