AFTER LAST NIGHT, I PLAN to leave for school without interacting with anyone. I’m still not in a stellar mood. It’s one thing for my dad to let the recoverees stay here, but to let them meddle in my life? That’s a boundary I’m not about to let any of them cross.

My dad is buttering a piece of toast when I walk into the kitchen. I brace myself for some type of scolding, but I’m surprised to see the softness in his expression when he meets my eyes.

“Goose, about last night.” He sets the knife down beside the plate. “I understand why you’re upset. I don’t want you to feel like anyone is trying to fill Grams’s shoes.”

The defensive side of me begins to dissolve. Could he actually understand why I’m upset about involving them in our personal life?

“But I’d still like you to apologize to Peach. It wasn’t fair to lash out like you did.”

And there it is: The proof that he doesn’t really understand. Because to him, it’s more important that I apologize when I’m the one whose life has been completely derailed not only by his addiction, but by inviting these people here and expecting me to act like everything is perfectly fine.

I grab an apple from the fruit bowl. “I’m going to be late.”

Then I leave. I tell myself it’s not as harsh as it feels.

My lunch period was spent listening to Raegan discuss Leadership Council plans for the homecoming dance while Whitney ran through her hair, nails, and makeup appointments with Jay, who seemed like he was only half-interested. But when Jay mentioned his “brilliant idea”—his words—of having the guys’ basketball team moon the Homecoming King and Queen during the first dance, Raegan almost snapped the pencil she was holding before going off on him. After my recent revelation, I was certain that any feelings I may still have had toward him had completely evaporated.

I’m pulling into the driveway after the homecoming parade—which was organized flawlessly, all thanks to Raegan—when I spot a black sedan I don’t recognize in front of my house. I slide the gear in Park and step out as Margaret emerges from the car.

All the blood in my body freezes.

She’s smiling happily as she walks over to me, her tall heels clacking on the pavement. When she removes her Audrey Hepburn–style sunglasses, I’m relieved to see that she doesn’t have any concern expressed across her face.

“Hello, Kira!” she says, her tone friendly. “I know this is unexpected, but I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d swing by.”

I try and keep the panic off my face as a million different thoughts churn in my brain at once. Does she suspect something? Did the neighbors report unusual behavior of us having too much company here? No, that couldn’t happen. Because even if they did, how would they know Margaret is my social worker?

“Oh, well, I guess you have good timing.” I hold up my dance bag. “I’m just getting home from practice.”

She nods, looking toward the front door. “Mind if I do a walk-through?”

This is a nightmare. I can’t outright say no, because then it’ll definitely look suspicious. I also have no idea who’s home right now, waiting to give away all the big secrets I’ve conveniently left out of my conversations with Margaret. Despite fighting with my dad and Peach over my grades, I wasn’t ready for this moment. I’m happy here. I can’t be sent off again.

I do my best to give an easygoing shrug. “Sure.”

We walk up the front porch, and my hands shake as I unlock the front door. When I start to open it, there’s a booming woof as Wallis comes charging toward us.

I take hold of Wallis’s collar, but don’t put too much effort into stopping him from jumping on Margaret. Maybe Wallis’s enthusiasm will make her uncomfortable, therefore getting her out of here quicker.

“Well, this is certainly a new addition.”

“Yeah, he’s our rescue.” Wallis rubs his nose over her pencil skirt, and she takes a tiny step back. “He’s good. Just extremely friendly.”

“Mmm.” Her eyes wander down the hall that leads to the living room, and I’m relieved to see that no one’s occupying it. Still, I can’t let go of the anxiety in my chest as she moves onward. If anyone is here, I hope to whatever higher power exists that they don’t choose now to come out and say hello.

“Your father isn’t home?” Margaret says once she’s surveyed the kitchen.

His car wasn’t in the driveway, so I know he’s not here. It’s a miracle that no one else is home, and I don’t need anyone walking in right this second. I have no idea how I would explain.

“Still at work,” I tell her, still trying to figure out how to end this as quickly as possible. “Sometimes they need him to stay a bit later.”

She nods. It’s hard to read her expression, but she doesn’t seem troubled. “I have confirmed that your father is continuing his AA meetings.”

This doesn’t surprise me, especially since he’d told me he was in touch with Michael. He really is committing to his sobriety.

“And counseling,” I add, hoping she can’t sense the anxiety in my voice.

“Good, good.” She takes another look around as Wallis sniffs at her ankles. “I was hoping to check on him, but seeing you was really the goal. Let me ask you this, though. Have you picked up on anything that could be considered out of the ordinary for him? Any unusual behaviors?”

The truth gathers on the tip of my tongue. What if I told her, admitted everything about the recoverees living here? She might be able to use her power to kick everyone else out without sending me back to Aunt June. It’s a tempting thought, but one I’m not willing to risk.

I shake my head.

“We’ve been good, really. But I have your number and, honestly, I appreciate you being here for me.”

It’s blatant sweet talk, but not necessarily untrue. Still, Margaret looks pleased. “Of course, of course. I’ll get out of your way.” She gives Wallis a reluctant pat on the head, and the touch of affection causes him to happily roll over onto his back.

As we’re walking out to her car, I spot a familiar figure walking down the sidewalk in the distance. No, no, no. It’s Saylor. My heart pounds as Margaret digs through her purse for her keys. If she sees him come inside, then it’s over. Done. She’ll find out I lied and will call my dad and—

A short beep sounds as Margaret unlocks her car, then slides inside. I look back down the sidewalk to see Saylor’s an uncomfortably close distance away.

“Again, call me anytime you need me,” Margaret says.

“Sure. Will do.” I hope I don’t sound as distracted as I feel.

With a small wave, she shuts her door and starts the engine. Saylor’s only a few feet away when she shifts into gear and drives down the street. I hold my breath, waiting for her to circle around, but she doesn’t. After a few more seconds, the car disappears from sight.

I let out my breath.

“Hey,” Saylor says. “Who was that?”

“No one. Don’t you have to work?” It comes out more accusatory than I want it to, but I’m still stressing from that uncomfortably close call.

If Saylor notices, he doesn’t show it. “I mixed up the schedule. I don’t work again until tomorrow.”

He opens the door. I’m about to pull a disappearing act to my room when he says, “You know, I’m pretty good at algebra.”

Heat boils inside my chest. Peach must have told him about my D in algebra. I can’t have any sort of privacy around here.

“I’m working on it,” I say, avoiding his gaze.

Saylor just shrugs. “All right, then.”

I head to my room and change out of my dance clothes. It’s annoying that Saylor’s forcing himself into my business. He should really be focusing on saving up the money for his yoga profession or whatever.

I plop myself down at my desk, determined to finish all my algebra homework. We’ve only started learning about quadratic functions, but of course Mrs. Donaldson assigned the hardest problems in the textbooks (all even numbered so we couldn’t cheat and get the odd answers from the back index). Lin and Raegan are in pre-calc, so we don’t even have the same textbook. And I definitely don’t want to text Alex for help, because then he’d ask why I haven’t gone to see Ana. It’s not that I don’t want to—Ana is great—but Wavettes practice this week has been even more demanding with the homecoming game on Friday.

I sigh, slamming my book closed. Frustrated with my own incompetence, I walk over to my window. Saylor is lying in the hammock reading a book, the hood of his sweatshirt covering his long ponytail. Before I can change my mind, I begrudgingly grab my textbook and go downstairs.

“You know anything about quadratic equations?” I yell from the porch.

Saylor looks up from his book. The tree leaves above him rustle. “I know a good amount, yeah.”

He gets out of the hammock, and I feel a tiny surge of relief as he follows me back inside. I lay out my textbook on the kitchen table and point to the cluster of problems.

“Give me a sec,” Saylor says, scanning through the previous lesson. “It’s been a minute since I’ve done this.”

I nod, grateful not to feel forced to fill this silence. I sneak a glance toward the living room, but Peach isn’t there. That’s weird. She’s usually here by now. A small part of me feels guilty for the relief that eases in my chest.

“Right, so you first have to make sure the equations are set to zero before you can solve.” Saylor takes my pencil and begins writing down the first problem. “Also, keep in mind that the square of a negative will always be positive. Here, let’s walk through this one.”

I watch as he successfully completes the first equation, but then he lets me take the reins on the second problem. He has to remind me of a few steps, but once I do them in the correct order, I’m able to plot the right intercepts on the graph.

“See? You got this,” he says, and I’m even more relieved that he helps me through every problem until my assignment is done.

“I wish stuff like this came naturally to me like it did to Grams,” I say, surprising myself with the mention of her name.

I’m thankful he doesn’t take this as an opportunity to talk about her. Instead he says, “Well, I bet other people wish they could dance as well as you can.”

“That’s different. I’m decent at best, and that’s only because we have practice every week.”

Saylor grins, tapping a finger on my textbook. “So if you practice more of this, you should be decent at best.”

I roll my eyes, but I feel a smile come through anyway. I walked into that one. “Mrs. Donaldson makes sure we get plenty of practice, as you can see.”

Saylor stands up, stretches, then looks back at me. “Well, if you need any more help, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks,” I say, my voice small. I know he didn’t have to help me in the first place.

Saylor grabs his book from the table—The Spiritual Journey of Yoga’s Healing Powers—and flips through to his dog-eared page. His dozens of leather bracelets collapse upon each other from the movement.

“Why do you wear so many?”

Saylor looks down, then smiles. “They’re intention bracelets. I branded them myself, but I don’t know… I guess they’ve been good reminders for me.”

A few of the words catch my eye. Focus. Strength. Trust.

My gaze lingers on the last one a little longer. I take a deep breath. “Where’s Peach? Isn’t she usually here by now?”

When Saylor’s eyes meet mine, there’s a certain sadness in them. “Uh, your dad drove her to get some of her belongings. Her daughters aren’t really… well, they’re not ready to forgive her yet. I guess.”

I expect to feel angry—that means Peach is going to stay here longer, which is not part of my twelve-steps plan—but I don’t. Instead I feel sort of bad that I yelled at her yesterday. The last thing I want is to make things harder on her.

“Oh,” is all I can think to say.

“Well,” Saylor says after a beat. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

I nod. “Yeah, okay.”

The back door closes, and I begin gathering up my books. That’s when my eye catches something sitting near my extra pencil, and I realize it’s one of Saylor’s intention bracelets. When I turn it over, I read the word that’s been branded into it: Forgive.

I’m not sure if he purposefully left it here or if it fell off, but before I can think about it too much, I fasten the thing around my wrist. I don’t know what draws me to it, but even so, I have a feeling Saylor won’t mind if I keep it.